Weapons of Dark and Light

by Noyoki

Beaten, brainwashed, and broken, the boy once known as Harry Potter is transformed into Weapon IX, a monster of terrible power and inhumanity. Designed as the ultimate foil to the Mutant Menace, Weapon IX's destiny becomes intertwined with that of the X-Men as the darkness in the hearts of men proves that, sometimes, the only way to fight a monster is with a monster. *Slash*

38. Survivor's Guilt

Chapter 38 - Survivor's Guilt

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"Guilt is the source of sorrows, the avenging fiend that follows us behind with whips and stings." - Nicholas Rowe

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Black Curse Brings Muggle World to Its KNEES!

There has been much gossip and speculation surrounding the going-ons in the muggle world, and I am here to set the record straight writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. The journey to find the truth took this intrepid Reporter into the depths of Peru, where I uncovered the dastardly truth. In the heart of the Peruvian Rain-forest, I found a cave that had been the site of some of the darkest magic I've seen since the last war with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

You see, Dear Readers, a coven of witches and wizards of the Blackest sort worked a powerful ritual. One that, fortunately for us, failed at the crucial moment. The remnants of that coven were so badly damaged by the backlash that I was unable to confirm if they were remnants of You-Know-Who's followers, or if this was the seed of a new Dark Lord or Lady attempting to rise, but I can tell you what I inferred from the ruins left behind.

It was clear to me that they'd used several muggle sacrifices to fuel a spell never attempted before. One whose sole purpose was to wipe out all the muggles the world over. The first part of the spell worked, targeting the muggle population and bringing them to their knees. But that's when the ritual failed. The Dark Coven did not have enough power or sacrifices to finish it. And the spell backfired, killing them all.

Dear Readers, I know many of you have muggle families and friends, and even the Purebloods, who turn their noses up at the muggle population, almost all have some sort of business connection with them. It is important for all of us to remain vigilant even in these times of peace. One never knows when the next Dark Lord or Lady will make their appearance.

Keep your eyes peeled, and if you see anything out of the ordinary, report it immediately to the nearest Auror!

"Arthur, I can't believe you're reading that rag. That woman never writes anything worthwhile," Molly scoffed as she loaded the table down with breakfast. Not for the first time Arthur wanted to ask her not to make so much. It was just the two of them now, what with the two eldest off living their own lives and the rest away for most of the year at school. They hardly needed a dozen eggs! But he couldn't bring himself to speak up because he knew how hard she was adjusting to the empty nest. Stifling a sigh, he plopped an overly large helping of eggs onto his plate along with half a dozen slices of crisp bacon.

A few bites into the meal his eyes wandered back to The Daily Prophet. As much as he agreed with his wife, they seemed to be the only paper showing an interest in the Muggle Matter. The rest of the wizarding world seemed content to ignore it since it had nothing to do with them. But Arthur couldn't let it go. He'd heard whispers around the office. Speculation about what went wrong and who was to blame. Everything from an attempted resurrection of You-Know-Who, to the escape of some rare, deadly magical creature. "I think she might be in the right this time, Love. I overheard a group of Aurors discussing the site she's talking about. They were certainly up to something nasty there."

Molly rolled her eyes and took her seat across from him. The table felt too large with just the two of them, and he thought about applying a shrinking charm to it while the kids were away. If only that wouldn't set Molly off. It was so hard to tell these days which step was the right one. Perhaps she was reaching that time in a woman's life where she went through the change. He shuddered, remembering how awful it had been when his own mother went through it.

"What?"

"I've no doubt they found a group of dark magic workers in the jungle. There are people like that all over the world. Still, I don't see how a single group could have created such a catastrophe. It's too... " She hesitated, a frown furrowing her brows as she tried to puzzle out why the story felt off to her. Maybe because as terrible as the Dark could be, she'd never heard of them coming up with something powerful enough to threaten all the muggles on the planet.

There hadn't been much reporting on the subject which Molly found odd in and of itself. Yes, it was an event that mainly impacted the muggle world, but anything that could cause such damage was a threat to be taken seriously by everyone. She sighed, "I talked to a few of my muggleborn friends, and it seems so much bigger than a few rogue witches and wizards."

Arthur folded the paper in half and set it aside. "What do you think caused it?" He asked, not to start a fight but because he was genuinely curious.

"I don't know. I wish I did. Whatever it was, it's not something we should be mucking about with."

Finishing off the last bite of eggs, Arthur felt full to bursting. He groaned a little as he wiped his face and wondered how much weight he'd end up putting on before the kids got back from school. "True enough. I'll keep my ears open at work; see if I hear anything else that'll point us in the right direction."

"You'll do no such thing, Arthur Weasley. Whatever this is, it's not something for you to go poking your nose around in, less you find it bitten off." She brandished her fork at him, making him raise his hands in hasty surrender.

"Yes, dear."

---

Zen drifted in familiar darkness. The type he'd been driven into repeatedly at the hands of the Doctor while the man pushed him beyond his limits. When Stryker used him for mission after mission without allowing him to recover. All the times he was forced to go up against mutants who should have overpowered him but faltered in the face of his relentless pursuit.

The harsh sting of disinfectant bit at his nostrils, and beneath that, another odor lingered. One that couldn't be politely classified. It wasn't the full-blown stench of rotting corpses, but...

Memories flickered behind his closed eyelids. The pens, cages full of frightened children whose faces now took on the characteristics of Xavier's school children. The innocents he'd been tasked with protecting, mimicking, and being a victim to. The bitter stink of fear overlaid the memories, but he knew that was part of the past; no, a different smell triggered the memories. It hung in the still air, not the tang of new pennies; but more a fistful of pennies dropped into a barrel of rotten apples. Old blood, lakes of it dry and flaking on the floor.

Training kept his breath slow and even, his pulse steady, eyes closed. If he was hooked up to any monitors, they'd record him as unconscious. Zen's right wrist gave a minuscule twitch, and the lack of restraints eased the tightness in his chest. With a deep, slow breath, his eyes slid open and locked onto the familiar ceiling of the infirmary at Xavier's school. A quick scan of the room proved he was alone, which allowed him to breath even easier without the threat of Hank hovering over him.

When he sat up, he felt the sharp nip of a needle in his inner arm and reached out to gently tug it free. A thought healed the tiny puncture, and Zen felt a slight hint of pleasure at not having to peel external monitor pads off his skin. The sound of his heart flatlining would have brought Hank down on him in an instant. If he made it out.

Zen sighed as he slid off the table and felt the jolt of the cold floor under his bare feet. All he wore was a pair of clean boxers, presumably so Hank could get to all his wounds without having to worry about clothing getting in the way, yet it still felt spiteful. As if they couldn't help stripping him of his weapons, his identity as IX, whenever he entered the school.

Stiffness made his bones ache, pulling at every muscle, but he no longer felt the crushing exhaustion that sent him into unconsciousness. The lack of exhaustion, coupled with the stiffness and the full state of his bladder, added up to at least two days out of commission.

Unacceptable. He hesitated briefly before he closed his eyes and vanished into the room he shared with Pietro. The breath he'd been holding during the transition eased between his teeth as the tension in his shoulders slowly drained away. Pain didn't drive him to his knees or make him want to throw up. Instead, his power flowed smoothly, almost back to normal. He could still feel tugs and snags, places inside where the roughness would take time to wear away. Good. While he could work through the pain, as he had during the mission, it drained him faster than he liked. If not for the pain, he would have been able to deal with XI on his own.

Something bordering on surprise widened his eyes when he saw his assassin's gear washed and neatly laid out on his bed. All the weapons were pulled out and arranged in a row next to the clothes. With practiced ease Zen inspected each of the weapons; the knives were sharpened, the guns unloaded and cleaned, and everything was in perfect working order. A quick search of his side of the room found a small cardboard box, the remnants of a single-serve Lucky Charms container, used to hold the spare bullets. With a bemused half-smile, one reminiscent of Xavier whenever he had to deal with Zen's social ineptitude, he cleared out the top drawer of his dresser to store the weapons for now. If he was permitted to keep them, he would need to get a weapons storage unit to keep them safe from curious children and vengeful roommates.

He also tucked his working clothes away, choosing one of his student outfits instead. Once dressed, Zen headed out into the mansion to take stock of the damage. It didn't take him long to find the various sources of the sour scent that reminded him so strongly of the cages. He found each area where Stryker's men met up with X and lost. Sometime between then and now the bodies had been collected, but the blood and bullet holes remained.

Walking through the mansion felt odd to the ex-mutant-hunter. How many times had he and X been part of the snatch and grab teams? How many slash and burn operations? How many single mutants had they taken off the street, out of cars, from their homes, as they walked to school? Faces flicked past his mind's eye; no names, just numbers. Powers. Deaths.

But it had never been his place broken into. His home violated. The mansion felt like a nest torn open, the young stolen in the night. Zen closed his eyes and listened to the silence. Empty halls that should have been filled with the rushing life of countless young mutants. Now, nothing moved, and the stink of dead blood seemed to overwhelm any lingering scents of the children who should be here.

Zen's lips pulled down into a practiced frown even though there was no one here to see. Just being back in the school triggered the reaction, his careful assessment on how to arrange his face in any given situation. Why did the scene bother him? He walked through each violated room, noting the broken glass blown inward from nearly every window. It littered the floor, glinting in the pale winter sunshine. Cold wind pulled at tattered curtains, and below each window the floor was stained with residual moisture from at least one rainstorm. Shattered wood marred the entrance to more than one bedroom where children, desperate and afraid, tried to lock out the danger.

Zen spent long minutes in every broken bedroom, eyes tracking over the scenes, searching for the tell-tale signs of violence. A few of the rooms bore scorch marks of flash bang grenades, others had doors or walls blasted open with shotgun shells, and he found blood in a few. But not on the beds. There were a few areas where he could tell one of the children put up a fight and got the worst of it, but in those scuffed areas, the bloodshed was light. Surface wounds. In two of the rooms the blood flow was thick, but all centered in the doorway; soldiers who couldn't get the upper hand and were taken out.

The last of the tension in Zen's back finally let go. The children were safe; at least, that was his best assumption with the given information. Since he woke up here, he could assume that the rest made it to safety. He'd managed to protect and save the children who'd been captured with him, and it appeared that the ones here escaped with no obvious casualties.

After finishing his thorough examination of the student living quarters, he moved on to the administration wing of the mansion that held the teachers' offices and Xavier's main office. The sound of Hank's deep, rumbling voice made the hair along the back of his neck stand at attention. "Yes, I understand. I've already scheduled for samples to be brought to the mansion tomorrow. All we need to do is coordinate... " Zen moved past the door quickly. Odds were good if Hank caught sight of him, he would end the call and insist on doing a physical examination.

The other teachers' offices were empty; trashed, but empty. The invaders pulled out every drawer, sifting through all the files before dumping them on the floor, and pulled all the books off the shelves, evidently searching for hidden compartments. Unease flared in his chest at the sight of the files on the floor. How much information had Stryker's team gleaned about the students from the records? Kneeling, he sifted through what was left behind and relaxed. All the files were coded by number and were merely notes on grades and behavioral issues. Even the disciplinary infractions were in code simply listed as numerical infractions.

Standing up, Zen headed to the room at the end of the hall: Xavier's office. The sturdy oak door leaned against the wall, split almost in half from the breach. Inside, Zen could see that they'd given his office special attention. Nothing was left unmolested. Zen's gaze slid past the heaps of discarded books torn to pieces to lock on the man seated behind the wobbly desk. At a glance Zen could see one of the legs had been broken off during the search, and although someone had done their best to prop it back up, it still listed drunkenly to the side.

Zen assumed that whomever attempted to fix the desk also cleared the wheelchair sized path through the debris, allowing Xavier clear access to where he now sat in utter silence. The telepath stared absently out the window, eyes distant and filled with unspoken torment. The practiced frown flared across Zen's lips again when Xavier failed to acknowledge his presence. Not even the slightest brush of thoughts against his own. Zen studied his Wielder for over a minute, noting the tension that the man held in his shoulders, the way his mouth turned down in a grimace, and although he sat in perfect silence, his energy seemed to vibrate with brittle power; a star nearing the end of its life about to implode into a black hole.

Protect your Wielder.

How? Something was wrong with the man, but what? Zen stepped silently into the room and another spike of adrenaline hissed through his blood when Xavier continued to ignore him. No, not ignore. It was as if the man had no idea he was here. Xavier sat and stared out the window, utterly unaware of Zen's presence in the room. Was he injured?

Half a dozen steps took him to Xavier's side. "Sir?"

Nothing. Taking a slow breath, Zen reached out and laid a hand lightly against the back of Xavier's age spotted hand. He closed his eyes and focused, allowing his power to spill into the body of his Wielder, seeking out injuries. All the fake expressions drained from his face as he sank his energy into the man, seeking out what ailed him.

Traces of bruising littered Xavier's brain left over from the massive power that had coursed through him not so long ago. While Zen was tempted to heal it, he could see the damage already mending on its own. He didn't need to rush it.

Twelve minutes later, he pulled back in confusion. There were no major injuries. A few bruises, a couple scrapes here and there, moderate dehydration, and a caloric deficiency due to lack of eating. Nothing that would explain the man's torpor. Indecision rasped unpleasantly over his skin as he stared at his broken Wielder.

"Sir?" He made the word sharp, a demand for acknowledgement. Xavier's eyes remained blind to him. Reaching out, Zen gave him a light shake, but even that got no reaction.

Steeling his resolve, Zen turned his back on his Wielder and went to find help. His stomach soured at the realization that he couldn't fix whatever was wrong with the man, and there was only one other person who might be able to. He couldn't understand why the thought of the blue mutant made his stomach churn. He shook his head, trying to dismiss the unpleasant physical reaction.

He reached the open doorway where he'd spotted Hank earlier just as the other mutant hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair with a long, drawn out sigh. Zen watched him slip off his glasses and rub his eyes. He felt another unexpected twist in his gut at the thought of disturbing the medic. His mind flashed back to the times he'd been forced to interrupt the Doctor and how it never ended well for him.

But he had no choice, something needed to be done to aid Xavier, and Zen didn't have the tools to do it himself. "Ah, up and about I see. Did you need something?" Hank's soft rumbling voice almost made Zen jump, but he held himself in check.

"There's something wrong with," he hesitated, "Charles Xavier."

Hank gave another long sigh. The sound almost made Zen take a step back but froze instead. He would take whatever punishment the medic felt like dishing out for the interruption if it meant he would help his Wielder.

---

Hank hung up the phone gently while he fought the urge to slam the headset down hard enough to shatter it. Lawyers and Insurance men, they were all a bunch of thieves in suits. A headache throbbed behind his eyes, keeping perfect time with his heartbeat. Exhaustion dragged at him, and Hank wished he could wash his hands of the whole mess. All he wanted now was a stiff drink and a few dozen hours of sleep, but there were still calls that needed to be handled to get the machinery of disaster clean-up in motion.

Normally Xavier would be the one to handle this end of things. There were enough random catastrophes around the mansion that they'd been dropped from more than one insurance company. Hank thought there might come a day when they wouldn't be able to get insurance at all and would have to pay out of pocket for repairs.

A familiar scent caught his attention, though he almost didn't recognize it without the accompanying pain and blood that always marred their brief interactions. He turned towards the door and offered a smile before he spoke "Ah, up and about I see. Did you need something?"

His golden eyes trailed over the assassin, doing a quick assessment of his patient. If not for the mountain of phone calls he still needed to make he would have done a full checkup. But he knew it wasn't needed. Zen's healing abilities always astonished and delighted him. While Logan's might be more impressive, Zen's were nothing to sneeze at and it was all the more astonishing considering that it was a secondary mutation.

Then something about Zen made his eyes narrow, but he couldn't put a claw on what felt off aside from his utter lack of expression. Though that was to be expected. He'd noticed that the assassin tended to lose his human mask when he was injured or exhausted. And considering what they'd all gone through in the last week, he earned the right to relax a bit.

"There's something wrong with Charles Xavier."

Hank frowned a little at the slight catch before Zen said Charles name. A gusty sigh escaped him. Another wave of exhaustion pressed down on his shoulders as he thought about Zen's damaged psyche, and worse, Xavier's. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the professor had been badly traumatized by his experience, yet here Zen was seeking answers from him and forcing him to think about a problem he had no solutions for. The best they could hope for was Xavier's own indomitable resilience to kick in and draw him out of his bleak depression. Hank wasn't sure if Charles would be able to manage it this time.

Then his wandering attention narrowed back down on the small mutant hovering in his doorway. Hank closed his eyes and took a deep lungful of breath, sampling Zen's unique static-lased scent. It struck the blue mutant that this was the first time the youth had ever darkened his doorstep willingly. Also, the first time he'd been in the other's company without his scent being corrupted by pain and blood. Although Zen was shockingly good at hiding his pain, he couldn't keep it out of his scent.

A faint thread tugged at Hank and he had to take two more breaths before he could pin it down. In all that time, Zen remained perfectly still, hardly breathing himself as he waited for Hank to respond. The stillness, the silence, the mere fact that Zen remained in the doorway all spoke to Hank, confirming what he sensed.

The taste of fear furred the back of his tongue, so subtle he'd almost missed it. Suppressed, or barely felt? Hank's inner scientist wanted to pick it apart and examine every aspect of the new development. Was Charles experiment bearing fruit? Or had Zen always feared him, but the proof of that fear had been hidden behind pain, blood, or unconsciousness? It wasn't like they'd had any sort of interaction outside of emergency situations since the assassin joined their odd little family. Now Hank wished he'd paid more attention. It would have been interesting to know if this was a new development.

With careful movements, Hank eased his large bulk out of the chair and approached Zen. Curiosity filled his golden eyes as he studied the young mutant. He watched as Zen's body gave a minute shift into a more defensive stance and could see the precise moment when Xavier's previous orders clashed with his own unease as he froze, unable to attack a staff member.

The fear scent flared when Hank reached out and gently gripped Zen's shoulder. Even though his body remained outwardly at ease, and nothing in his face gave away the anxiety, Hank could almost taste it coloring the air between them. "I will never harm you, Zen. You have my word on that." No matter how much his inner scientist longed to plumb the depths of Zen's biology and explore his healing gift, he knew he never would. Not without the other's full cooperation and considering Zen's psychological limitations when it came to consent, not even then. It would be impossible to tell the difference between true agreement, and Zen merely yielding to the whims of his keepers.

Instead of the expected, "yes, sir," Zen remained silent. Closing his eyes, Hank let his hand fall and took two careful steps back to give the other more breathing room. As fascinating as the new development was, they did need to think about how to handle Charles. Perhaps Zen would be of some use.

"For a short time, Charles was forced into a crude approximation of your previous existence. However, he has none of the mental buffers that were built into you and his captors both friend and foe attempted to use his powers to destroy the world. Stryker wanted him to annihilate the mutants, and Magneto the humans." Hank raked his black clawed fingertips through the blue fur of his chin as the magnitude of what was done to his friend sank bitter hooks into his heart.

"Charles is a pacifist at heart and always has been. Even now, he wouldn't wish harm on Erik even if he had the chance to do him ill. But that level of pacifism comes at a price. Being used the way he ways, feeling all those minds writhe in pain under the lash of his own? That created a mental wound, a spiritual blow that healers and power won't be able to touch. You can heal the body, and perhaps there are mutations that can even heal the mind, but I doubt there are any that can heal the heart."

Zen shifted, taking half a step into the room. "It is my duty to protect my wielder, how can I fix this?"

The words made Hank want to bang his head against a wall, realizing that most of his explanation probably went over Zen's emotionally stunted head. "Bring him some tea and something to eat. Talk to him. Try and show him he isn't a monster."

Hank didn't turn to look when he heard the slight scuff of Zen's shoes as he turned and walked away. Maybe the ex-weapon would be able to help Xavier, maybe not. Either way, he had more phone calls to make.

---

Tea and food?

The prescribed remedy for what ailed Xavier seemed inadequate to Zen, but he made his way down to the kitchen nonetheless, recalling his wielder was in need of sustenance. Then he remembered how Malcom wanted ice cream after he'd scraped his knee. Perhaps it was similar?

It didn't take long for him to reach the kitchen, get a pot of water brewing and pop a blueberry bagel into the toaster. Opening the cupboard, he grabbed the first coffee cup he could reach. Then Zen snagged a bag of tea from the tea drawer and slipped it into the cup. When the bagel popped, he plucked the two steaming halves of bread out and smeared them liberal with honey almond cream cheese. Then he added the steaming water to the cup before situating the small meal on to a tray.

It didn't take him long to make his way back to Xavier's office and another flare of disquiet soured his stomach when he found his wielder in the exact same position. With careful steps, he picked his way through the disaster of torn papers, ripped books, and shattered artwork. So much destruction, most of it unnecessary. When he'd lead such missions, he and his team hadn't wasted time with frivolous destruction.

Zen dismissed the thought and gingerly set the tray down beside his Wielder, mindful of the unstable surface. The desk accepted the weight grudgingly, the leg only gave a slight wobble of protest. "Sir?"

Nothing, not that he expected much. Zen reached out and touched Xavier's clenched hands. The skin was cool beneath his fingertips, yet he could feel the tension humming beneath the surface. Closing his eyes, Zen reached out with his thoughts. Sir? Still nothing. Focusing, he added a tiny dot of power to the next attempt. Nothing like the hooks he'd used on Jean, more like a mental prodding with a stick.

Charles Xavier!

Xavier's mind reacted like a wounded animal. Pain tore through Zen's head, forcing him to stagger back. Blood trickled from both nostrils and he sank to his knees as his sense of balance failed him. Zen closed his eyes, focused on the damage, and repaired it. He swiped at the blood with the back of his hand as he looked at Xavier.

His Wielder's blue eyes were wide and shocked. "Z-Zen?"

"I'm fine," Zen assured him as he regained his feet and carefully cleaned the blood from his face while Xavier watched.

"I hurt you." The frightened tone of the words reminded Zen of the children when they'd woken in Stryker's cage; in shock, frightened, and so full of pain even Zen could recognize the emotion. How could tea, food, or talking heal such damage?

Zen forced his lips up into a false smile. "I'm fine, sir. Here drink some tea, it will make you feel better."

Xavier looked down at the tray and blinked in shock at the way it magically appeared. Slowly he reached out and cradled the cup in his hands. Somehow, he managed to take a sip without sloshing the hot liquid down the front of his shirt, no small thing considering how badly his hands shook. Then he set the cup aside and locked eyes with Zen. "I hurt you." this time there was no getting around the statement.

"Yes," Zen agreed. "But I healed the damage."

"I HURT YOU!"

Zen's spine stiffened at the shout, startled by the outburst. He'd never heard his Wielder yell before.

Then he spoke again, the words so quiet Zen almost couldn't hear them. "I hurt everyone." The soft words shattered with despair.

"No." The single sharp word drew Xavier's shock-stained eyes back to Zen's cold face. Only it wasn't Zen who stared down at him now. IX observed him through dead green eyes. "Stryker harmed the mutants. Magneto harmed the humans. Yes, you were the tool they used, but you were merely the sword in their hands, sir, not the Wielder."

The reminder of what Xavier was supposed to be made the old man's skin crawl and gave him a deeper understanding of the weapon he'd so foolishly taken in hand. Now he'd had the smallest taste of what Zen lived with for years. To be entirely out of control, a puppet on someone else's strings, and it made him sick to think he still held Zen's and there was nothing he could do to cut them. "It doesn't matter how or why; I almost killed everything I love. My actions will hasten the deterioration of relations between humans and mutants. I've single-handedly undone all that I've attempted to accomplish in this world."

Zen studied Xavier. Even though he could still see the harsh lines of shock around the man's eyes and the wounded way he held himself, at least now the man was aware enough to assess the damage done and the future as it now stood. "You were a pawn used by both sides of the board in an attempt to sweep the other side clean. It failed, and while there will be fallout from this, it is something that would have happened one way or the other. You have to remember; the group I was a part of spent decades doing everything they could to destabilize human/mutant relations. Even without using you, something like this was going to happen. Just like what Magneto attempted in New York. And we were able to stop it."

Xavier flinched at Zen's attempted reassurance. "This time. We stopped it this time, but what about next time? I'm too dangerous! Too dangerous by far. I almost killed the world. Don't you understand that? I felt them screaming in my head, but I couldn't pull back. Couldn't stop. Couldn't..." he choked on the words and, to Zen's dismay, tears slid down his aged cheeks. Perhaps he should get Hank to come sedate the man? No, that wouldn't do. He needed to defuse his Wielder's self-destructive thought process. Xavier couldn't remain so unstable.

"Why didn't you kill me?"

The unexpected question drew Xavier's scattered focus back to Zen. A frown tugged at his lips as his eyes narrowed slightly. "What do you mean?"

"When I attacked the school. I am aware of your power levels now. You could have easily reduced my brain to ash. Crushed it entirely. But you stayed your hand. All you did was cut off my ability to communicate with my team. Why?"

Xavier's frown deepened as he thought. He gently picked up the cup again, cradling it in his hands. A small flare of satisfaction burned in Zen's chest when he saw the shaking had nearly stopped. Now only small tremors made the tea dance in the cup instead of the fierce trembling that almost sloshed it over the brim earlier. It was a small step in the right direction.

When Xavier spoke again, his voice no longer held the raw edge of desperation. "Because I believe that people deserve a second chance. Even in the heat of the moment, when I knew you were seconds away from revealing our location to your superiors, I couldn't bring myself to kill you outright. Although I did believe I was dealing you a crippling blow, I couldn't kill you." A shudder at the thought twisted through the man.

Zen gave a slow nod. "According to your logic, I deserve a second chance. You also kept X alive, even though Logan had difficulties keeping X subdued. He could have slipped the leash at any moment. If he had, he would have torn your school down to the ground to get to me."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"Yes! Even if X killed the students, the teachers, me, all of use, he couldn't kill the entire world in one blow," Xavier bellowed while his eyes widened once more taking on the edge of hysteria. The memories of what his power had been bent to do crashed over him again, nearly drowning him under a flood of painful emotion.

Wielder.

The sharp-edged thought knocked Xavier back from the edge. His heart pounded in his chest, and he had trouble catching his breath, but he was able to give Zen his full attention as the assassin stared down at him coldly.

"With all due respect, sir, you are not the most dangerous mutant on the planet. Yes, you could have killed us all. So could I, if my handler was insane and wished it of me."

For a long minute, all Xavier could do was gape. "W-what?"

"My fire is unique. There comes a point when it no longer draws power from me. It becomes almost... sentient. Malevolent is perhaps a better word. It is fire personified and it hungers. Nothing the scientists tried could extinguish it. Only I can do that, and only if it is small enough. The fire I set in the village was the largest I'd ever attempted, and it almost got away from me. If that happened, nothing could stop it."

Zen watched what little color Xavier had drain from his face and wondered if he should consider it a step forward or back. Of course, Xavier had little notion of how deadly Zen could be even though he'd seen IX's leavings in the mountains. It appeared the other man had mentally boxed up all that he'd seen in Zen's memories when it came to his abilities and put them on a high shelf in the back of his mind. When Zen realized how little interest his Wielder had in using him to his full potential, he decided not to inform the man about the intricacies of his abilities.

No, Xavier would have little use for the cursed fire. No bodies needed burned to ash, no towns in need of obliteration. Zen ignored the shocked look on Xavier's face and nudged the plate forward an inch. "There are a number of mutants who are capable of destroying the world as we know it, and more than a few humans who are willing to capture said mutants to turn them into weapons. In most cases they fail. Fortunately, there are few Omega Class mutants around and it's nearly impossible to capture them without being destroyed in the process. That's why we had a long-standing policy of neutralizing Omega Level mutants when we found them instead of attempting to acquire them."

Zen didn't bother adding that he'd pegged the bald mutant as an Omega level the first time he'd seen the man while hunting Remy. But now that he'd managed to draw Xavier's mind out of the dark pit of depression, Zen could almost see it unclench from the hurt ball it had been in since the attack. From the slightly pained look on Xavier's face, he knew his Wielder had caught the tail-end of his last thought.

"A lot of elements had been put in place to capture you, Xavier." The use of his name made Charles sit up a little straighter, and another pointed look at the plate with the now cold bagel on it made him sigh audibly before he picked it up. Zen rewarded him with a fake smile, feeling a flicker of satisfaction that the task the medic had set him to had been accomplished. "Statistically speaking, the chances of your recapture are minuscule."

That declaration made Xavier set the bagel down again. "But the possibility still exists."

Zen's eyes narrowed. "Anything is possible. I could be recaptured by my previous keeper tomorrow and used to destroy you and the children." He gave his Wielder a pointed look, acknowledging his vulnerability to the code regardless of how much he'd grown under Xavier's care. "Should you kill me know to keep that remote possibility from occurring?"

A scowl twisted Xavier's lips at his point, and he refused to dignify the question with an answer.

"Then we are in agreement. We will not take rash actions in the face of remote possibilities."

Xavier gave him a stern frown but didn't protest. After a long pause, Zen took his silence as acceptance. "Good. If you are captured again and I am unable to extract you from the situation, I will kill you before your powers can be turned against the world again. Is that acceptable?"

Silence stretched between the pair, a brittle thing that held all the unspoken words and acknowledgments of the seriousness of the offer. They both knew that to kill Xavier would be akin to suicide since Zen's power would destroy him for breaking one of the fundamental laws of his existence. Xavier gave a slow nod, knowing that the assassin wasn't offering false reassurances. No, he would do what had to be done, and that certain knowledge allowed some of the black self-recrimination to fade.

"That's... acceptable."

The barest hint of a true smile brushed Zen's lips as he studied Xavier's exhaustion-worn face. While the man was far from recovered, he no longer looked like a wax-work doll. Some of the color had returned to his cheeks, and he was once again fully present.

Clearing his throat, Xavier finished off his tea before speaking. "I have a request."

"Yes?"

"Keep an eye on Scott for me. He's in a dark place right now, and I don't want him to get hurt more than he already is."

Zen gave a slight nod of agreement, wondering what happened while he was unconscious. He didn't ask, not wanting to spark off another downward spiral in his Wielder's psyche. Zen collected the dishes and said, "You should get some rest, sir."

An undignified snort escaped Xavier at that. "I've been wool-gathering long enough, I think. I'd better check on Hank and see how he's getting along with the paperwork."

With that quiet dismissal Zen turned his back on his Wielder and took the dishes back to the kitchen.

Finished with the upper floors and Xavier, Zen braced himself for the lower levels. Stryker would have stripped the lower levels of everything he could carry before trashing anything that couldn't be taken. Standard operating procedure though not usually used against a group of mutants. That was more in line with overseas operations, or raids on renegade corporations like the one he'd run against Stark.

The elevator swished open and Zen froze, eyes widening slightly in shock. Even from where he stood, he could see the residual damage. Boot marks scuffed the floors, drag marks where equipment had been pulled out, terminals bore scratches where hardware had been jerked loose. Yet, said hardware was still there. Zen walked slowly through the halls, and every room he checked showed the strange juxtaposition of damage and repair. The most dramatic instance was Cerebro. It was the only room that looked entirely untouched. Perhaps because it was the only room made entirely out of metal, a theme he'd noticed in all the repairs.

"Curious," he murmured as he reached out to run a finger along the gleaming metal edge of the vault-like door. Zen tried to puzzle out Magneto's motives as he made his way from room to room. First, he used Xavier as a disposable weapon against the human population, and yet, when that failed, he'd come here and made repairs. A strange form of blackmail? Giving a favor so that he'd be able to call in a favor in the future? No, that wasn't right. The Doctor's tormented face flashed in his memory and he nodded. Yes. An apology; not for using Xavier, or for the plan failing. No, it was merely an acknowledgment of damage done, and a peace offering. Not that he thought his Wielder required such things. Aside from the torment he'd allowed Zen to suffer, it went against the grain of the man to seek retribution for past wrongs.

---

Dread and hope throbbed in Hermione's chest. Last summer had been... awful. Her parents sent her across the country to her grandparents' house a mere week after she got home; a week spent walking on eggshells around each other. She could still hear her mother sob when she saw how short she'd cropped her hair.

"Oh honey, no, what happened?"

"It was too hard to take care of."

And while that was true enough, it sent her mother into yet another gale of tears. As much of a hassle as her hair had been, they'd always taken time together to brush it out. Really, it was a two-person job. With only one good hand, and still trying to learn how to use the wooden one, she hadn't been able to manage the unruly mane of curls alone.

Instead, she'd cut it herself. The results were less than pleasant, but compared to everything else, what did it matter? All that mattered was that she didn't have to fight with it anymore. Yet, her mother's tears echoed the hurt look in Professor McGonagall's face. That look still managed to tug at her heart, even though she despised the woman for what she'd done to her and her family.

After a week her mother drove her to the airport and shipped her off like an unwanted puppy. Tears still tried to sting her eyes at the thought, but she'd gotten a lot better at keeping them in check. After months with her father's side of the family, a group that contained far too many curious, chatty, bratty children, she finally made it back to a cold home. Her parents took her school shopping and said barely two words to each other, let alone to her.

In a way it felt like she died and was a ghost haunting her parents' lives. Maybe it would have been better if the club fell just a little closer.

Banishing the thought, Hermione grabbed her trunk and made her way off the train.

The sight of her mother dealt the small fluttering thing called hope a crippling blow. Her mother's once wild and carefree curls were pulled back into a severe braid, not a single wisp of hair escaping. A style she'd only ever seen her wear in the direst circumstances; dealing with grandfather, a funeral, or a job interview. The attention she'd put into the makeup on her face also told a tale. While the colors were light, everything was done with that painstaking attention to detail that almost made Hermione bring her thumb up to her lips to bite the nail. Only the fact that her hands were full kept her from the nervous habit. And, most ominous of all, her mother stood there alone.

Hermione's lips gave a helpless little jerk as she tried to force them up into a smile. Her mother's lips pinched tight at the obvious effort, and without a word, she reached out and grabbed the trunk. Bands of tightness that reminded her of the Binding Spell wrapped arms around Hermione's chest. Questions flew through her mind but didn't touch her still tongue. She didn't want to know.

So, like she had through most of the school year, Hermione buttoned her lip and maintained her silence. If the stiff arch of her mother's shoulders was any indication her unaccustomed silence was as much a blow to her as her tightly bound hair was to Hermione. How many times will we cut each other by accident this time? She couldn't help but wonder, and silently pray that the Christmas holiday passed quickly for all their sakes.

"Daddy?" Hermione squeaked, unable to keep the word locked behind her teeth when she saw him slumped in the passenger seat. She hated how frightened her voice was, or that she used the babyish word. It had been years since she'd called him that.

Instead of rushing forward to see if he was all right, her mother dropped her trunk on the ground and gave the top of the car an abrupt slap. The bang made both Hermione and her father jump, and Hermione almost recoiled from the venomous look her mother threw him as she pointed towards the back of the car. With a sheepish smile, he reached over and pressed the button to open the trunk. Then, before Hermione could even think about helping, her mother wrestled the large trunk into the small space.

Her heart hammering in her chest, Hermione cracked open the back door and climbed in. Instantly, the sharp unfamiliar smell slapped her across the face. It was a strange mix of bitter and sweet, and even though she'd never smelt alcohol before, she knew that's what it was.

"So good of you to wake up, Richard." Her mother's voice held a razor edge she'd never heard before, and if the flinch on her dad's face was anything to go by, he felt the bite all too sharply.

When her mother slid into the driver's seat, so wrong, Daddy drives, he always drives, the contrast between the two made her want to cry. While every line of her mother was painfully made up and correct, her dad... he looked like he'd woken up after a three-day bender and crawled into the car. His shirt might have been white at some point, but it was getting ripe around the edges. Once neat brown hair now stood up in a rather undignified cow lick along the left side, and he had at least two days' worth of beard scuffing his cheeks. And his eyes were red from drinking. When did he start drinking!?

But did she need to ask? Had he been drinking before that summer? Probably. She barely remembered the fight half-overheard, half-dreamed-up before she'd been sent to spend the summer away. Were they fighting about his drinking? Or about her?

A painful lump burned in Hermione's throat, and she had to keep her eyes open wide to keep the tears from falling. Why bring him? Couldn't her mother have just left him at home and spared them both this misery? She couldn't begin to understand it. But she knew one thing: It was all her fault. Her father's drinking. Her mother's bitterness. The slow disintegration of her whole world.

Trying to swallow the lump down, refusing to let it turn into a sobbing apology she would never be able to explain, Hermione cursed magic. Cursed this supposed gift that turned her life into a walking nightmare of pain and loss. How much would it take before it was finally satisfied? No amount of wonder, wand-waving, or being able to turn into animals was worth this!

Somehow that last thought made her mood oscillate in the opposite direction. Now, instead of trying to hold back tears, she had to fight herself to choke down a howl of bitter laughter as she tried to imagine performing the Animagus transformation. It wouldn't be so bad if she were a cat or a dog, but what about a bird? How would she fly with just one wing, not to mention any sort of equine? She had to smother laughter to keep from sobbing again at the realization of yet another thing lost to her. Why even try it when most of the forms wouldn't function with a missing limb?

---

The house felt too small with both her parents in it. Somewhere along the way, they'd lost all interest in trying to hide their animosity from her. The fights sparked over every little thing; a look, a dropped book, a plate left on the table. Any inconsequential thing to take the place of the glaringly obvious topic they wouldn't touch. It was like they only had two modes these days: Screaming at each other in a fire of desperate passion, or brittle ice that creaked under foot, always threatening to shatter under an unwary step.

Hermione sat on her bed, the door between her and them firmly shut. If only the wood was strong enough to lock out the sound of their voices as the latest battle drifted up to her.

"Of course we aren't invited to my parents' house! How could you expect them to after you called my mom a nosy bitch who should mind her own business?" Her mother's voice broke on the "b"-word, and Hermione shook her head in shock at how badly things had deteriorated in her absence. How could it get so bad? She wasn't even around! Couldn't they just pretend nothing happened? It wasn't like she lived with them for more than a few months out of the year. Why couldn't they let it go? Damn it, they were the adults. Why couldn't they get their acts together and be her parents again, and stop acting like they were the ones who got hurt?

Pain bled into bitterness as she threw herself onto the bed and covered her head with a pillow. She stuffed a pair of earbuds into her ears and blasted Disturbed so loud it made her teeth ache, but it drowned them out, so the pain was better.

She didn't know how long she vegged out to the music and wished she were anywhere else. A light touch on her calf forced her out of her tiny cocoon of peace, and Hermione tried to pretend she was asleep. Go away, I'm not in the mood for any attempted heart-to-hearts, she thought as hard as she could, willing whoever it was to leave her alone. No such luck. The hand shook her a little harder, and she knew it wouldn't be ignored.

Prying the brain pounding music out of her ears, Hermione tossed the pillow to the side and sat up. Her mom offered her a painfully false cheerful smile. "Did you have a good nap, dear?"

Even though it left a bitter taste on her tongue, Hermione followed her mother's lead. "Yeah. So, we're staying here for dinner?"

That question made her mother's face instantly cloud over. "Well, grandpa isn't feeling well tonight, maybe we'll stop by tomorrow to see them. I'm sure they'll have gifts for you."

Part of Hermione wanted to scream liar in her mother's face, as if she hadn't heard the whole fight. They'd screamed it loud enough for the neighbors on all four sides to hear. But a larger part was tired. Tired of the fighting, of the lies, of her dad's drinking and her mom's back biting. No matter what he did, it was wrong. Every word she spoke shouted at him that it was his fault. His fault. HIS FAULT!

And she knew, in his heart, he agreed. It's why he always lost the fights. Why he was the one drinking himself to death instead of her. Why he never stood up for himself and told her to bugger off.

"Okay," she agreed. They only had a few days left. They could all hold it together for a little bit longer. We can do this, I'll go back to school, and then things can settle back down. Out of sight out of mind. Hermione felt foolish lying to herself, but it was all she could do to get up and follow her mother downstairs.

Her father sat at the head of the table; his face painfully blank. At least he'd taken the time to shave and it looked like he'd had a shower sometime within the last couple days. Again, Hermione tried on a smile, and felt it wilt before it could even half form. So she took her seat, and locked her eyes on the fine china plate. Mom's good plates. The ones she only took down when they were having special company. Only now it was just them, sitting together in painful silence, none of them quite daring to break it because more bitter fighting hovered just over their shoulders.

Hermione focused on breathing and the painful realization that she would soon have to try and choke down a whole plate-full of food without showing how much all the stress made her want to throw up.

Next year I'll stay at Hogwarts.

The deep buzz of the electric knife snapping to life made her jump in her seat, and she glanced back towards her dad while he began the dubious process of carving meat off the plump turkey. Too plump for just the three of them. What had her mother been thinking? That they would really be able to eat a 30-pound turkey themselves? Her stomach shriveled even more at the thought of how much leftover turkey would be forced on her over the next couple of days.

Then another sound, her Dad hissing in pain, the blade jerked back and blood splattered over the pristine white meat of the turkey. Hermione blanched at the sight, her pupils dilating until they almost consumed her face as she stared at the cut on her Dad's palm, at the bright red blood. So bright against the white turkey. All at once she could smell the stench of the troll, the red ruin of her arm with its flecks of white bone.

Her ears roared, pounding with the frantic beat of her heart, and distantly, she could hear the shrill sound of her mother shouting. Always shouting now. About how her father couldn't do anything right, how he ruined everything. But the sound was inconsequential in the face of the blood. And Hermione wondered what they would do when she passed out.

Only she didn't. Her mind slowly un-ground itself from the past and propelled her back into this awful new scene of familial dysfunction. Something tugged at her though, a discordant note in the strange play that was her life now.

Her father wasn't yelling back. He always yelled back, at least at the start of a fight. But now he sat there, a napkin clutched in his hands to staunch the blood, with the saddest look on his face.

Don't. Please don't.

"Enough, Maddy." How long had it been since he'd called her that? Before the accident, that's for sure, but Hermione thought it was even longer than that if the shocked look on her mother's face was anything to go by. Those two little words, spoke in such a cool, quiet tone, acted like a slap, breaking her words off so sharply Hermione had to turn and look to make sure he hadn't somehow slapped her into silence. But now her face was frozen, held in bizarre stillness as if she could sense what he would say next, and couldn't stop it.

Both women sat frozen in the silence of the moment, neither one willing or able to break it. For better or worse, it was Michael's turn to speak.

He got wearily to his feet, blood still dripping from the cut. "I can't do this anymore, Maddy. You can have the house, the cars, all of it. I don't care. But I'm done. I'm going to pack a bag, and then head to the hospital to get this stitched up, then I'll get a hotel room. I'll call you later to work out the details." He turned to Hermione and a sob choked her when his eyes filled with tears. "I am so very sorry for what I did to you my little love. If I could go back in time, I would gladly give my own arm for yours. Hell, I'd give my life just to make you whole again, but I can't stay here anymore. Maybe once I'm gone, you can both heal."

"Daddy, please don't go," the words felt like acid in her throat, and it tore her heart to say them because she shouldn't have to. None of this should be happening. It wasn't his fault! How could she make them understand? She tried; her throat convulsed around the words as the Binding Spells gagged her. He gave a sad smile before he walked away.

Out of the kitchen. Out of the house. Out of their lives.

Another victim of magic.

---

With the entire mansion mapped out from top to bottom, Zen vanished. He reappeared in a small room in one of Stryker's infrequently used bases. There he liberated everything he'd need for the task at hand: Countless gallons of a nameless cleaning solution that had a broad spectrum kill claim, multiple sets of personal protective equipment in various sizes, bio-hazard bags, bio-hazard labels, leak-proof sharps containers for the contaminated glass and darts, dustpans and brushes, tongs, and finally disinfectant wipes.

Back at the mansion, Zen slid easily into the protective gear. This was hardly the first mess he'd had to clean up, and it would be twice as hard to do now that the blood was dry. Starting in the kitchen, Zen began the tedious task of removing the debris. Using a full-sized broom first, he gently swept all the broken glass into a neat pile in the center of the room. It was studded with a few of the darts that failed to hit their marks. Out of all the rooms in the mansion, this one held the least damage, a few broken bottles that had fallen during the fighting, and only one puddle of dried blood.

With the glass cleared away, he sprayed the wide bloodstain down with disinfectant and gave it ten minutes to soak in before he got down on hands and knees to start the long scrubbing process.

---

Scott walked slowly through the first floor of the mansion. Each step hurt; even though his physical injuries were minor, every soft thump of his feet on hardwood sent jolts of emotional agony through his body. Everywhere he looked, signs of the invasion that ended in tragedy leapt up to mock him. Here, broken glass from windows blown out by gun fire, there, a shattered TV screen. Scott remembered so many nights curled up with Jean as they and the kids watched movies late into the night. The kids begging for just one more, even though it was past midnight and half of them were already asleep. The dark splashes of blood where X cut down the enemies like a farmer cuts wheat, yet still unable to fight them all. He was just one man.

Just one.

That stuck in his throat, a chicken bone he couldn't swallow. They'd left Logan here alone to guard the children, foolishly assuming they'd be safe. And he couldn't even find it in himself to blame the man for failing. There wasn't much a single man could do against an army.

I wasn't here.

No. By the time the mansion was taken he was already under Stryker's thumb, just another mutant puppet willing to do the man's bidding. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the way he floated in the back of his mind, how his body acted without his control. Against his will he reached up and fingered the burn mark on the back of his neck and couldn't help but recall the branding on the back of Zen and Logan's necks in the same spot. They'd all been branded as weapons in the end.

The spot still stung as he ran a fingertip over it. Scott's lips pulled back in a grimace as he dug his nails into it, relishing the sharp jolt of pain that traveled all the way down his spine. If he could he would cut the spot from his flesh, but that would create an even bigger brand, marking him as compromised. His breath hitched in his chest and he clenched his eyes shut as he forced his hand to drop back to his side. In his mind he saw Jean's face, wide, frightened green eyes flicking from fear, to pain, to rage, to determination as he attacked.

Scott swallowed hard, forcing his mind away from the painful wound and back to the present, almost breaking down in the process. Because the present was so much worse.

"Jean." The word was full of broken edges, and he jumped slightly at the sound of it. He hadn't meant to speak it out loud. Perhaps he never meant to speak it out loud again. As if not speaking her name would unmake her being gone. He felt like a ship whose masts shattered under the force of a brutal storm. Now there was nothing to propel him forward. Nothing to guide him.

Stop, this is useless, find Xavier. Scott focused on his self-imposed mission. Find Xavier, advise him about the state of the children at the summer camp grounds, figure out their next move. Simple. He needed to keep things simple and stop thinking.

While he was lost in thought, his feet brought him to the door of the kitchen. He blinked at what he found in there for over a minute before his frazzled brain was able to figure out what he was looking at. Zen-because it had to be Zen, he was the only one of that size still in the mansion-was kneeling on the floor. He was dressed in bio-hazard gear and was carefully scrubbing at an unpleasantly large puddle of dry blood.

Swish, swish, swish. the sound of the bristle brush rasping over the rough tile floor mesmerized him, and Scott wasn't sure how long he stood there enraptured by the rhythmic sounds before he found his voice.

"What are you doing?" Scott meant to give the question force, making it a demand for information instead of the plaintive query that escaped him. The swishing stopped, and for reasons he couldn't understand, the lack of it felt like a blow to the stomach. Scott held his breath and waited for the answer while mentally willing the swishing to begin again.

Zen sat back on his haunches and studied Scott for a minute before he spoke. "I'm cleaning up the mess."

The brief answer made Scott's jaw clench with irritation, but he found himself unable to maintain the trivial emotion. Not when Jean... Not when everything was so wrong. Instead of getting angry, he stepped into the room and looked around. On the table, he spotted an impressive pile of protective gear; bio-hazard bags, rags, and gallons of cleaners.

Scott turned his brooding gaze back on Zen while he plunged the hard-bristled brush back into the bucket of steaming hot water that now held the sickening tinge of pink from the spilled blood. "Why? Did Xavier tell you to?"

"No, but he didn't tell me not to." The odd answer was explanation enough for Scott. He'd lived with Charles for years and knew how closely his mentor monitored Zen's activities. If he hadn't wanted Zen to clean, then he would have told him not to bother. "I'm doing it so the children won't have to."

Those words drew Scott entirely into the moment as he tried to comprehend them. What did the students have to do with this? It took a few seconds before it clicked. Zen thought they would force the children to clean the mess. Pain stabbed at Scott's temples as a vicious headache developed in the face of Zen's broken reasoning. "Zen-"

"They shouldn't have to clean it up." There was a strange note to the words, a sharp finality that stopped Scott in his tracks. After Xavier reprogrammed the assassin's mind, he'd always spoken to all the adults with nothing less than submissive obedience. Even when things were at their worst, and all hands had been turned against him, he'd never complained or so much as raised his voice in protest of their cruel behavior.

Now Scott was forced to see Zen in a new light. Intellectually he'd known Zen wasn't a child, that he'd been an assassin and part of a team that actively hunted down mutants. But he was so small, and after Xavier stripped him of his IX persona, he'd shrunk back into a child in Scott's mind. Having him play student didn't help that false image. Shame burned through Scott when he realized Zen was the farthest thing from a child as a human being could get. He was forced to accept that Zen came from a world where they forced children to clean up the blood after they were done torturing them.

Go find Xavier. The thought flitted across his mind but didn't move him as he stood watching Zen work. The low swishing began again, and Scott knew he needed to update the Professor on the status of the children before returning to the campgrounds. He shouldn't be standing here watching Zen clean up blood needlessly. Blood that would soon be cleaned professionally by people who had the proper training and equipment to handle the magnitude of the disaster that rocked their small corner of the world.

There were so many things he should be doing but he did none of them. It took everything he had to stand and watch Zen instead of flinging himself up the stairs and into his room. His room. Only his. Scott longed to crawl into the bed and bury his face in Jean's pillow. To capture the last fleeting scent of her; to cling to it as fiercely as he could. Every inch of him cried out for her, the one person in the world who'd anchored him. The one who'd left him all alone, going where he couldn't follow. Not yet.

An ocean's worth of loss roiled beneath his skin. Wave after wave threatened to leave him debilitated. First his parents, then his brother, now Jean. It felt like everyone who'd ever had the misfortune of loving him died while he survived.

Instead of heading up the stairs to talk to Xavier or fleeing to the painful sanctuary of his now solitary room, Scott shuffled forward. His hands felt distant and numb as he sorted through the collection of protective gear until he found one in his size. Biting the inside of his cheek, he slid into the gear and grabbed a rag. Without a word, and utterly avoiding eye contact Scott dipped the rag into the pink stained water, knelt, and began to scrub.

---

Zen watched Scott discretely as the older mutant stood in the doorway, every line of his body seeming to vibrate with inner tension. A plethora of emotions chased themselves over Scott's face, so intense Zen didn't need to see his eyes to read the disquiet there. One expression stood out above the rest however, one that made Xavier's previous warnings crystallize into certainty.

He'd seen similar looks painted on the faces of children who hadn't been taken alone. Those who'd come in with siblings. At first, the bond between them would give each child more strength, allowing them to face the testing easier than those who'd come in alone. But then the inevitable would happen, either Zen would be given a kill order on one of the two, or the tests would prove fatal. The remaining child would generally have one of two reactions: Fury, like Pietro, or despair like so many others.

It hadn't taken Zen long to learn at a glance which way a particular child would turn, those who'd survive and those who wouldn't make it. Even if they didn't actively suicide, they lost the will to live. In Stryker's organization, the will to live was vital. It never took long for those mutants to die once they'd lost it.

Scott's face held the same shadow of death. Xavier's warning made sense now, but what brought Scott to this point? More importantly, how could Zen pull him back from the edge? While this wasn't the pens, it still wasn't a safe zone as the puddles of blood attested too. If Scott's will to live had abandoned him, it wouldn't be hard for him to find a suitable end. While he scrubbed at the stubborn patch of blood, Zen studied the problem. He'd never had to try and pull someone back from the edge before. With the Doctor, the survival rate of the mutants hadn't mattered much since the hunters were always bringing in new specimens for the man to play with. There'd never been a mutation interesting enough for the man to fight to keep them alive after they'd given up.

"Where did you get all this?" Scott's question splintered Zen's troubled thoughts.

He shrugged, the motion almost imperceptible beneath the suit. "Stryker won't miss it." Thinking of Stryker brought his mind back around to the question he hadn't dared ask Xavier. "How are the children? Did they all make it to safety?"

Scott bent his back to a particularly stubborn patch of blood lodged in the grout. "Yes. There were a few minor injuries, but they all made it out."

A thrill of satisfaction coursed through Zen's blood at the confirmation that he'd succeeded in his mission. Not only had he been able to get all the captive children, teachers, and his Wielder out of the base in one piece, but the ones he'd been forced to leave behind made it to safety. It was good to know his gamble paid off.

"Jean didn't make it." Each word was bitten off and rang with a depth of agony that should have left bleeding wounds behind. Zen froze at the words, his eyes narrowed at the dried blood as he accepted his failure.

"I'm sorry."

Scott started to wave a dismissive hand at the apology before he froze when the words caught up to him. Zen never gave frivolous apologies. If he was giving one now, it meant he felt responsible for her death.

"Why?" Scott demanded.

"I should have saved her."

A scoff escaped Scott at the words. "You couldn't have saved a kitten in the state you were in. You were half-dead and unconscious when she-" but he couldn't finish the sentence.

Zen bowed his head and began scrubbing again. "I overused my power. If I'd been more judicious with it, I wouldn't have passed out at such an inopportune moment. That was careless of me. Unacceptable. I should have had enough left to keep her safe."

"From what I've heard, you died. I guess that gives you a pass on being Superman." Although the words were meant to be light, they grated with the edge of raw emotion.

Zen didn't bother responding. Instead he rinsed out the scrub brush and shifted enough to reach the next section of blood. While he worked, he tried to find the right words to defuse the time bomb ticking away inside Scott's head, but nothing came to him. Taking a deep breath, he struck at the heart of the problem. Zen sat back on his haunches and stared directly at the other man. "Do not kill yourself."

The words were as inelegant as a brick thrown through a window. Scott jerked back as if he'd been hit, his head jerked up and he glared at Zen. "What?"

"We do not have enough trained adult mutants to keep the children safe from the coming violence. The loss of even one will have a serious impact on their safety." Scott started to open his mouth to protest, but Zen didn't give him the chance. "What Xavier did will have far reaching consequences for the mutant community."

Scott shook his head. "We talked to the President, showed him proof that it was Stryker, he-"

Zen cut him off with a single reproachful glance. "The words of a single man, no matter how important he is on the world sage, will not be enough to dampen the coming storm. Not in the face of a global disaster barely averted. How many casualties do you think resulted in the attack?"

"Casualties?"

"Yes, casualties. How many car accidents, plane crashes, people drowning in pools, falling downstairs, falling onto grills?"

The blood drained from Scott's face so fast Zen braced himself to catch him if he passed out. Once he was certain Scott wouldn't fall on his face he continued. "Xavier, the children, mutants everywhere are going to need all the help they can get in the coming years to survive the fallout."

"Why are you telling me this," Scott demanded, not wanting to take the weight of any more deaths onto his heart but knowing instinctively that Zen was right. There had to be casualties.

Zen dumped the brush into the bucket of cooling water. "Because you have the same look children who'd given up had in Stryker's pens; the ones who'd lost the will to live. We can't afford to lose even a single fighter at this junction. Not if we wish to survive."

Each blunt word struck his battered psyche, but Scott found himself latching onto them with grim determination. As much as he loathed it, Zen was right. There was a storm coming, one that would sweep away more than Jean if they weren't careful. Her loss still crushed him, but Scott's own sense of honor wouldn't let him give in without a fight. Jean would never forgive me if I laid down and died, she would want me to keep living no matter how hard it is to go on without her.

Xavier and the children still needed him. Pain flared in his heart when he recalled how he'd failed his mentor. He'd been there to guard the other man's back but failed to do so. Never again, the grim words resonated in the shattered halls of his heart, and he vowed to stand beside Zen against the world that would see them all dead.

And if he died in battle while saving the children? Then all the better. Jean couldn't be mad at him then.

"Ah, there you are."

Scott frowned when he saw Zen's shoulders twitch slightly, as if in anticipation of a blow.

Hank stepped into the room and neatly skirted the puddle of half-scrubbed blood. "I'm finished with the calls I needed to make. Time to look you over, then you can go up and pack a bag. Xavier is doing a lot better and we're ready to head out to the camp once you two are."

If he didn't know better, Scott would say Zen was afraid of the blue mutant. Obviously not because of his looks, but he could tell something about Hank bothered Zen. Still, the assassin stood up and stripped out of his gear without a word of protest. Before he could call them back, the pair vanished, leaving him alone with his troubled thoughts. Hank would never hurt a child under his care and even if Zen wasn't a child, he was still Xavier's... what? Guest? Property? Ward?

All. None. Scott pealed out of his gear and let the questions go. Zen was complicated, that's all, and Scott doubled he would ever fully understand him.

Turning his back on the partially cleaned mess, Scott made his way to one of the lower level bathrooms to take a quick shower. He didn't dare head up to his room to clean, or even pack a bag. The siren call of his bed still sounded in his head. It would be too tempting to give up, bury himself into the scent of Jean and never move again.

---

Bobby sat on the rough wooden steps of the lodge with his arms wrapped loosely around his knees. He silently thanked the cold that kept the rest of the kids inside. Closing his eyes, Bobby let the chilly winter air tickle the bare skin of his arms and couldn't help remembering how harshly it bit into his skin when his power turned against him.

Ever since his powers came the cold hadn't bothered him in the slightest. He could walk around naked in the North Pole and be fine. But then Xavier's psychic wave turned all their powers against them, and he'd suffered under the bone deep chill of deadly cold. Flexing his fingers, Bobby squeezed his eyes tighter. Even though he would never say it out loud he knew he wasn't the only one feeling leery of the Professor, and of their own powers. Having them turned against him... it hurt almost as bad as having their safe-haven broken into by a bunch of armed army goons.

He glared at the memory as he rubbed a finger restlessly over a healing cut on his arm. One that happened sometime during the attack, but for the life of him he couldn't remember when. Shame flooded him as he remembered the attack, and how most of them choked. Hell, even Logan choked, and X had to take over to do what-

Bobby cut the thought off ruthlessly, but he couldn't stop the memories. The sound of a man's dying breath; the boneless way he fell to the ground. Glazed eyes staring at him where he hid like a child under the table while X killed, and killed, and killed.

But it wasn't enough, because the rest of them, for all their power and all the time they'd spent fighting imaginary monsters in the Danger Room, had choked. When it came down to it, they'd all ran around like chickens with their heads cut off. Of course, X couldn't save them all, and Zen...

"Bobby?"

His head jerked up, all thoughts of the pair of assassins vanished as Rogue sat down next to him. She wore a heavy coat against the cold, and he forced his lips into a welcoming smile even though he wished she'd go back in. The last thing he wanted to do was talk.

"Hey." But he couldn't tell her to go away, so he scooted over a little and let her take the spot next to him.

Shaking her hair off her face, Bobby's eyes were drawn to the stripe of white. Just like the thin lines of white that were peppered through Zen's hair now.

Her eyes narrowed. "What?" A blush heated Bobby's cheeks and he looked away.

"I was just wondering about Zen."

The unexpected statement knocked the irritated frown off her face. "Zen? What about him?"

Bobby swallowed, then began to draw random doodles in frost on the wood between them. "You saw him on the jet, right? His hair?" He gave her snowy forelock a pointed look and she reached up to tuck it behind her ear, as if she could hide it from his probing eyes.

"What about it," she snapped, defensiveness edging the words.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he gave a non-committal shrug and looked away.

"Nothing."

"Bobby."

A branch cracked somewhere in the forest, making both the teens jump and stare wide-eyed at the shifting trees. Wind danced through the snow heavy limbs, and another cracked under the weight. Bobby gave an awkward laugh. "I guess we'll all be jumping at shadows for a while, huh."

Now it was Rogue's turn to sigh. "Yeah." She began to rub her hands together. The thin gloves she wore were enough to keep her from accidentally draining anyone, but they were scant protection against the biting cold of the early winter morning.

Tiny snowflakes began to drift down from the cloud heavy sky, and Rogue glared at them as if they personally offended her. That made Bobby frown; he knew she usually loved winter; since everyone had to dress in layers, making it safer for her to be around the group.

"Too bad John isn't here, he could have warmed you up pretty quick," Bobby said wistfully, his mind turning to his wayward roommate. Stupid John, going off with Magneto like that. But he wasn't too surprised. His roomie was always the sort to go off the beaten path. Not that he thought John would stay with that bunch of losers. He'd be back before the scent of Axe body wash faded from their room.

Rogue scoffed, the sound jolted Bobby from his thoughts. "I'd freeze to death before I accepted anything from that little cockroach." For a second all Bobby could do was gape at her in astonishment at the pure vitriol in her tone. Sure, John screwed up, but he wasn't that bad!

"Don't look at me like that, Bobby Drake," Rogue said, her eyes flashing. "He left us there to die, and worse, he went with our enemies. Like the little coward he is, he turned his back on us at the first opportunity."

The shock instantly turned to hot anger on John's behalf. "Look, John's a lot of things okay, but he isn't as bad as you're making him out to be. There's a lot you don't know about him. He's had a rough life."

Rogue gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "You are so blind, Bobby. John? Ha! Pyro should have been with Magneto from the start. I've seen how he sees the world. All we are is kindling to him. Everything in the world is just a number of how much energy it would take to burn us."

Standing up, Bobby turned to face her, his face darkening with anger. "Just because you stole-"

Now she leapt to her feet. "Stole?" she snarled in his face. "You mean saved those officers lives? Yes, I stopped him by taking his power because people like that don't deserve power! He would have roasted that officer alive. He WANTED to."

"I don't believe you," Bobby hissed back. He'd known John for years, and no way would he kill someone. "If he was going to kill anyone, he would have killed the soldiers who attacked the mansion."

Rogue folded her arms across her chest and glared up at him. "You are so blind. Look past your crush for one second and realize that Pyro is a bad guy. He's always been a bad guy."

Heat, from rage or embarrassment at her accusation, filled his cheeks. "That's rich coming from you! You almost killed your first boyfriend with a ki-"

The words were cut off before he could finish by the palm of her gloved hand in a slap that made his skin sting and jerked his head to the side. Thank God she didn't punch me, he thought as she stormed back up the stairs and slammed the door shut.

Bobby rubbed his cheek and glared at the door, but his anger was already collapsing under its own weight, a snowman toppling over under the hot spring sunshine. He'd known, even as he said it, that he'd gone too far. Closing his eyes, he wondered if this counted as a breakup.

---

Logan watched Rogue storm past the kitchen door looking like a cat who'd had her tail pulled, and he felt a flash of relief when she didn't notice him. After the past week he had no patience to help a teenage girl sort out her love life. Though he had to give a half smirk at the way she'd handled Bobby. They'd been loud enough out there to give the feral a show, something to distract him from his own morose thoughts.

Now that the show was over, he turned his attention back to the half-full bottle of scotch on the table. Even though he knew it was futile he took another long pull, letting the fiery liquid burn a line down his throat until it settled like a coal in his belly.

X shifted restlessly in the back of their mind, and he knew he'd have to hand the reins to their body over soon. Perhaps the only good thing to come out of the Stryker fiasco; they were now working as a team instead of two lone wolves fighting over the same kill. He closed his eyes, not looking forward to the talk he knew awaited him with Chuck sometime soon. Even though he'd found an uneasy peace with his other half, he had no intention of merging with the damaged psyche. Thanks, but no thanks. While he wouldn't mind getting his pre-X memories back, he was pretty sure those were gone. And he sure as fuck didn't want X's memories in their place. The nightmares were bad enough.

All around him he could hear the children. They'd managed to gather up all the lost kids and brought them to the summer campground. Thankfully the place had a log cabin, more a lodge really, that could have rivaled the mansion for space. They had to sleep three to a room instead of two, but there was enough space for everyone, even if it was tight.

Logan frowned down at the near empty bottle. Left over from one of the teachers over the summer, he was sure. There should have been more noise. With the kids all packed together like this they should have been talking, laughing, fighting, sharing secrets. Yet it was eerily quiet. He could hear their heartbeats, slow with sleep, fast with a nightmare or stifled panic attack.

They were nothing like the rowdy bunch of children who'd lived in Xavier's Mansion, safe behind their walls. Worst of all was the stink of their fear. It filled the lodge like deadly perfume and rubbed both him and X raw with its intensity.

It was infuriating, not that the children were afraid, but that he and X failed to protect them from the cause of their terror. Worse, he'd failed to protect Zen. Just thinking of the small assassin made his fists ache with the need to unsheathe his claws and tear everything to pieces, as if that might ease some of the gnawing guilt in his heart. Not just X. If it had only been his alter, Logan would have been able to ignore it. The feral had always been nuts for Zen, so it made sense for him to feel unreasonably guilty for all that happened, but Logan felt the same.

When it all went down, they should have fought back to back, side by side, to protect the children. Instead, he'd ended up fighting alone. Losing alone. And he couldn't even blame Zen. In the chaos of the situation he knew Zen made the most expedient choice to protect the most people. What rubbed him the wrong way was how he'd had no say. Zen made the choice for them both, leaving him behind to protect the children at the mansion and allowing himself to be taken so he could protect the captured children.

Logan had no doubt that's what went down. They wouldn't have been able to take Zen by surprise. No, he'd judged the situation, and let them take him. If not, there would have been double, if not triple the bodies. The only corpses left behind were the ones Logan-no, X left. Even the children hesitated when they stood on the edge of life and death. The few who hadn't frozen, and had fought, used non-lethal force. Their mindsets were those of sheltered children.

For all their power, they'd been helpless. Taken by surprise in the middle of the night when most of the adults were away.

Guilt like arsenic-laced bile burned his throat, and he took another long pull on the bottle to drown out the taste. His nose wrinkled when he drained the last drops.

Growling, he slammed the bottle down and huffed under his breath when he heard someone squeak in fear from one of the bedrooms. What had Chuck been thinking, leaving the kids so damned innocent? If it wasn't for the fact that Stryker's team had been holding back most of them would be dead right now.

And that brought him all the way back around to why they were here and not at the mansion guarding Zen's back. For all their powers, all their training in the danger room, the children were sitting ducks. If there was another attack, they weren't in any shape to defend themselves. It was even worse now than before the last attack. Now they were too tightly wound, most probably suffering from some degree of PTSD, and while he didn't think they would freeze as badly again he worried they'd go off half-cocked.

The children would take themselves out in a hail of friendly fire before the soldiers could do the job.

If that happened while Logan was mooning over Zen's unconscious body, he knew without a doubt Zen would roast him alive when he woke up.

He had to stay here and protect the children. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

"I'm going for a walk." Storm's abrupt words felt like a slap to the back of his head, and Logan grunted his acknowledgment. He'd known she was there, of course, but he hadn't expected her to speak. Let alone have her willingly walk away from the children if even for a few minutes to get a breath of fresh air. Over the past few days she'd been nearly as silent as the children, and he knew she was probably in as much shock. How damaging it would have been to leave only to come back and find that mess? Not knowing what happened, who'd died, or if anyone was still alive.

He closed his eyes, sighing deeply as he took in her lingering scent. It was like Zen's; both held that static edge of power, though hers was mixed with the almost sweet scent of rain. One thing he'd always found amusing about her was how the rain scent changed with her emotion. Soft spring rain was happiness, the near electric throb of the pounding summer rain meant rage. Right now, he caught the bitter edge of a winter ice storm in her scent; the sharp tang of depression.

Logan gave the empty bottle one last glare before he hefted himself out of the chair, needing to make his rounds of the lodge to ensure it was secure. The pack of guilt rats gnawing at his guts seemed to thrash a little harder as he looked at the door Storm passed through only moments ago. Few people knew how much information scent could give. For most, their nose was just a thing to hold up glasses. Only the most blatant odors made any impact at all, and that was of the most basic kind. Smells good, smells bad. For a feral it was different. Scent as a sense was a close second to sight and hearing, and at times it even bumped up to higher than both.

He'd known of the affection the two women shared-mostly sisterly, but there was that one time when it took a turn into intimate. There were scent markers of each woman in the other's skin, though Scott's marks were far deeper in Jean's, almost covering all others. Yet Storm held her mark on the other woman too. They spent a lot of time together, were close friends, and now Jean was gone.

Damn.

---

Storm drifted through the trees like a small, ground-bound cloud. If a hiker glimpsed her through the trees, they'd have thought her a fay being, with her deep mahogany skin, distant blue eyes, and long mane of silver hair. As she walked, she reached out to run her fingertips over the bark of the trees she passed, needing to feel something, anything besides the pain boiling inside her like a thunderstorm on the verge of breaking loose. The texture of the trees gave her an outlet, poor though it was.

Still, her mind played Jean's last moments over and over again. Whenever she closed her eyes, she could see tendrils of beautiful power like heat waves wafting off her friend. Saw the wave, like some terrible beast crouched over her, its maw full of broken tree teeth, and stone claws. She saw the last, sweet smile before the monster pounced, obliterating Jean's small form beneath its ponderous weight.

And through it all, she saw herself; sitting uselessly in the pilot's seat, doing nothing at all to save her. How could she just sit there and let Jean single-handedly save them, giving her own life to do so? Tears slid down her cheeks, adding thin lines of silver to her smooth skin.

Soft, white mist drifted around her, dancing between her fingertips as it caressed the trees and cocooned her in a world of grey. More tears fell unheeded. "Why didn't you stay on the jet? You could have done all that from your seat," she whispered, the words breaking halfway through on a sob. The endless, useless questions bit her with the sharp fangs of a hyena.

They all boiled down to one. Why? Why leave the jet? Why let the wave take her? Why-why did she leave them? Why did Jean have to die?

Too many questions.

Not enough answers.

No matter how she turned the facts around in her mind, all Storm felt was bitter loss and confusion. Perhaps if Jean had died in the underground base, a victim of the attack, it could be easier to bear. But she didn't. She'd walked calmly to her death, putting herself in front of them to spare them from death while willingly embracing it.

It felt like suicide, and that truth cut deepest of all.

---

Zen fought back the exhaustion tugging at his senses. As much as he wished to rest, he couldn't bring himself to do so in a moving vehicle. There was too much potential for attack, and he refused to be caught off guard. Even with Stryker gone, he knew there were other departments. Other teams. Other governments. All of them with varying degrees of fear and interest in mutants. From wanting to exterminate them all, to wanting to turn them into weapons, and everything in between. Very few were interested in developing live and let live policies. After the Xavier incident Zen was sure the number of groups willing to let mutants live freely hovered somewhere around zero.

That thought alone kept him awake. While he didn't think anyone knew Xavier was the source of the psychic wave, he couldn't afford to make that assumption. He would have to be vigilant over the next weeks and months to ensure his Wielder's survival.

So he stayed awake and watched the buildings give way to forest while they drove. Before long he noticed thin ropes of fog drifting over the road, growing thicker as they approached. The slightest hint of a smile brushed Zen's lips when he noticed that the woods were shrouded with fog but only wisps of the concealing mist slithered over the road. They were getting close.

Less than five minutes later they turned onto a gravel path that ended in front of a massive wooden structure, built along the lines of a wood cabin even if it was too large to bear the name. Logan stood on the porch; his arms folded over his barrel-like chest as he watched the car pull in. A lingering tension Zen hadn't known was there eased at the sight of the feral.

Even though he knew better than most how indestructible X was he couldn't help the anxiety he felt when he woke up alone. It was too much like the first time he'd woken up in Xavier's school after the Professor's attack. When the car slid to a smooth stop Zen climbed out and got Xavier's chair situated, helping his Wielder into it before turning his attention back to the lodge, and Logan, who'd had the good sense to wait until he was finished.

When Zen climbed the stairs, he paused in front of Logan, unsure what to expect. To be grabbed perhaps, hugged or bitten or both. What he didn't expect was for the larger man to lean forward and bury his face in the junction between shoulder and neck before taking a deep breath, drinking in his scent.

"Good, you smell like you again," he rumbled. The worlds held more growl than usual, and Zen knew more than just Logan spoke them. With a soft huff he nudged the feral back.

"Report."

The word drew an annoyed grunt from Logan, but he didn't fight the compulsion. "All of the children are safe. We found the stragglers and brought them all here." Now he hesitated, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. "There was one casualty-"

"Jean Grey." The word held no emotion, but Logan could see something in the depths of Zen's green gaze.

"It wasn't your fault."

Zen didn't bother dignifying that with a response. Before Logan could respond the door behind him opened and Kitty stepped out. The sight of her made Zen's eyes widen. He expected her to fling herself into his arms sobbing as she often did when things went awry, but she didn't. Instead she looked at him with wide, hurt blue eyes. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself and for the first time since he'd met her, Kitty looked as small and fragile as her namesake. Dark circles traced half-moons of bluish-black beneath her eyes and his stomach clenched unhappily when her eyes filled with tears. She didn't sob or scream. All she did was stand there, small tremors wracking her as tears fell down her cheeks while her lower lip quivered. Uncomfortable pain flared in Zen's chest at the sight.

The pain mingled with confusion as he looked from Logan to Kitty and back again, demanding an explanation. Logan said the children were safe. His eyes darted back to the girl, scouring her for injuries and finding none. They were safe, they had secure lodgings, the other children survived. Why was she crying? His eyes finally locked on Logan, waiting for an answer to Kitty's inexplicable behavior.

Instead of explaining, Logan gave a tired sigh as he reached out and gently pushed Zen towards Kitty. Once he was little more than an arm length away, Kitty reacted like a bit of metal to a magnet. She flung herself into his chest and clung to him. For a second, Zen stood frozen before he cautiously put his arms around her the way Pietro showed him with Malcom. Closing his eyes, he let a thin tendril of power slide into the girl. His energy quested through her body, searching out the slightest hurts and finding nothing to fix. Like Xavier, her damage seemed to be emotional instead of physical.

"Take her inside and hold her for a while, she'll be all right," Logan's gruff voice broke his concentration and he pulled the power back into himself. Uncertain how holding her would fix this, but unable to think of anything else to do, Zen followed Logan's directions. It wasn't hard to steer the broken girl into the lodge. After a few minutes he found the living room and led Kitty to a large couch tucked up along one wall. He pulled her down next to him and closed his eyes in defeat as she clung to him. Perhaps he should be used to her overt emotional outbursts, but this wasn't like the rest.

Awkwardly, he wrapped his arms around her again as he tucked her in closer to him. That was all it took to unleash the storm. Her hoarse sobs wracked her tiny frame hard enough to shake them both, and he worried the strain of her grief would tear something inside her.

It hurt in ways he couldn't explain. Listening to her pour out her pain hurt worse than facing the Doctor and his whip. He would gladly take fifty lashes than have Kitty suffer like this. Worse, he had no idea how to fix it. This wasn't a broken bone or a burn he could heal with power. All he could do was hold her, and wish he'd had a chance to do to Stryker what he'd done to the Doctor.

---

"You wished to speak with me?"

Pietro almost vibrated a foot out of the chair at the sound of his voice. He wasn't sure how long he'd been waiting in the small office after they'd been informed that Xavier, Hank, Zen, and Scott would be joining them.

In the two days they'd been at the camp, Pietro's thoughts plagued him night and day. His disheveled hair no longer looked artfully tousled. No, it looked like there'd been a squirrel Battle Royale in it. There were knots in there he knew would have to be cut out. The way things were going he might have to shave the whole grey matted mess off and start fresh. His tired eyes were ringed with deep circles, speaking eloquently on how much sleep he'd gotten in the days since they last saw each other.

Xavier wheeled his chair around the desk and took a few moments to get properly situated, giving the youngster a few extra minutes to gather his wits before giving him the full weight of his regard. If the way Pietro blanched as his gaze fell on him was any indication, it hadn't been long enough. As much as he'd like to smooth the way for Pietro, he maintained his silence, allowing the youth to make the first move in the coming verbal dance.

Running his fingers through his hair, only to hiss as the middle one stuck fast in a knot, Pietro cursed under his breath. "Look, I'm-" He rubbed his eyes hard, struggling with it. "Give me a few days, okay? I don't have anywhere to go, but I'll leave. I don't belong here." Tears blurred the words, and although Pietro kept his head bent forward Xavier still saw a few drops of moisture fall.

"Why do you say that?" The old man prodded gently.

"Why?" Pietro echoed hollowly, and they both gave a small, involuntary, flinch as the visceral memory of blood splashing over the front of his shirt played again in his mind's eye. When given access to power, he turned out to be no better than the bastards who killed Wanda.

More tears fell, and he didn't even have the will to try and stop them. Because, damn it all, the old man had been right. Killing that bastard changed nothing. Not one less tear cried, not one less drop of blood spilled. Hell, he hadn't even felt good doing it. Instead the whole process horrified him. How Zen or anyone could do stuff like that for years and not be totally batshit crazy was mind-boggling. Yet, despite all his quirks and oddities, Zen seemed to be settling down into a decent human being now that a pack of madmen weren't holding his leash.

What was Pietro's excuse? He could have had Zen shoot the man. Or slit his throat. Anything but what he'd asked. A shuddering sob tore at his throat, and Pietro found he couldn't swallow it back as the whole wretched scene played out in his head again and again. He'd forced Zen back into IX's skin, used him to torture his most hated enemy, and then forced Zen to help him kill the man after the dirty work was done. He hadn't even been man enough to stand there and watch. Instead he fled like a child after the first few cuts.

Disgust and shame made his guts roll, and, not for the first time, he wished he'd been the one to feel the kiss of IX's blade instead of Wanda. She would have been able to let things go and live in the moment after she escaped instead of wasting so much of her energy on thoughts of revenge.

"Pietro, as long as your conscience remains as strong as it is now, and as long as you recognize the error of your ways and why treating Zen the way you did was wrong, you have a place among us."

The startling words jolted Pietro out of his self-destructive thoughts. "But you said... "

"Do you still hunger for revenge?"

"NO!"

"Then I think my fears were unfounded. You took a sip from the cup of power and found its brew too bitter to swallow. Which saved you from the madness of revenge. I dare say, I'm proud of you."

Against his will, Pietro's lips tugged up into a wistful smile at the words.

An answering smile flared on Xavier's lips. "Truly. Taking a life can be addicting, and the power of life and death has led more than a few down the path of utter destruction. Even though you answered the call once, you weren't blinded by that power. You were able to turn away from the path I once laid out for you. For that, you should be proud."

Heat flared in his cheeks, and he mumbled something unintelligible.

"However." That made the grey-haired teen's shoulders hunch automatically. "You owe Zen an apology." To his surprise, Pietro didn't fight him on it.

Instead he hung his head and tugged morosely at one of the knots. "Yeah, you're right." The silence stretched between them, but before it had a chance to become strained the door opened.

"Ah, there you are. How is Kitty?" Xavier said as he waved Zen into the room.

"She is resting, sir."

Xavier gave a sage nod. "While I do appreciate you looking out for her, try not to make a habit of putting her to sleep when she's upset. Kitty will need to work through her emotions."

"Yes, sir." Even though Zen would follow the order, he still thought his method better. That level of emotional upset couldn't be healthy. Sending Kitty to sleep seemed like the best course of action to him.

He glanced over to the chair where Pietro looked like he was doing his best to melt into the floor. "Sir?"

"Yes, I do believe Mr. Maximoff has something he'd like to say."

Pietro shoved himself to a standing position, and for a second all his muscles tensed, as if he wanted to attack or flee. Then his shoulders slumped, and he turned to face Zen. He cleared his throat. "Look, I just wanted to apologize for the way I used you to... " What little color Pietro had drained from his face as the memories tried to drag him back to that blood-soaked room. Blood he'd ordered spilled. Blood that belonged on his hands. A deep itch burned along the skin of his palms and he wanted nothing more than to go wash them in the hottest water he could stand. It wouldn't be the first time he'd done so since they got here, and he knew it wouldn't be the last.

It took more effort than was pretty for him to continue without fleeing the room to either throw up or scrub a few layers of skin off his hands. "I'm sorry for using you to kill... no to-" his throat locked up on the words, and for the second time tears burned his eyes. He fought them, fought them with terrible bitterness, but they burned down his cheeks, adding to his shame and humiliation.

Pietro didn't know what was worse; that he was crying in front of his enemy, or that Zen showed no reaction to the tears. Part of him waited for Zen to laugh at him; to call him a baby, a loser, a monster. Part of him wanted the cold mask to break, to see something human in Zen's face. To have his tears affect the other mutant in a human way. Still another part of him was grateful for the way Zen appeared to ignore the outburst and his stuttering excuse of an apology. His absolute lack of reaction allowed Pietro to ignore the tears too; let him pretend he wasn't standing here crying like a fool.

Pietro's breath hitched in his throat, but he forced himself to continue. "I'm sorry I forced you back into IX's skin. I shouldn't have-"

Now the blank mask cracked around the edges. Zen's lips pulled down into a practiced frown, but Pietro could have sworn he saw confusion flare in the depths of the ex-assassin's green gaze. "I killed the Doctor to atone for what I did to your sister."

If anything, that made the tears flow faster. "I know, and it was wrong for me to ask you to. I was wrong."

Zen gave him a long look, then offered one of his fake smiles. "I accept your apology." Then he turned to Xavier. "Is there anything else you need from me, sir?"

"No, that will be all."

With that Zen turned and walked out of the room, leaving Pietro standing there with his mouth half open, needing to say more but unable to find the words.

---

Zen started climbing the stairs, weariness pulled at his limbs with every step and he knew he would need another dozen hours of sleep or more to finish recovering. The only question lingering in the back of his mind was if the students and staff would give him that time before the next disaster struck. How this alcove of mutants managed to last so long baffled the ex-mutant-hunter. For all their collective talents, the entire group was profoundly sheltered. Perhaps this latest disaster would be enough to open their eyes to the world around them.

"Wait!"

A hand caught the crook of Zen's elbow and he stiffened to keep from attacking. Even after months as the students punching bag, he still managed to keep his instincts sharp. Turning enough to glance back at his roommate's tear streaked face, Zen sighed. He had no idea what the other boy's problem was, or why he was bothered by what Zen did to the Doctor. After all, the man deserved every ounce of pain he'd managed to wring out of the carcass before he helped Pietro deliver the killing blow. The only regret Zen felt was the limited amount of time he'd had to work with.

Zen watched emotions dance over the speed mutants face too fast for him to decipher. "I'll show you to our room, okay?" Though he hoped that was all Pietro wanted to do, Zen didn't believe it for a second. Not with the twisting storm of emotions still flickering over his features as he stepped past Zen and began leading the way up.

By the time they made it to the room at the end of the hall, Zen braced himself for some sort of onslaught and wasn't disappointed. The room Pietro led them into was sparse, consisting of a set of bunk beds on one wall, and a single bed against the other with a set of drawers at the far end.

Pietro shut the door after Zen entered and the two faced each other. A desperate unhappiness twisted Pietro's face and his gray hair, usually artfully tousled, looked like Kitty used a blender on it. "I shouldn't have used you like that! Okay? It was wrong, everything about what we did was wrong. If I wanted that bastard dead, I should have done it myself. If I wanted to make him scream, then I should have cut him open. You're trying to become something new, and I took that away from you. It was wrong!" The words poured out of Pietro in a burning rush, each breath seemed to come faster than the last and he looked like he was on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

A headache pounded behind Zen's eyes. All he wanted was to rest, not deal with yet another emotionally unstable mutant. If this is what having emotions meant, he'd rather remain how he was. Zen took a breath, centered himself, and lashed out with a closed fist. He judged the punch perfectly, giving it enough force to set Pietro back on his rump, but not hard enough to do any lasting damage. Pietro crashed into the ground and gaped up at Zen in total astonishment.

If it had been Kitty, or any of the other students, he would have handled the situation differently. But Pietro was part of his world, part of the world of blood, and screaming, and death. He understood that punishment cleansed, and that a physical act of contrition could serve well to ease emotional distress.

With Pietro's mutation, Zen knew the boy could have avoided the blow if he wished to, but he allowed it to land. That confirmed Zen's suspicion even as Pietro held one hand to his face and stared up at Zen with wet, wide-eyed shock. "W-what?"

"I've punished you for your act against me since you felt an apology wasn't enough. Do you feel better now?"

Zen watched Pietro's face carefully as his mouth opened, shut, opened and shut again. The overwhelming emotional storm no longer clouded Pietro's face. Satisfaction filled Zen as he held his hand out to his downed roommate. With a hand that shook slightly, Pietro accepted it and allowed Zen to pull him to his feet.

"Now we are even, go to sleep." Then, without bothering to change into pajamas or anything else, Zen crawled up onto the top bunk and flopped onto his stomach. Every muscle ached and called out for rest. He could feel the sluggish flow of his power deep inside himself, barely enough to use in an emergency. Hopefully they would allow him to rest before dropping another catastrophe on his head.

Silence echoed in the room around him, and Zen wanted to ignore it. The throb in his knuckles proved the punch he delivered should have been enough punishment, but he could sense it wasn't. Misery seemed to radiate up from the bed beneath his and he could almost feel Pietro's distressed thoughts beating against him.

---

Pain throbbed in Pietro's jaw, making his whole head ache. An accompanying ache vibrated up his backside from landing on his tailbone, but for all that his thoughts continued circling like hungry sharks as they tore chunks out of his spirit.

Jubilee's and Xavier's words taunted him, rubbed his heart raw with the thought that he was no better than the people who'd captured them and killed his sister. I'm just like them. I used Zen to tear that man apart, and... and...

A sound, the shifting of weight as a body rolled above him cut his thoughts off cleanly. Pietro held his breath; afraid Zen would demand further retribution for what he'd done or condemn him for the monster he was.

"I don't have an appendix. Did you know that?"

The bland words struck Pietro dumb for a moment since they didn't seem to apply to their previous conversation in the slightest. "What?"

"The Doctor wanted to know if I could regrow body parts but didn't want to maim my exterior body by removing a finger or limb in case I could not."

Pietro opened his mouth to tell Zen to shut up, that he didn't want to know. Then he forced his jaws shut. To his knowledge, Zen had never opened up to anyone about what had been done to him at the Doctor's hands. Perhaps it was his duty to listen. This unburdening could be a way to atone for his sins.

The dead words floated down to him in the darkness and held no hint of the emotional pain they should have been laced with. "Since he was unwilling to remove an external body part, he chose to remove an internal one to see what would happen. To utilize my power fully, I have to be awake and aware of the injury." That truth hung like a silent scream between them as Pietro read between the lines. The bastard had strapped Zen down to one of those awful tables, strapped him down and cut him open without anything to numb the pain.

"I had to keep my power suppressed," he continued, "so that my flesh did not heal while he was cutting." A shiver of revolution wracked Pietro at the thought. And he could see it in his mind's eye, no matter how much he didn't want to. He could picture Zen, so tiny and childlike, strapped naked to one of those ice-cold dissection tables, gritting his teeth to keep from screaming as that mad man slowly cut into his abdomen, all the while chattering and making snide jokes. "He removed the organ, and I attempted to regrow it. The attempt failed."

Such bland words, spoken in that dead haunted voice made Pietro's stomach turn. He wished Zen would scream, or cry, or punch the wall. Anything to show that he was a real human being and not a living doll.

"If I'd had the time, I would have done more than take his organs. I would have skinned him. I would have stretched out his suffering for days."

Ice filled Pietro's veins at the words, and he realized that he hadn't been the one to use Zen. No.

Zen used him to get what he wanted. There'd been no need for him to retrieve Pietro. No need to tempt him into the revenge they both wanted. Zen could have killed the man in the blink of an eye. But, like Pietro, Zen wanted to extract his pound of flesh.

The painful, agonizing knot in his stomach finally unclenched at the realization. No matter what people like Jubilee and Xavier thought, he hadn't pushed Zen into doing anything the assassin hadn't wanted to do.

"Goodnight," he whispered up into the darkness.

"Goodnight," the darkness whispered back.