It was a dark and stormy night.

 And something was definitely wrong.

 Professor Charles Xavier could not put his finger on what was wrong, and it annoyed him. Like an itch that can't be scratched, or the name that is just on the tip of your tongue, it nagged at the back of his mind. It wasn't the team: there had been no crises or missions for nearly a week -- an unusual situation, true, but not unwelcome. All the X-Men were in the mansion at the moment -- an even more unusual situation -- but Xavier wasn't surprised. March had come in like the proverbial lion not long ago, and cold wind and persistent rain had driven everyone indoors.

 The involuntary imprisonment was making all of them restless. Jubilee was bored stiff and sulking in her room, Rogue and Gambit were not on speaking terms, and as for Wolverine …! Even good-natured Beast and even-tempered Storm had quarreled; his joke that the nasty weather was her fault was taken amiss, and it had taken much negotiation and several broken plates to calm things down. Xavier found himself almost wishing a dangerous mission would arise just to defuse the powderkeg.

 As the afternoon wore into night, the feeling of "wrongness" grew until it was nearly intolerable. When the Professor found himself reading the same page three times in a row without a word registering, he knew it was time to act before he lost his grip. [Perhaps a link-up with Cerebro will solve the mystery …]

 Xavier gasped, dizzy with the force of the psychic impact. He could not physically feel the pain (thank goodness!), but obviously someone somewhere was hurting -- or being hurt. Cautiously he slipped Cerebro's helmet back on his head, bracing himself this time.

 Xavier concentrated, but he could not "hear" any words nor feel any sensations in this anguished cry, only a jumble of intense emotion. The suffering and hopeless despair in the psychic "voice" was heart-rending, but the victim was "broadcasting" too intensely for Xavier to establish contact or send a message. There was no specific request for help in the cry -- the victim seemed unaware of Xavier's mental monitoring -- but there could be no doubt that help was needed, and soon.

 "Cerebro, can you detect any 'words' in this transmission?"

 NO. SUBJECT IN TOO MUCH DISTRESS TO FORM COHERENT THOUGHT

 "Why are we picking it up?"

 SUBJECT IS MUTANT

 "Mutant? Who?"

 UNKNOWN. MENTAL SIGNATURE NOT IN DATABANK

 [A new mutant in serious trouble,] Xavier thought as he hit the intercom and called "X-Men! Report to the War Room immediately!" [Just like the beginning of a cheap dime novel, yet how many times has it been the prelude to a vital mission? Now, who goes? Sending everyone might be overreacting, but it will give them a chance to work off some of the stress we've all been feeling lately.] While he waited for the team's arrival, his hands flew over controls, trying to get a fix on the source of the distress. A portion of city map materialized on the screen as people came running in, some still adjusting costumes.

 "X-Men, Cerebro and I have just discovered an unknown mutant in serious trouble. From the intensity of the psychic distress, it may be life-threatening trouble. MOVE!"

 Jubilee hesitated. "Uh -- Professor, d'you mean me, too?"

"Yes, you too. You're an X-Man, aren't you? It's time you started earning your keep."

She bristled for a moment, then saw the faint twinkle in Xavier's eye as he turned back to the control panel. "All right!" she squealed as she raced after her companions. Within moments the entire team was strapping down in the Blackbird and Cyclops took off. Xavier patched in the map Cerebro had found.

 "Rough part o' town," Gambit commented.

 "Yeah, we better be loaded fer bear," Wolverine replied.

 "Professor, can you give us any idea what to expect?" Cyclops asked.

 ~"Cerebro says there are no other mutants in the immediate vicinity. The mutant you're looking for is currently undergoing extreme physical and mental trauma, almost as if he or she is being tortured."~

 Jean asked, "Charles, will you link with me psychically? If we use the cry as a homing beacon, maybe together we can trace it to the source."

 ~"Good idea, Jean. Brace yourself, it's very intense."~

 Jean gasped as she caught the link. "Dear heaven! This person is in agony!" Then she steeled herself, concentrating on tracing the source. "There!" she cried, pointing to a spot on the map.

 Cyclops increased speed as much as he dared; it was difficult to see in the gathering gloom and heavy rain, and gusts of wind buffeted the jet. "Any clues on the situation, Jean?" he asked.

 "I only sense two minds, and I've never touched either before. One is human, so full of rage and frustration that I can't sense anything else. All I'm picking up from the mutant mind, the one in trouble, is feelings and emotions -- there seems to be something blocking his or her actual thoughts. All I can sense is intense pain and terror, and a feeling of being hopelessly trapped."

 "Bummer …" Jubilee made a face.

 "Don't worry, kid," Wolverine told her. "Help is on the way, an' I been spoilin' fer some action fer days." He extended his claws for emphasis.

 Jean pressed her hands to her temples. "We're getting closer … ah! That building, right there!" She pointed to a run-down motel, and Cyclops set the Blackbird down in a vacant lot across the street. It was full dark now, and streets were deserted, so they attracted no unwelcome attention as they disembarked and dashed through the pouring rain. Jubilee popped the lock on the back service entrance with a quick energy burst, and the team slipped inside. They heard no screams or other sounds of struggle or distress, so Jean focused again on the source, shivering at the pain she was picking up. <At least one floor up,> she sent to the team, and they tiptoed up a flight of stairs.

 Wolverine sniffed and stifled a cough. "Somethin' sure stinks up here," he whispered.

 Then, at the far end of the hallway, they heard a heavy thud, a bellowed string of obscenities, and a sharp, savage, whip-like crack.

 "Stupid little BITCH!" a harsh male voice shouted, then came another loud snap, and yet another. "Ya think ya c'n get away with shit like THAT?" The yell was punctuated by several more cracks. Quietly the team moved down the dimly lit corridor, their footsteps muffled by the threadbare carpet. Jean's face was white as she "heard" mental shrieks of agony in her mind, but strangely not in her ears.

 "Dammit, I'm gettin' tired o' this bullshit!" The male voice, plus another crack, came from behind the endmost door. "How many times do I gotta beat the fight outta ya 'fore ya …!"

 It was the last straw. Cyclops blasted the door plus a sizable portion of the wall, revealing a dingy room choked with cigarette smoke. It reeked of other things as well: cheap whisky, sour sweat, rancid vomit and worse. It was so foul that Wolverine staggered for a moment, gagging and coughing. Through the blue-gray haze they saw a heavyset, sandy-haired man wearing ragged jeans and a filthy T-shirt, with a half-smoked cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. There were deep scratches on one unshaven cheek and blood on his right hand, which gripped a heavy leather belt. A small, huddled figure, ominously still, lay sprawled at his feet. The man stared in confusion at the row of costumed figures standing where the wall had been; then his face twisted in berserk fury, and his bloodshot eyes blazed as he faced the X-Men. "Whaddaya want, ya weirdoes?" he shouted, brandishing the belt in his hand. "Tryin' fer a piece o' my action, huh? I'll give ya action!" His foot lashed in a vicious kick aimed at Cyclops' kneecap, which he barely managed to dodge. Gambit darted into the room, and the man swung the belt at him like a whip, lashing it right in his face. The Cajun avoided the stroke, but the man quickly changed tactics and threw a left-handed punch that connected, sending Gambit reeling. Again he swung the belt, this time towards Wolverine's ankles, but Rogue intercepted his arm and threw him clear across the room. He hit the wall with a plaster-shattering crash and slumped to the floor, out cold. Storm opened a window and summoned a breeze to clear the smoke and smell from the room, while Wolverine used their adversary's own belt to bind his hands.

 "Oh, dear heaven …" Jean whispered as she stared in frozen horror at the huddled figure on the floor. It was a young girl, wearing only a brief, ragged, shapeless garment caked with grime. She was thin to the point of emaciation, with arms and legs like matchsticks and ribs plainly visible. Her brown skin was smeared with filth, spotted with bruises and sores, and crisscrossed with bloody welts. One leg was askew and obviously broken. There was a dog's choke-chain collar around her neck; the attached leash had been used to tie her hands behind her back so tightly that a deep groove had been carved in the swollen flesh. A careful flick of Wolverine's claws freed her, but she did not move. Jean could no longer "feel" her suffering, and Beast apprehensively knelt down to feel for a pulse.

 "She is unconscious, but alive -- OhmiGod!" he blurted, pointing a trembling finger at the girl's right hand. It was purplish-black, grotesquely swollen and distorted, and dripping blood. Through the blood they could clearly see the white glint of protruding bone. Jubilee retched at the sight, then turned away and was thoroughly and unpleasantly sick. Nearly vomiting herself, Jean slid an arm around Jubilee's heaving shoulders to steady her.

 "You filthy BASTARD!" Wolverine lunged, claws extended, and it took much of Rogue's inhuman strength and all of Storm's persuasion to keep him from tearing the unconscious man to shreds. As they struggled to calm him, Beast tapped his communicator.

 "Professor, rescue has been accomplished. Would you contact Dr. Katherine O'Dell and arrange for her to meet us at the mansion? This case is far outside my area of expertise. Also, notify the police; we have an indisputable and severe case of assault and battery, criminal neglect, and child abuse. They will need to send an investigative team here --" he gave the address "-- and a medical team to the mansion. We shall be returning momentarily." He signed off, then addressed the team: "Now, we cannot all wait here for the police; somehow we must get this poor child to the infirmary as quickly as possible. Storm, normally I would ask you or Rogue to fly her back, but she should not be touched. There may be internal injuries, and I am reluctant to examine her further without the proper facilities."

 "Hank, how about this?" Jean asked, and telekinetically lifted the girl about a foot.

 "Ah got a bettuh idea," Rogue put in. "Jeannie hon, you carry her. Ah'll carry you, an' Storm c'n fly back with us t'keep the rain off. Beast, Ah'll carry you too, so's ya c'n get t'work on her right away."

 Gambit took off his overcoat and tenderly laid it over the girl's half-naked body. "It be cold out dere," he said softly, his usually flippant voice filled with pity.

 "An elegantly simple plan," Hank approved. "Let us be swift, but careful. Her life is in our hands."

 Two hours later (though it seemed much longer), Beast, Storm and Rogue were still hard at work in the infirmary with Dr. O'Dell. Jean had volunteered to help as well, but sensing the girl's anguish had left her white-faced and shaken, so she joined the rest of the team, including Professor Xavier, who were gathered in the rec room. The police had just left, after taking pictures and statements, and they were all unwinding with cocoa and cookies and small talk. Both the encounter and the girl's desperate plight had affected the X-Men deeply, and despite all efforts to turn the conversation to other topics, it kept coming back to the girl, her captor, her appalling condition, and the mysteries they presented.

 "An interesting affair," Xavier commented. "Although the mission could have been accomplished without the entire team, you all participated to some degree. I'm very pleased with your cooperation, especially after the internal tensions of the past few days."

 "I simply can't figure out why we didn't discover her earlier!" Cyclops looked baffled. "We do routine scans …"

 "Cerebro's range is somewhat limited with unfamiliar mutants," Jean replied. "Perhaps she and that -- that fiend only recently arrived in this area." She shivered and squeezed Scott's hand, and he put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

 "There's more to it than that," the Professor stated. "I attempted a mental probe of her surface thoughts and found it completely blocked by incredibly strong psychic shields."

 "Huh?" Jubilee leaned forward, suddenly intrigued. "I thought only 'paths like you 'n' Jean had shields -- so ya don't read us all the time."

 "No, Jubilee, non-telepaths and even normal humans can and do have shields also. They vary in strength: you and Hank have almost no shields, whereas hers are so strong that I needed Cerebro's and Jean's help just to find her, and only succeeded because she was in such distress that she was mentally 'screaming'. Wolverine has very strong shields as well."

 The Canadian looked smug. "Yeah, kid, you c'n learn t'keep people from pokin' around inside yer head. Repeatin' a nursery rhyme over 'n' over is one easy way."

 "Like gettin' an advertising jingle stuck in your head?" Jubilee asked.

 "Exactly," Cyclops confirmed. "And shields can get stronger and more selective with practice. You know Jean and I share a psychic link, but we've also learned to block each other out for privacy, or when we need to concentrate on something. This girl probably developed hers out of sheer self-defense."

 "Self-defense? I don't understand, he wasn't a 'path."

 "'Hiding' behind a mental wall is a common way of coping with an intolerable situation," Xavier explained. "Since the victim can't escape physically, he or she escapes mentally, cutting themselves off from the outside world. However, if the retreat is too far or for too long, they may become trapped behind their barrier, unwilling or unable to 'come out' when their situation changes, a condition called 'catatonia'. Some poor unfortunates never recover -- many Holocaust victims were driven permanently insane by their ordeal. We can only hope that this poor child is luckier."

"How y' t'ink dat vache get hold o' her in th' first place?" Gambit wondered, then winced and dabbed at a swollen cut on one cheekbone where the man's fist had caught him.

 Xavier lifted an eyebrow at Gambit's terminology, but replied calmly, "Answers will have to wait a while, but now that she is here with us, there will be plenty of time."

 "If she survives," Wolverine growled.

 "I sincerely hope so," Xavier answered. "However, her will to survive must be incredibly strong to have endured such ghastly mistreatment, and she's in good hands now. I know you're all eager for news; so am I, but I don't want to interrupt them for progress reports. Jubilee, you've been sick to your stomach and it's getting late; perhaps you should …"

 "NO!" Jubilee interrupted. "Professor, you sent me on a mission today! You can't send me ta bed like a little kid! My stomach is fine now, and I'm so worried I wouldn't be able ta sleep anyway."

 "Well …"

 "Please?"

 "All right," the Professor conceded.

 The lounge door popped open to reveal a tired and worried-looking Storm. "Do you need me?" Jean asked her, starting to rise.

 "Not at the moment, my friend; you need your rest more than we need your help."

 "Well, don't hesitate to call me if you need another pair of hands. How is she?"

 "Saying 'she's in very bad shape' is an understatement," Storm reported. "We are having difficulty stabilizing her; she needs another transfusion, and our supply is running low. Logan …"

 He was already on his feet. "My healin' factor don't always help, y'know."

Storm managed a weary smile. "For once, I am asking you not because of your healing mutation, but because your blood type is the closest match. I know how much you dislike needles …"

 "My feelin's ain't important when a kid's life is on the line. Just hook me up 'n' start siphonin'." Setting down his mug, Logan followed Storm out of the rec room. Half an hour later he returned with another pitcher of cocoa, three more boxes of cookies, and a Band-Aid on one arm. "Looks like it'll be a long night," he commented, setting down his load. "Anyone wanna help me rustle up some more grub?"

 "Something more substantial than cookies might be a good idea," Jean suggested as she and Cyclops preceded him on the way to the kitchen.

 Two large pizzas and a cheese-and-fruit tray later, they settled down to continue the wait. Time dragged, and conversation petered out. Remy played solitaire, then changed to gin rummy when Xavier and Scott joined in. Logan alternately shot pool and paced restlessly; Jean and Jubilee played checkers for a while, then watched TV until the younger girl dozed in a reclining chair, despite her earlier protests.

 It was long past midnight when Storm, Rogue and Beast finally came in. They all looked utterly exhausted, and the Professor insisted they eat and drink something before they gave their report. "Has Dr. O'Dell already gone home?" he inquired.

 "Due to the lateness of the hour, I took the liberty of offering her the use of one of our guest rooms, plus the telephone so that she could contact her spouse," Beast replied between bites of pizza. "She accepted, and has already retired. What did Our Men in Blue have to relate? We have been too involved with our patient to be concerned with the broader picture."

 "It isn't pretty," Cyclops answered.

 "Whut's lyin' in the infirmary ain't purty eithuh," Rogue said, setting her cocoa aside. "Might as well git all the dirty laundry aired at once."

 "Well, the police ran his ID through their computer. He's wanted in several states in the South and Southwest for fraud -- bounced checks, skipping out of motels without paying, things like that," Cyclops reported. "According to the motel register, he checked in about ten days ago, and only registered and paid for himself. The manager didn't know the girl was there, so he must've sneaked her in somehow. The police found his pickup truck in the parking lot, searched it and found all sorts of incriminating items like fake license plates. Apparently he'd switch plates to avoid being picked up. There was also a batch of posters advertising 'Come See "The Thing!"' with pictures of some weird animal with a human face."

 "WHAT?" Beast's jaw dropped in shock. "Are you saying he exhibited the child like a sideshow freak? I thought that sort of barbaric exploitation had gone the way of blackface minstrel shows!"

Cyclops sighed. "It gets worse, Hank. There was an animal crate in the back of the truck, with indications that she'd been locked up inside it, like a cage, for long periods of time. And his food supplies included several cans of dog food." He frowned, and his voice grew hard. "The only explanation I can think of is that he was treating her as though she were an animal, though for the life of me I can't see why."

 "Wuss than an animal." Rogue's voice was full of venom. "Ah wouldn't treat a roach that bad. She wuz filthy! That rag she had on wuz crawlin' with bugs, an' we hadda delouse her on top o' everythin' else. Po' thing is skinny as a rail, too. If he fed her on dawg food, he sho' didn't give her enough. Ah bet she ain't et a d-decent meal in a long time." She pushed her plate away with a guilty expression, folded her arms on the table and buried her face in them.

 "The rest of our report may clarify some of these mysteries," Beast said. "I have both good news and bad. First, the good news: she has stabilized, and her life is no longer in peril. Her spine and spinal cord are intact, and there are no serious internal injuries. She has a mild concussion, but there is no obvious brain damage. Perplexingly but fortuitously, there are no signs of any sexual molestation." There was a collective sigh of relief. "Best of all, thanks to Dr. O'Dell's surgical skill we will not have to amputate her hand, though its function may be impaired. Her dental development implies she is older than we first thought; her small size is misleading. In my opinion, with which Dr. O'Dell agrees, she is in her early to mid-teens, and may be Hispanic or Latino in origin. She has two overt physical mutations: first, she has no vocal cords whatever."

 "None?" they all chorused in astonishment.

 Beast nodded. "None," he confirmed. "Nor is there any indication that she ever had any. Unlike most mutants, she was born this way, just as our friend Nightcrawler was. As far as can be determined while unconscious, her hearing seems normal, but she is congenitally alalic: totally incapable of speech."

 "A mute and a mutant," Xavier said thoughtfully. "That could explain why there were no words in her psychic cry of distress."

 "And why we didn't hear any screams or groans," Cyclops added. "Maybe that's why he treated her like an animal: since she couldn't talk, he thought she was an animal."

"Talkin' don' make y' human," Gambit broke in with a scowl. "Parrots talk, an' dey ain't human. Not bein' able t'talk don' mean y' not human, either. Deaf people can't usually talk, but dey still people, non? Anyway, y' said she got two mutations, Henri. What de other one?"

 "Her eyes are most unusual, far larger than normal and atypical in structure." Despite his fatigue, Hank had fallen into "lecture mode" and his friends braced themselves for the barrage. "The visible portion of the human eye consists of the sclera or 'white', the iris and the pupil. The iris -- the colored section of the eye -- contains muscles which expand or contract the pupil according to light level. In our patient's case, those muscles are utterly nonexistent -- she possesses no iris at all, so her pupils are permanently expanded. And, as with her equally-absent vocal cords, there is no evidence she ever possessed them. Her eyes also contain the 'tapetum lucidum', the reflective layer at the back of the eye which creates the 'glowing eyes' seen in so many crepuscular creatures. In our patient, this concatenation of conditions probably indicates extreme photophobia as well as a high degree of nocturnal visual acuity …"

 "Beast," Jubilee finally interrupted wearily, "English, please?"

 Storm smiled thinly. "He means she should be able to see in the dark extremely well; however, daylight may be very uncomfortable for her. We will have to wait until she regains consciousness and is somewhat recovered before we can do any testing."

 "Big eyes 'n' no voice ain't no excuse fer treatin' someone like dirt," Wolverine growled. "Cut t'the chase 'n' give us the bad news, Storm."

 Storm's fists clenched, her face darkened and there was a faint rumble of thunder. "She is severely malnourished and half starved, which is why she is so small," she began. There was an angry edge to her voice, and when Beast put a comforting hand on her shoulder, the X-Men could see that his eyes were full of tears. Thunder rumbled again, and Storm fought to control herself before continuing. "From the number and age of the bruises and scars, she has been repeatedly and brutally beaten over an extended period of time, possibly for years. There is a crack in her jaw, from either a punch or a very hard slap. Her left upper arm and collarbone are broken, the shoulder and elbow are dislocated, there is a crack in the left radius and the wrist is severely sprained. Her left leg is broken in several places; there are four broken ribs and two cracked ones. The police physician thinks she was probably thrown against a wall and kicked in the side."

 There was an appalled silence around the conference table. Rogue lifted her head from her folded arms and added, "She's all ovuh welts, too. 'Membuh the belt that creep wuz holdin'? He wuz whippin' her with it, beatin' her like -- like an animal." She sniffled, trembling and fighting tears; Gambit handed her a handkerchief and patted her shoulder. "Po' lil' gal … c-couldn't even scream … b-but her right hand's the wust. The b-bones are all smashed ta smithereens, l-like he done s-s-stomped on it. An' her f-finguhs … her p-po' lil' f-f-finguhs …" Rogue's voice broke, and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

 Storm's voice was glacial. "The fingertips of her right hand have been deliberately burned with a cigarette." There were several horrified gasps; Jubilee blanched and looked as if she might throw up again.

 "WHY DIDN'T YA LET ME KILL HIM?" Wolverine roared, half out of his chair.

 "Because I would have beaten you to it," a quiet voice replied. They all turned and stared, for it was Beast -- dear, gentle Beast, the physician, the pacifist -- who had spoken.

 The silence grew awkward, and Xavier finally cleared his throat to break the tension. "Child abuse is an unfortunate fact of life, but one so repulsive that we prefer to ignore it unless it is forcibly brought to our attention. I know intellectually that innocent children are brutalized daily, but it makes a far greater impact when the result is lying in one's own infirmary. I dread the day we must finally stand before our Maker to answer for the way we mistreat our children. For now, you may be assured that I will do all I can to ensure that that brute is prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Meanwhile, our guest will need a great deal of healing, mental and emotional as well as physical. We'll have to be very gentle and patient with her; kindness will be a key factor. Rogue, Storm, Jean -- you ladies will have to do the nursing."

 "Why can't I help?" Jubilee demanded in a sullen tone.

 "Ya willin' ta empty bedpans, sugah?" Rogue replied gently, and the younger girl squirmed.

 Ignoring the exchange, Xavier continued: "Since her abuser was male, it's reasonable to assume she is afraid of men, and I think it best that we men stay out of the infirmary until further notice unless absolutely necessary. Beast, I assume you gave her painkillers?"

 "We also administered a profusion of antibiotics and vitamins, and Dr. O'Dell left detailed orders for the care of her hand," Hank replied, producing a sheet of paper. "Now, we have a delicate path to walk. Her extensive injuries demand a high level of sedation, and normally I would recommend keeping her heavily sedated for several days. However, extreme caution with dosages is crucial. Her body mass is so slight that she could easily become addicted, or suffer an overdose. Also, she must eat, and soon, for her malnourished condition is as great a danger as her other injuries, and intravenous feeding is inadequate. Therefore, we adjusted her medication to allow her to awaken around nine or ten tomorrow morning."

 "She'll be very frightened and confused when she wakes up," Xavier said. "Jean, I hate to ask more of you after the stress of feeling her pain, but I think you're the best choice to be with her then."

 "I heartily concur," Beast agreed.

 Jean nodded. "I was planning on it."

 "Good," the Professor approved. "If you can block out her pain, your empathic abilities will help you to calm her and begin winning her trust. As Beast has indicated, it is critical that you get some food into her. Indeed, food may be another factor in gaining her confidence. It is equally critical that we find some way to communicate with her, and for her to communicate with us. Any ideas as to methods are welcome, so put your imaginations to work. I pray she understands English; she's suffered so much that I find myself very reluctant to violate the privacy of her mind. I will if I must, though with shields like hers it will be incredibly difficult. Heavens, after the way she's been abused she may not even be sane." He sighed. "It's been a rough day for all of us, so no drills tomorrow. Jubilee, you may sleep as late as you wish. Off to bed now, all of you!"