Well, here's Chapter Eight, true believers, of the serialized melodrama
that is Gerard Tolken's life. Originally, I had planned for this to be
the conclusion to the tale, but some brainstorming over break
disillusioned me of that idea. So, you'll have to put up with my posts
and the angst-ridden growlings of my protaginist for a bit longer...
Enjoy! Oh yeah -- there are actual X-Men in this installment!

THE HAMMER AND THE CROSS
Chapter Eight "Southbound Pachyderm"
by Jim Cannon

       The Abomination had left, outnumbered and beaten, leaving the
gathered heroes -- Morning Star, Mars, Nightwing, Siphon, and the
mercenary known as the Taskmaster -- alone in the massive room with
sixteen children encased in giant testubes.
       Dick Grayson, Nightwing, was relieved. The Abomination possessed
enough raw power to demolish the small group of superhumans but,
against Siphon's seemingly indomitable spirit, the Abomination's taste
for carnage dulled. He departed seeking an escape route from the
underground complex that was the Wizard's lair.
       But, as soon as the gamma-spawned behemoth disappeared from view
view, Siphon had crumpled to the floor like a rag-doll.
       Instantly, Mars was at the big Avenger's side. The exo-skeleton
of her armor gave her more than enough power to roll the 700 pound man
over, and check on his health. Dick moved quickly, kneeling at the
woman's side to inspect the comatose Siphon. He didn't look good. His
normally healthy pallor had faded to an ashen gray, and his breaths
came short and shallow. Dick lifted an eyelid -- Siphon's pupils were
beginning to dilate.
      Still, there were other things to consider besides Siphon's
health. Like where the Abomination was headed -- perhaps to free Selene
and the Wizard? Or to rally the unknown quantity of mercenaries and
technicians that seemed to swarm through the halls of the complex? And
what about the children, the very beings the heroes were here to save?
Could that goop they were floating in have any harmful side effects?
And how long would the Taskmaster continue to co-operate?
      All these thoughts and more flashed through the razor keen mind
of the young vigilante in the span of a heartbeat.
      "Mars, there's nothing we can do for him now. I'll look after
him. You and Morning Star have to follow the Abomination." The woman
stared at him, but her expression was unreadable, hidden under the helm
of her armor. "Make sure he leaves, " Dick added, " and doesn't attempt
to free his allies."
      Morning Star tugged at Mars' elbow. "C'mon, Tasha," she said
softly. "Gerry's a tough cookie. We've both seen him pull through
worse than this. But he won't have a chance if we don't give him one."
After a moment's hesitation, Mars rose and headed out the door with
Morning Star.
     "Take care of him," she told Dick. He nodded, but she was already
gone, heading off to herd the Abomination away.
     Dick turned to the Taskmaster. "Do you know how to work those...
things?" he asked, gesturing at the massive cylinders that dominated
the room, thick cables snaking from their heads to connect with the
vaulted ceiling.
     The mercenary nodded. "I watched the techies load them in," he
said in a voice that was deep and strong, incongruous with the skull
mask he wore. Dick always expected him to sound like the Crypt-Keeper;
instead he sounded like Sean Connery without the accent. As for
watching the "techies," Dick knew that was all that was required. The
Taskmaster possessed photographic reflexes, he could copy any move or
action he saw, and it was a talent that, in the eyes of some, made the
man more dangerous than Dick's old foe Slade Wilson, better known to
the world as Deathstroke the Terminator.
       "Then get them out of there," Dick grunted. Taskmaster turned
off his energy blade and placed it on his belt, heading for the master
controls for the tiny cells.
       Dick wondered what he should be doing. Given a free moment, his
mind wandered into idle territory. *So her real name is Tasha. Wonder
if that is short for something...*
       His errant mind was reined in by a feeble tug at his elbow. Dick
looked down. Siphon's eyes were open, and he was struggling to say
something. Dick leaned in close, straining to hear, secretly horrified
that the huge man was reduced to such a poor state.
       "Must. . .contact. . . Avengers," he gasped. "Priority code. . .
AA-23. . . Avenger. . . down," his voice trailed off, his hand dropping
to the floor as he slipped once more into unconsciousness. Dick waited 
a moment, making sure Siphon still breathed, then turned to the
Taskmaster.
      The blue and orange garbed mercenary stood at the control panel,
white gloved hands flying over an array of buttons and switches. Dick
started in spite of himself when the fans, hidden in the dark vastness
of the ceiling, started up. A moment later, he felt the floor thrum as
massive engines whirred to life. Dick watched in fascination as plate
sized openings appeared in the base of each cylinder, and the strange
glowing ooze began to spray out onto the floor.
      Thick pools of sludge began to accrete around the ring of tubes,
spreading out into the room. A noxious stench wafted up from the goo,
but was quickly blown away by the spinning fans. As the bizarre liquid
began to flow close to Siphon's prone form, Dick valiantly tried to
push the comatose Avenger's body out of the way, but was unsuccessful.
The glowing sea of ooze lapped up against Siphon's bare feet, but
seemed to do no harm. Dick rose and approached the Taskmaster.
      "What is this shit?," he asked, being careful to breath through
his mouth.
      "Not sure," the mercenary grunted. "Some kind of narcotic for
sure. But like the -- whaddayacallit -- amniotic fluid in a womb. So
they don't have to breath real air." Taskmaster hit another series of
buttons. Dick heard the whine of hydraulics, and the glass walls of the
man-sized testubes began to descend.
      The children were free. Mission accomplished.
      Almost.
      "Taskmaster, where are the other sixteen children?" Dick knew
that over thirty teenagers had been kidnapped as fodder for the Wizard'
Wizard's bizarre experiment. But only half their number were present in
this room.
     Taskmaster turned to Dick. "I set them free. I left them at the
American embassy back in Rio. Hell, by this time they're probably
already home." Dick stared at him a moment, wanting to believe him, but
finding it difficult.
     Taskmaster's voice hardened. "Why would I lie to you, Nightwing?
Who would it profit? Or do you still think this is all part of some
elaborate sting?"
     Dick shook his head. "No," he said. He'd trust Taskmaster just
one more time. He owed the man that, at least. "Now, tell me, do you
have a communications set up? I need your help to call the Avengers.
     Taskmaster stood stiffly. "And then?"
     "And then," Dick grinned ruefully, "you can follow the
Abomination."
     *Not the way Bruce would play this,* Dick thought. *But then, I'm
not Bruce.*

************************************************************************

     I gained consciousness for a brief while an indeterminate amount 
of time later. I opened my eyes, and saw Hank Pym leaning over me, his
hands quickly moving against the ragged wound in my side. He seemed to
notice my return to the land of the living. He turned to me, mouthing
something indistinct, but by then I was fading away, descending into
the whirlpool of my subconcious.

     A little while later, I snapped awake, instantly alert. My muscles
tensed, and I sat up -- surprised I had been in a prone position -- and
took in my surroundings. I sat in a small room, barely an alcove
really, surrounded by various articles of medical use. An I.V. line
snaked from the bag over my shoulder to connect to the back of my hand.
My side had been cleaned and bandaged tightly. But it still burned with
pain, and my abdomen felt like it was lacking something. *A pound of
flesh,* I reminded myself. *The Wizard took a pound of flesh out of my
side.*
     Any normal person would have been hearsed by such a wound, but
Cygnus had built me well. And Hank Pym had patched me up well. I would
live a bit longer.
     I felt like shit, though. My arms and legs were weak, drained of
vigor. My gut felt like a lead cauldron, and my head was full of
cotton. I shook my head, but froze as a dull pounding began in the base
of my skull and my vision blurred. I waited, silently counting to
twenty. Gradually the pain subsided and my vision cleared.
     Gingerly I picked myself up and slid off the bed, tearing the I.V.
out of my hand as I did so. I was still dressed only in the blue
spandex pants of my combat suit. My shirt and jacket had been shredded
long before, and my boots were surrendered up for the comfort of Tasha.
     Thick headed, I found the door, and stepped out of the room, into
the wide sitting area of an Avengers quinjet. Tasha, Teresa, Nightwing,
and Hawkeye sat in a circle of chairs, mugs of coffee steaming in their
hands. Through a set of windows over Hawkeye's shoulder, I saw the
gorgeous blue of a mid-morning sky.
     Tasha stood up quickly when I appeared in the door. "Gerry, get
back in there!" she demanded. "You'll reopen the wound."
     Hawkeye took a swig of coffee, thoughtfully keeping his mouth
shut. Nightwing and Teresa gave me looks of concern. Teresa opened her
mouth, most likely to agree with Tasha, but I gave her a look and she
shut her mouth.
     I pulled a chair over and sat down. Tasha still stood, a stormy
expression on her face. Hawkeye was looking out the window. Nightwing
seemed to be torn between aiding Tasha and telling her to calm down.
     I spoke in a voice thick with pain and drugs. "The kids?" Even
that small made my head ring with pain.
     Hawkeye answered. "We converted the cargo space into a little
post-op center. The kids are unconscious, but stable. At least, that's
what Pym says. Another twenty minutes, and we'll be landing in New
York. We'll get 'em home, don't worry."
      I nodded. I wondered how long I had been unconscious, if we were
already this close to New York City. Avengers quinjets were supersonic,
faster than the Concorde with the wind at its back, but I was certainly
under for a few hours. Probably more.
      "Tasha, sit down," I said. "I'm not going anywhere." Tasha looked
unhappy, but took a seat. Hawkeye grinned behind his mug.
      Nightwing started to talk, then, filling me in on what had
transpired while I was comatose. He was able to send a message to the
Avengers, while Teresa and Tasha brought Selene and the Wizard to the
lab, where they could be watched more closely. Then the three of them
fortified the room until the Avengers showed up and pacified what was
left of the Wizard's minions. It seemed most of the supervillain's army
followed the Abomination and Taskmaster's lead; they headed for the
hills. Hawkeye looked particularly disappointed that the Taskmaster
escaped -- they tussled a few years back, and the Taskmaster escaped
then too.
      When the Avengers got there, Pym took care of the kids, making
sure they were unharmed, and then field-dressed my wound. After that,
everyone was loaded onto the quinjet, SHIELD was notified of the base's
presence, and we departed. After all the trouble of the past few days,
it seemed terribly ironic to me that everything began to run smoothly
only _after_ I passed out.
      As Nightwing finished, the pilot -- the Wasp -- notified us that
we were landing in New York. As she did, I turned to Hawkeye and said,
"I need to borrow a quinjet."
      Hawkeye choked on a swallow of coffee, then started coughing.
When he mastered himself, he said, "What?" He drew it out into two
syllables.
     I spoke slowly, both for his benefit and mine. "This wound won't
heal on its own. I need to see the X-Men and have the mental blocks on
my powers removed. And I need to get there quickly. I need a quinjet,"
I repeated.
     Hawkeye looked at Tasha. She shrugged. "I don't -- " he started,
but Nightwing cut in. "I can probably get you a Titans jet."
     Hawkeye looked balefully at Nightwing. "No way. Siphon's an
Avenger; he'll use a quinjet." He looked at the bottom of his mug for a
moment. "Now I just have to convince Hank," he said.
     That proved to be rather easy. Hank Pym still remembered how
valuable my assistance was when the Grandmaster kidnapped the rest of
the Avengers, and the Masters of Evil were making trouble in Manhattan.
    Pym loaned me a smaller, five seat model. That was fine with me;
all I needed was transportation anyway. "Just bring it back in one
piece," he said with a smile. I just nodded. I felt too weak to
respond. I did feel a bit guilty leaving so abruptly, but I figured the
children were better off in the Avengers' hands than mine. They'd see
the mutant children reached their homes.
      Nightwing departed quickly, wishing me luck. He talked to Tasha
for a moment, while Teresa said goodbye. She was taking her sister
Stephanie back to Atlanta.
      And then it was just Tasha and I. We stood silently for a moment.
      "You're not flying in your condition," she said, laying one hand
lightly on my stomach.
      "Wouldn't have tried to," I grimaced. She gave me a slight smile,
and then helped me into the co-pilot's seat of the quinjet. She would need
directions.

      A short span of time later, Tasha, piloting the borrowed Avengers
hardware, brought us to Westchester New York and the small town of
Salem Centre, keeping the altitude high enough so that any viewers down
below would guess we were an ordinary craft. I felt weaker than before,
but gave Tasha as precise directions as I could. She shot me several
worried glances, particularly when I began to slur my words, but
concentrated on flying.
      My gut felt like fire, and my head must have swollen up to twice
the size of a basketball. My tongue was thick and unwieldy. My hands
were leaden wights at the ends of my wrists. But somehow, I struggled
through the haze and ensured Tasha knew where she was going.
      "Right, right, that pond down there," I said, half lifting my arm
in a feeble attempt at pointing. "On the southern bank, about a
forty-six meters from the big birch tree is the entryway to the hanger.
hanger."
       "Gerry," Tasha groused, "there's a blank wall there."
       "S'illusion," I told her. At least, I hoped it was an illusion.
If Xavier was using his borrowed Shi'Ar technology to make a solid wall
where the hanger door should have been. . . well, I wouldn't have to
worry about my powers any longer.
       Tasha, despite my surely delirious state, trusted me. She flew
straight at the wall.
        And through it.
       I allowed myself a brief smile, while Tasha found a spot to park
the quinjet. Out of the porthole, I saw the Blackbird, all gleaming
metal, sitting quietly in its accustomed spot. That meant the X-Men
were home. *Hmph. The more, the merrier, I guess.*
      Tasha unbuckled herself and keyed open the door. With her help, I
stood up, and leaned heavily against as we headed out into the chrome
and steel of the hidden hanger.
      "What kind of reception can we expect?" Tasha asked, her arm
wrapped around my side.
      "A friendly one, I hope."
      "You hope?!" Tasha said in mock-outrage, recognizing immediately
that my tone had not been serious. Old friends have that gift.
      As we made it to the end of the steps, I became aware of three
figures entering the room from a doorway in front of us. The first was
a raw-boned, lanky individual with a shock of brown hair on his head,
and a chin that hadn't seen a razor in quite a while. Behind him was a
slimly built man garbed in blue and yellow togs. A visor hid his eyes
and allowed him to to a mean Cylon impression. Following quick on his
heels was a powerfully built black man in a dark jumpsuit who waved an
energy rifle at us.
      "Tasha, allow me to introduce Gambit, Cyclops, and Bishop." Her
eyes were a bit wide, watching Bishop's rifle rather closely.
      The X-Men observed us for a moment, until something like
recognition flashed across the lower half of Scott Summers' face. He
stepped forward. "Gerard Tolken," he said in that deep, commanding
voice of his. "I'm sorry -- I didn't recognize you right off. Are you
wounded?"
      I opened my mouth to answer, but Tasha rushed in. "He's dying on
his feet, and he needs Professor X to save him. Where the hell is he?"
      Summers looked startled, but, always cool under pressure,
answered quickly. "He'll meet us in the med-lab. Gambit -- go get a
room prepped. Bishop -- you and I will help the young lady here get our
young friend inside." Gambit scampered off while Bishop holstered his
weapon and took my arm. I tried not to lean against him too much; he
had no exoskeleton like Tasha.
     Summers helped us into a short hallway that proved to be a large
elevator. "We usually use this when a team member comes back from a
mission with a medical emergency," he explained as he hit a button and
the elevator rose. As he finished, the doors on the other side of the
elevator slid open.
     We stepped into the med-lab, and the three of them guided me over
to a gurney. I slid into it. It groaned under my weight. I looked aroun
around, noticed clean, shining walls and furniture, as well as a
sterile floor. An array of medical machinary was scattered about the
room; all it was missing was the machine that goes "ping." And Beast,
of course. I wondered where Dr. McCoy was if he wasn't in his lab?
     "He's in Colorado at the moment, but that is hardly important
now," said a voice at my elbow. Professor Xavier had arrived. He looked
concerned, and I could feel the tendrils of his mind glancing against
mine. "Gerard, whoever did this to you was a master. This will be
complicated. . . Scott, get him to a bed. He's going to pass out soon."
As Summers, Bishop, and Tasha wheeled me into a side room, my vision
began to grow fuzzy.
      Xavier was right. I passed out.

***********************************************************************

      When Gerry's eyes slid closed and his body relaxed, Tasha paled.
She glanced at the Professor. "He'll be alright Miss Hawthorne. You
were wise to bring him here."
      "Actually, it was his idea," Tasha said, at the same time
wondering how she could remain so calm at a time like this. Cyclops and
Bishop struggled to lift Gerry's 700 pounds of dead -- no, no, don't
think that -- weight onto the nearby hospital bed. Tasha moved quickly,
brushing them away and lifting him up herself. She laid him gently down
on the bed and stepped back.
       "Thank you, Miss Hawthorne. Now, if the three of you will depart
depart, I can take care of Gerard."
       "Of course, Professor," said the two X-Men almost in unison.
They turned to go, but Tasha hung back. Gerry needed her here. . .
       "Not really, Miss Hawthorne. In fact, your thoughts may distract
me at a critical moment. And time is of the essence. Please -- enjoy
the hospitality of the X-Men, and I will notify you when Gerard is
recovered."
       Tasha looked at the telepathic paraplegic, turned without a
word and stepped out of the room. Cyclops stood by the doorway, and as
soon as Tasha exited the room, he quietly shut the door. "Lets go
upstairs," he suggested. "Are you comfortable in that?" he asked.
        Tasha looked down at herself. She was still garbed in her
battle armor, though she left her helm in the quinjet. "I'm okay," she
said, allowing Cyclops to lead her away from her best friend, as he lay
dying in the next room.

***********************************************************************

      The smell of cigar smoke awakened me. I opened my eyes carefully,
expecting to be assaulted by aches, pains, and the raw, empty feeling
in my side. But nothing of the sort happened. My head and tongue were
back to normal proportions, my perceptions untainted by drugs or pain,
and my wounded side itched horribly. It was healing. I clenched my
hands into fists, resisting the urge to rip the bandage off and start
scratching, and regarded my visitor.
     He was a short man, squat and hirsute, with a bizzare hairstyle
that made him look like his hair was cut into the shape of a "w"; an
Arturo Vega cigar was clenched between his teeth, and he held a six
pack of Guinness in his hands.
     "You look like shit, kid," Logan said, grinning around the cigar.
"Want a beer?"
     "Sure," I said. As he handed me the dark bottle, I concentrated,
reaching into myself to activate my powers. Easily, I acsessed the
Abomination's stolen might. Satisfied I was whole once more, I smiled,
canceled the power, and popped the beer open with my thumb. One beer
wouldn't do much for me -- hell, a dozen cases wouldn't do much for me
-- but I needed to kill the taste of blood and bile in my mouth.
      I took a healthy swig of the brew; it was bitter and cold, the
consistency of mud. Just the way Guinness should be.
      "What brings you down here?" I said.
      "Just checking on you," Logan said. I saw his wrist flex
slightly, and a single claw erupted from his index knuckle, a twelve
inch span of. . . bone? That wasn't right; Logan had claws of
adamantium steel. And they were implanted; they weren't natural.
      As he popped the top off the bottle with a tug of the claw, I
asked him, "What happened to you?"
      Logan looked darkly at the claw for a moment, then housed it with
a rasp, not the clean "snikt" sound of old. "Nuthin' much," he said.
"Magneto just took all the metal out of my body." He took a swig of
beer. "Close your mouth, kid," he admonished.
     I hadn't realized my jaw had dropped open. I closed my mouth with
an audible click. I took a drink, and then said, "I'm surprised it
didn't kill you."
     "Almost did. Now what almost killed you?" he said, trying to
change the subject. Typical Wolverine; uncomfortable talking about
himself. Yeah, like I wasn't. . .
     "Selene and the Wizard," I told him. But he wasn't getting off
that easily. "But if all the metal came out, then where'd the claws
come from?"
    He grimaced, puffing on his cigar. "You're a pain in the ass
sometimes, kid." I didn't say anything, just waiting. Finally, he said,
"Its like this: with the bionic housings and claws missing from my
forearms, my healing factor decided to fill the space with biological
copies of the metal weapons. My healing factor really ain't all that
bright."
    He popped a claw again, and looked at it. "I'd probably be better
off without 'em. Never really liked the claws, but at least they were
useful in a fight. These. . . aren't sharp enough to cut much, and
bone's too brittle anyway. My days of tusslin' with the Hulk are over,"
he said.
    I nodded. I remembered from Anthro courses in collage that even
stone tools are more durable than bone ones. And stone is vastly
inferior to even a "soft" metal like bronze. Making the transition from
adamantium to bone was probably uncomfortable.
    "But what about you, kid?" Logan asked after a swallow of Guinness.
"You disappear for eight months, and then show up with a belly wound
that should've killed you. What have you been up to?"
    I swallowed more beer, took a deep breath, and started to tell him.
    It took a while. The first six pack didn't last all that long, and
Logan disappeared periodically into the central lab, reappearing with
more beer every time. I guessed there was a fridge somewhere in that
mass of machinery.
    About halfway through the tale, when we had demolished about a
case, with neither one of us feeling much of the alcohol's effects, the
doorway was suddenly blocked, casting a shadow across the room. I broke
off in mid-sentence, while Logan, without looking up from his beer,
said, "Afternoon, Jean."
    Unable to rely on my sense of smell, I turned away from Logan to
see a stunning redhead in the doorway, dressed casually in jeans and
sweater. She smiled. "How are you feeling, Gerry?"
    "Much better, thanks. Uh. . . how are you?" Inwardly I winced at
how lame a thing that was to say. But I was always awkward around Jean,
even when we were teenagers, the first students at Xavier's school. She
had changed a lot since then -- died any number of times, traveled from
one end of the universe to the other, bounced through time, fought
sentinals and gods, and -- what a second -- was that a ring on her
finger?
     "Engaged?" I croaked.
     She smiled wider, showing off the ring and its stone. "Married,
actually." She stepped into the room, telekinetically lifting a beer
and popping the cap off. "You don't mind if I join you boys, do you?"
     Logan shrugged. "Please do," I said. She found a seat at the edge
of the bed. There was a moment of silence as the three of us regarded
eachother. I was grappling with the idea of Jean being married. I won't
even presume to guess what was on Logan's mind. And Jean; she's always
been a puzzle.
     Finally, Jean broke the silence. "So," she said. "Who's your
friend?"
     "Friend?" I said, totally blanking. The combination of Jean's
blood red tresses, dazzling green eyes, and scintillating smile had a
tendency to make my eyes cross. And, if I remembered correctly, she had
that effect on Logan as well. That was probably why he was keeping
quiet.
     "The one napping upstairs," Jean clarified. "The cute redhead in
the armor."
     "Oh," I said brilliantly, the image of a sleeping Tasha coming to
my mind unbidden. It was from only a few days ago, when we were back at
my mansion, just hanging out, taking care of eachother. Just the two of
us.
     "She's special, isn't she?" Jean said softly.
     I nodded. "She's my best friend." Jean arched an eyebrow, probably
expecting more, but said nothing. We were silent again for a moment.
Jean and Logan sipped their beers simultaneously, neither one of them
realizing it, while I thought about Tasha. And Nightwing. Something
about they way he talked to Tasha bothered me; but it shouldn't have. I
mean, he was flirting with her. Blatantly. And sure, I'd seen guys
flirt with Tasha before, seen her reciprocate, but it never bothered me
before. There was no reason for me to be uncomfortable with it. We were
best friends. We weren't. . . "involved."
      But. Weren't we, though? Somehow. The little things we do for
each other, the way we always seem to touch each other in some way, the
way we meshed so easily in personalities and temperaments. The way I
could bare my soul to her. Did I. . . love Tasha?
      I think. . . I think maybe I did. But what about her? Did she --
could she -- no, probably not. Hmmm. Something to think about. And get
to work on, too. . .
      Logan cleared his throat, ending the silence and breaking into my
reverie. "You were saying something about dragons, kid," he said,
prompting me to return to my story.
      "Right," I said, my mind switching gears. I took a swallow of
Guinness and re-launched into my tale, filling in a few of the blank
spots for Jean. But the back of my mind kept thinking about Tasha.
      After a while, Jean glanced at her watch. "Oh, damn," she said.
"The Professor sent me down to get you a half hour ago. He wanted you
to see him right away."
      "Charlie ain't gonna appreciate that, Red," Logan said.
      Jean grinned. "Yeah. But he needs a little rebellion now and
then. His ego might get too big if we were all like Bishop." Or Scott,
I added silently.
      "No problem," I said, polishing off the beer in my hand. I slid
off the bed, and regarded my state of dress. Or undress as the case may
be. "Um," I said, " you wouldn't happen to have some extra clothes I
could borrow, would you?" Jean started to answer, but I said, "No
bumblebee suits." She grinned.
      "I think we have some of Peter's old clothes. They might be a bit
tight, but I'm sure that won't be a problem."
      So, a short while later, clad in borrowed jeans, boots, and tank
top, I headed for Xavier's office. I checked on Tasha before I went;
she was, as Jean said, napping. Good. She deserved the rest.
      I rapped softly on Xavier's door, heard his entreaty to enter,
and complied. He was sitting at his desk, going over some papers. I
took a chair in front of the desk. With some bemusement I realized I
was sitting in the exact same spot I had just a few weeks before.
      Xavier closed the folder on his desk and looked at me. A rare
smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "You look good Gerard." Good?
I needed a shave, a shower, and some fresh air, but Xavier's compliments
are more precious and rare than diamonds.
      "Thanks, Charles. Thanks for saving my life."
      "It was the least I could do," he said. "And, I must admit, it
feels good to actually accomplish something worthwhile for a change."
      Xavier's bitterness surprised me. "Look, Charles, about the last
time I was here -- "
      "There is no need to apologize, Gerard. I quite understand." He
shifted the topic. "Teresa is well?" I nodded. "And her sister?"
      I shook my head. "I don't know. They both left for Atlanta when I
came here. As far as I know, Steph was still unconscious, like the other
kids."
      Xavier nodded, unsurprised. "While you were. . . on the couch as
it were, I couldn't help but scan the events of the last few days as
you had experienced them. I must say I'm proud of your conclusion about
the nature of heroism." I nodded. Another compliment; if he kept this
up his heart was going to fall out of his shirt. Where was this
leading?
      "And, after reflecting on that realization, and your earlier vow
to abandon the 'business' of superheroing, I feel compelled to ask you
what you plan to do now."
      I thought a moment. I realized I didn't really know. I was ready
to quit the spandex job, but the idea of taking over my father's
corporation appealed to me just as little. Finally, I shrugged. "I
don't know. I guess I'll take it easy for a while. Wait and see what
turns up."
      Xavier nodded as if that was what he expected me to say. And,
knowing him, he did know what I was going to say before I did. "May I
make a suggestion?" he said.
      I shrugged, suddenly nervous. I hoped he wasn't going to ask me
to join the X-Men. No way could I live in the same building with
Gambit.
      "No, no, nothing of the sort," he said. "I have something much
more important to ask of you." I nodded, waiting. He continued. "Those
children, those externals, are going to need help in coping with their
abilities. They will need training to become familier with their
extranormal powers, the kind of training I once gave you and Jean and
the rest of the X-Men."
      I nodded again, now with a good idea of where he was heading.
      "This school has served for that purpose for almost fifteen
years. But I can do it no longer. I've devoted myself wholly to the
X-Men and the crusade for which they fight. Already, I have been forced
to turn away several young mutants who needed my help. Now, they are
under the tutelage of Sean Cassidy and Emma Frost."
      Frost? The White Queen?! Had she pulled a Magneto, or did Xavier
lose his mind? Didn't he learn anything from Magneto?
      "Indeed, I did, which is why I am reluctant to release more young
mutants into Emma's custody. Even with Sean watching her. . . there is
still a great deal of distrust that must be dealt with.
      "I can't send those externals to her. But you can give them the
training they'll need." So here it was. The Big Question, the Buck
Passed.
      "I don't know," I said. "I'm not much of a teacher. I'm still
trying to grow up myself, I'm not sure I should be in charge of a bunch
of teenagers. I. . ." I trailed off, as something occurred to me.
      Xavier's eyes narrowed. "What is it?" he asked.
      "Something Odin told me, before he sent me back to Earth," I told
him. "He recognized me as an Immortal, you see. He told me, 'You must
choose between the hammer and the cross.' At the time, I thought he was
offering me an invitation to the Pantheon. Y'know, join Thor or remain
an Irish Catholic. The hammer or the cross.
     "But now, I don't think he meant that at all," I continued. "I
think he meant I had to choose between being a warrior, an Avenger, or
being a healer. A. . .," I almost choked on the word," a teacher."
     Xavier regarded me seriously. "And what will you choose?" he
asked.
     I shook my head. "I don't know. I think. . . maybe. . .yes." I
nodded, a decision made, a life changed. "I'll do it. I'll train the
externals."
     Xavier smiled in relief. "Thank you, Gerard."
     "I'm not finished, Charles." He sat back, the smile frozen. "I'm
not going to do what you do. I won't give them codenames. I won't give
them costumes. I won't make them warriors. I won't make them the New
Mutants."
     Xavier nodded. "I wouldn't ask you to," he said.
     "Good," I said. "Is Danielle still here?" I asked. Xavier nodded.
"Good,"I repeated. "I think I'll ak her for help. And I'll need your
help renovating the estate. We'll probably need a Danger Room. And I'll
need to call the Avengers and get the names of those kids."
     "It appears you have your work cut out for you," he said, smiling.
     "Yeah." I agreed, my mind a whirl with hundreds of thoughts and
plans, spinning wildly. "Yeah," I repeated.

***********************************************************************

     Dick Grayson let himself into his apartment in Gotham City, a
small brownstone in the affluent section of town. All he wanted to do
was collapse on his bed and sleep a week. Or two.
     But, like a fool, he checked his answering machine.
     The first few were out of date, and not really worth answering.
But the fourth call got his attention.
     "Nightwing, this is Dai Thomas in London. You gave me your number
a few months back. . . I hope you remember. Anyway, I've got a
meta-related case right up your alley. There's a killer clown
assaulting clergymen. We think it might be the Joker. And I can't hail
the Batman. If you could. . ." The tape ran out.
     London. Dick was just there, looking for Alfred. And now he'd have
to go back. Bruce was too busy trying to reclaim his city after the
fiasco with Bane. He wasn't leaving the country anytime soon.
     *So much for my week off.*

***********************************************************************

Wolverine, Prof X, Cyclops, and related characters are (C) Marvel
Comics, used without permission.
Nightwing is (C) DC Comics, used without permission.

Siphon, Morning Star, and Mars are (C) James M.G. Cannon.

Hawk is now archiving this story, so catch up on previous installments
on her page. If you don't know where it is, *shame* on you!

Direct all comments, questions, hate mail, and dementia to me at:
X8CG@MUSIC.STLAWU.EDU