SUMMARY: Most of the X-Men are killed in a horrible battle. Trying to convince the depressed Professor Xavier that the Dream still has merit, the few that are left gather a few new trainees — and one of them's Pete Wisdom! Convincing a young Pete Wisdom that he should give up a new, interesting career with Black Air to join a band of super-hero idealistic misfits is enough to let anyone, especially Xavier, know that the Dream still matters. But knowing how well Wisdom gets along with people, will there be more corpses to add to the numbers?

DISCLAIMER: Me own nothing. Me making no money. You no sue me. We get along fine. D'accord? Entendu. Merci! So read already!

*NOTE* The Professor has recently received a communication that many of his "children" are dead. This story doesn't really fit into continuity anyway, and is just a "What If...?" I got stuck in my head. It's about...oh...maybe fifteen Marvel "years" ago, maybe even twenty, who knows. Like I said, not fitted into the continuity anywhere. So sue me; just be warned, one of my field hockey teammate's dad is a lawyer. J Anyway, here's a current roster, and their status. (If they're "alive" and with the team right now, I wrote "alive" next to their name; if they're "dead" I wrote "dead" next to them. Pretty self-explanatory, but...) And no, you won't find Emily Jones anywhere in Marvel (I hope not!) because I made her up. If there is someone called that, let me know, please, so I can change it... Here we go; drum-roll, please...

Professor Charles F. Xavier – Alive
Ororo Munroe/Storm – Dead
Moira MacTaggert –Alive
Rogue – Dead
Scott Summers/Cyclops –Alive
Alison Blair/Dazzler – Dead
Logan/Wolverine – Alive
Henry Hank McCoy/Beast – Dead
Katherine Pryde/Shadowcat – Alive
Warren Worthington, III/Archangel – Dead
Robert Drake/Iceman – Alive
Kurt Wagner/Nightcrawler – Dead
Remy LeBeau/Gambit – Dead
Piotr Rasputin/Colossus – Dead
Elizabeth Braddock/Psylocke – Dead
Peter Wisdom – Recruit
Emily Jones – Recruit
Jeremy Graves – Recruit
Jean Grey (post Phoenix Saga here, peoples. Follow me? She's still in the river.) – Presumed "Dead"

The day started out bad and soon got worse. First Kitty Pryde tripped over her dragon's tail in the kitchen; she instinctively phased...right through the coffee maker, which meant that nobody could have their normal morning cup. That put Logan in a bad mod, as Scott Summers found out when he left his bedroom. They bumped into each other. Scott's glasses — the only things that could keep his power in check — went flying across the hallway. The ruby quartz was, thankfully, strong enough to survive the flight into the wall. The plastic nose-bridge wasn't so lucky, but that was just aesthetics; nothing irreparable. He would tape them if they'd broke — probably had, it sounded like a big crack, but that could have been from running into metal bones — but he couldn't tape the walls if he blinked. Luckily, the younger man was the one to fall down. Luckily, he'd even managed to close his eyes. Luckily, the claws even stayed sheathed. Mainly, because it was fun to see Cyclops on his butt. Also, he'd managed to muscle his way into some danger room time. The shorter man growled and kept walking, leaving Summers to grope blindly for his glasses. Neither man, of course, would think too kindly of the other for at least a day.

Then...things got worse.

"Professor, are you sure?" Cyclops asked incredulously for the thousandth time. Wolverine was sick of it — and him — by now.

"Course he's sure, you idiot," Logan growled around his cigar, "if he weren't, he'd tell us he wasn't sure." Wolverine was rarely the nicest of people. And when he got bad news, he turned downright nasty. Kitty swallowed loudly enough to make Logan feel bad; the kid had to be hurting too, he was sure — but Cyclops didn't take a hint.

"Listen, Logan, I'm just asking for clarification," he replied, his own temper starting to rise. Bad news did that to some people, and these two mutants were some of them.

"Scuse me, Scotty-boy, if I don't want to hear someone askin' over and over again if some buddies of mine are really dead."

"They're my friends, too, Logan, and if something like this might have happened, it's better to be sure — "

"The worst thing is to be sure and have some boy-scout keep repeatin' himself like a damn — " Wolverine managed to correct his language in time when he remembered the kid was in the room — "darned parrot!"

"Now you listen to me — "

<No,> the Professor thought loudly in their heads to get their attention, <both of you listen to me. Thank you,> he added, then switched over to normal speech. "Now, I suggest you both go mourn our friends in your own way without killing one another. We do not need any more deaths. This has been a...a terrible loss," he concluded harshly, forcing himself to be professional and not give into emotions. He sat impassively, hiding his thoughts, as the small remainder of his students filed by, absorbed in their own shock and loss. Only after they were all gone and the door had shut did he allow the mask to crack.

The youngest student, Kitty Pryde, was the only one to catch that, turning and starting to walk back through the door to ask the professor if he was all right. She was the only one of them to see the tears rolling quietly down their mentor and father's cheeks. To see the utter dejection, the complete sense of loss... to see the moment of failure... to see what might be another death to add to the already tragic number witnessed by this house... to see what she fervently hoped wasn't someone awakening... awakening from... from a dream...

Katherine Pryde stormed into the Danger Room, where Cyclops and Wolverine were heartily trying to kill themselves, each other, and everything else in it. Angrily, she stalked through the chaos and holographic monstrosities, too upset to be frightened or startled by it. Intangible, she marched straight through the computerized carnage and slapped the emergency "abort" button. Wolverine and Cyclops were... rather put out at having their bloodbath interrupted. Both turned to look at the teen standing in front of them, mouths open and ready to yell. Kitty managed to speak first, making far more noise than something that skinny should have been able to project, especially into such a large, unacoustic room.

"You two are the biggest jerks in the world! I can't believe you you are so stupid and mean and cruel and nasty! The Professor is in there crying and all you two can do is try to kill each other! I cannot believe you -- how could you be so heartless? He's all depressed and thinks he failed them and I'm afraid he's going to give up and send us home and you two aren't doing anything to help at all! I hate you!"

For about three breaths, they just stood there and stared at the teary-eyed, murderous-looking angry girl in front of them, shooting death-glares to rival Cyclops's. Wolverine found his tongue first.

"Chuck... give up?"

"I... don't believe it..."

"Fer once, Summers and I are in agreement, pun'kin. What'd you say?"

"I said the Professor is gonna get rid of the X-Men and I don't want to leave, Wolvie, I don't!" For a few heartbeats there was utter, complete silence in the Danger Room. Then Wolverine spoke again:

"Well..."

Hours later, sweaty, exhausted, and miserable, a short hairy fellow from Canada, a tall brown-haired man with red glasses, and a young teenager with wavy brown hair walked out of the Cerebro room. They had realized something about Cerebro; it helped if you were telepathic. Unfortunately, they couldn't let Xavier in on what they were doing, and the other telepath of the X-Men was... dead.

Then Kitty got a brilliant idea. She ran back in, through the door. When Logan and Scott caught up with her — they'd had to wait for the door to open, while she'd just run through — she was in the middle of 'killing' Cerebro. Both mutants stared at her. Then both screamed at her in unison.

"Don't worry, Wolvie. I know what I'm doing. And Scott, I am not killing it. I'm just phasing a few circuits so that I can reroute the tasking through the secondary processor, and..." From there, she went off on a string of computer jargon that neither man understood. Of course, neither one would admit that. Luckily for them — and their egos — Kitty recognized the blank looks she was getting and switched to something the layman would understand, but carefully, so that neither would realize that she was patronizing them, or had noticed their stupid looks. "So, basically," she continued, "I can work it without telepathic powers. It won't be, like, as good or anything, but it'll work — at least it should — more or less — and the self-repairing programs on it'll have it back to normal before midnight tonight. Trust me, guys. I know what I'm doing."

Both men nodded — considering that they hadn't understood a thing she'd said, they really didn't have a choice. And neither one was going to admit in front of the other that he needed something explained more carefully to him. It just wouldn't happen.

A few days later...

The plane touched down at the airport. One of its passengers looked around for someone... he wasn't sure who. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, then glanced around again, wondering what he should do. The first thing, he decided, would be to get his luggage. As he was walking towards the baggage terminal, a strong hand dropped onto his shoulder.

"Sod off," he said instinctively, before turning to give the offender the evil eye.

The 'evil eye' died immediately. He looked down a few inches at a short, hairy guy in a leather jacket, chewing on a cigar. It wasn't the muscles or the strength of the hand that had caught him that stopped him, or even the 'tough guy' look the man had to have cultivated that brought him up short.

It was the look in the eyes.

That 'tough guy' image hadn't been carefully cultivated; it was just the truth. And he knew better than to mess with someone who had that look in his eyes — it had been painful every time he'd tried it  without his gun nearby, at least if the man hadn't done anything but grab his shoulder.

"Name's Logan," the man positively growled at him, but with a humorous look in his eye, as if he'd seen something about the younger man he thought could be amusing.

Ah, so this was the guy that was supposed to meet him. "Pete Wisdom, mate," the young Brit replied, putting the cig back in his mouth. "So yer the bloke that's the reason I'm in this bleedin' county, 'ey?" he asked in a friendly voice.

He didn't understand the feral smile that the other's lips curled into.

The bus arrived in New York City at four p.m. She looked around, unsure of what to do next. She didn't see anything... a taxi, maybe? She didn't know the address, but she could always ask the driver if they did... she didn't realize how uncomfortable she looked, or how scared. Well, until she jumped out her skin.

"Hello," a voice said from behind her. She spun around to see what was happening behind her, only then figuring out that the voice had been talking to her. "I said, hello. I'm here from Xavier's School. You're the person I'm supposed to meet, right?"

"Let me guess," she said, instantly on guard, "it's the hair?"

"Huh? Oh, that's how I recognized you, yeah. So?"

"So? You got a problem with it?"

"Huh? No, actually, I know this really sexy lady with purple hair... darker, but purple. Err... I guess I mean 'knew'..." his voice trailed off. She tried to think of something to say, not having meant to hurt him, whoever he was, but his face lit up with a smile like somebody shifting gears on a truck. "I'm Bobby Drake."

"Emily... Smith," she replied, uncertain of how far to trust the brown haired young man, who had continued talking without taking a breath.

"And if you'll follow me, I stole Scott's car, so we get to ride back for real, not in a taxi-cab. Oh, got any bag? Here, I'll carry them... hang on..." he looked around, like a little boy about to play a prank, before continuing. "Don't worry, I got 'em all."

Macho little chauvinist, she started to think at him, when she saw the ice spread out on the sidewalk in front of him. He skidded her bags onto it and reached his hand out towards her, as she stared in shock at the freezing area in front of them, evaporating almost instantly behind.

"Ride on the Iceman Express, ma'am? The coolest transport in town. Please keep your arms, hands, legs, and beautiful bods inside the freezing zone at all times. For refreshment, we have ice-drinks of any shape imaginable instantly in stock for all your freezing pleasure..."

He was waiting on the hill at four-thirty, after school. He had a backpack and duffel bag packed. He had the note pinned to his pillow on his bed at home. He was doing his best not to cry. He almost screamed when the girl suddenly appeared in front of him. She was smiling, though, and didn't look like she was going to call the cops or his parents. So he settled for telling her where to go. That stopped her for a moment, but she walked — floated? impossible — up to him anyway. He grabbed a rock in his hand, a nice big one he'd already had picked out, just in case.

"Go away," he warned her. She didn't stop, so he tossed the pebble he'd been playing with, just as a warning.

She seemed unfazed. "Hi, you must be — "

"I said go away. Now."

"It doesn't look like you've changed your mind. I'm Ki — "

He threw the rock, dead on — well, not quite. He just wanted to make her go away, not hurt her. He threw it at her legs... and it went... right... through them...

"I'm Kitty Pryde. From Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters," she said kindly. She knew what it was like to be afraid of other people... and of yourself. She smiled at him. "I'm pleased to meet you"

"I'm Jeremy Graves," he replied, "but I don't know how we're getting to this Westchester place." He wasn't certain if he wanted her to have an answer or not. He didn't know which would be worse; to creep home and live afraid, or to go to this other place to people who said they wanted to help...

"It's okay, I brought the Blackbird."

He raised an eyebrow, but stood up and shouldered his backpack anyway. "Blackbird?"

"Yeah. Want to see it?" He nodded skeptically...

And just about fell down on his rear. He stared at the... plane that had suddenly appeared in front of him. It was... marvelous was too weak a word...

"Wow..." he whispered to himself.

"It is pretty neat, isn't it? Come on. I'll let you sit in the co-pilot's chair."

Scott Summers just about blew the roof off. And not because he'd dropped his glasses, either. "You what?!!?" he roared at the other three X-Men standing in front of him.

"Uh, Scott — " Bobby began.

"How could you do that?"

"Easy, bub." Wolverine snorted, pulling out a cigar.

"We haven't' even checked them out yet!"

"Scott..." Kitty tried the 'you are so dumb look' but it didn't work.

"We don't even know what they do! What they look like!"

"Uh, actually — " Bobby didn't get the chance to finish.

"We don't even know what kind of people they are! How do you know we even want them as X-Men yet? We haven't done any research on them at all!"

"Uh, Scott..." Kitty tried to get his attention, but failed.

"We don't even — "

Wolverine finally got fed up. Out came the claws with a snikt sound, right under Cyclops's throat. "Wanna shut-up a sec now, bub?" Logan asked, oh-so-nicely, of course.

"But we don't even know what they can do..." Scott muttered to himself, very quietly. Logan's super-sensitive sense of hearing picked it up anyway.

"So find out," he growled and retracted the claws, snakt, back into the housings in his forearm.

"What do you mean by — " Scott asked huffily, then, "oh."

The door to the War Room slid open and in walked three people.

One was a dark-haired man somewhere between twenty-something and thirty. He had plain dark pants on, a white shirt rolled up to his elbows that looked like it had seen a lot a rumpling, and a loose black tie. He also had a look in his eyes that warned the unwary to be otherwise. He ran his cold blue eyes up and down the others in the room as if cataloguing them for threat assessment. He exchanged a look of... almost amusement with Wolverine.

The second one into the room was a tall girl with short bright violet hair and eyes. She looked like she was ready to run from the room if anyone looked at her cross-eyed. She was wearing slightly flared black pants, a silver belt, and a loose purple shirt, along with an enormous quantity of silver bangles and two hoop-earrings big enough to fit around her wrists. Her eyes flitted about nervously, straying to Bobby, who gave her a series of 'encouraging' grins and 'funny' faces. That probably wasn't helping.

The third one in was a young teen-aged boy. His tousled brown hair was covered with a battered baseball cap. His shirt was buttoned all the way up until it was on the point of choking him, and his dress pants were almost too short, but not quite. Obviously trying his hardest to make a good impression, he'd dressed in his best, whether it fit or not. He had a gaudy blue tie on (tied crookedly) that swam sickeningly with the light green shirt he was wearing. He sent Kitty a look of betrayal and, while obviously trying not to, glanced pointedly around the room at the others, flinching when he saw Wolverine staring straight back at him. He gulped audibly and fidgeted with his tie.

Cyclops shot ruby-colored glares around the room at the four other X-Men, all pointedly ignoring him — well, except for Logan, who smiled back devilishly. He'd probably gone along with the plan just because he knew it would annoy Scoot.

(Not entirely for that reason, no, but that was a big factor in his consideration.)

"Well," Scott Summers said ominously at the three new arrivals. The girl and brown-haired teen looked like they were about to bolt. Good. The other one flicked him off. Scott's mouth opened and shut with a click. He blinked a few times behind his glasses. He could hear Logan sniggering behind him. And what was probably Bobby and Kitty trying to stifle their own giggles; it sounded like they were choking. Then he heard Iceman freeze his own mouth shut and Kitty hold her breath. He turned around and glared at the Canadian, but that only made the laughter increase.

"Alright you three, out. I'm taking them down to show them the Danger Room. If you're coming, you can meet me in the observation booth in a few minutes. Kitty and Bobby traded a 'look' around Cyclops that communicated very clearly what they left unsaid and left. Kitty turned back around and tugged on Wolverine's arm.

"C'mon, Logan," she muttered quietly enough that Scott wouldn't hear, "we don't want to give them any more trouble than that one just got them into." The tall one with black hair snorted, his ears apparently either trained enough to pick up what was said, or super-powered as well, Scott couldn't tell.

"Alright, you three," he said loudly, "follow me." He turned and walked towards the elevator, "and you can tell me your names and powers on the way down." Scott studiously ignored the rude comment he half-heard the black haired one make.

"Emily," the girl said.

"Emily what?" he asked pointedly, "and what do you do?"

"Wot's yours, mate?" the black haired one asked sarcastically.

"Scott Summers. I'm also called Cyclops. I'll be in charge during your stay here. I shoot beams of concussive force from my eyes; that's why I wear these glasses. If you value your lives, I suggest you be very careful you don't take them off."

"Bleedin' prig," he muttered.

"And you?" Scott spun around and stared at the other intimidatingly.

"Pete Wisdom, mate." He didn't seem to be intimidated. "Black Air."

Scott raised an eyebrow above the glasses' rim. "And that means your power is...?"

"None o' yer business." And with that, Wisdom clammed up and pulled a cigarette from a pocket.

Hidden behind the red lenses, Scott's eyes narrowed. "And you are now doing...?"

"Lightin' a fag. You got a problem with that?"

"Yes, I do. I expect that while you are under this roof, you will not — "

Wisdom shrugged, "too bad," and lit the cigarette.

Cyclops saw red — well, this time figuratively, not literally — as he stared at the young mutant who offered up an insulting grin around the smoking cigarette. With an infuriated sigh, he turned to the boy. "How about you?"

"Jeremy Graves."

"And what do you do, or are you going to be insolent, too?" Cyclops nearly snarled.

"Take a look at 'is feet, mate," Wisdom interjected, laughing. "'Less you can't see with them things on. O' course, stupidity's another explanation."

Cyclops looked down at the floor to see the young teen's feet floating two inches off the floor. "Oh. Ah... ahem. Right."

"This... is the Danger Room," Cyclops stated pompously. The three young mutants glanced at each other, exchanging a 'look' that all three easily understood. "Here," he continued, "you will learn how to hone your abilities." Pete rolled his eyes; behind the glasses, Scott narrowed his. "Have fun," he said — nearly growled — and walked out, shutting the door behind him with a whoosh. The other three looked at each other. Emily's hand clenched into fists as she tried not to tremble, on the verge of a panic attack. Pete was doing his best to appear perfectly calm, standing there smoking with a sardonic look on his face — if anyone could have noticed his antsiness, it would have been Logan, but he and his heightened senses weren't there. Jeremy shuffled from side to side, watching Emily out of the corner of his eye, worried.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asked, concerned. Emily shook her head from side to side, trying not to stare at the closed door.

"R'lax, luv," Pete counseled the frightened girl, "if they were gonna kill us we'd already be dead." I hope, he didn't add, Black Air training or no.

"Thanks," she forced out bitterly through gritted teeth, "that makes me feel so much better!"

Pete shrugged and blew smoke at the Control Booth, knowing it would annoy Cyclops, whom he'd seen enter from the glint of red from the glasses.

"Uhm..." Jeremy began, hovering anxiously, "I think something's about to — " A large explosion from behind cut him off. Pete leapt sideways, just in case someone had shot at him, but nonetheless managed to be facing the other way before the other two. They saw a large, hulking purple robot walking through the suddenly-appeared front of a shopping center towards them.

"Holy — " Jeremy started, "what is that?"

Pete cursed loudly over Emily's shriek as a cable shot from the robot's had towards her.

"Cease and desist, mutants," the robot announced mechanically.

"It's a Sentinel!" he shouted at the other as he pulled a gun out from somewhere and began firing at the robot, dodging sideways as he shot repeatedly. The bullets sparked, but aside from scratching the paint, did nothing else. "Grab 'er!" he shouted at the gawking flyer, who took off like a rocket, trailing silver sparks. He grabbed Emily who shrieked in pain, and a tug of war resulted — with the Sentinel winning. Pete tracked upwards and shot at the Sentinel's eyes, shattering the left one.

"Optical sensors damaged," the robot reported emotionlessly through its speaker grill.

"What's a... Sentinel?" Jeremy puffed, straining with all his might and speed to pull the writhing Emily from the cable's grip.

"Mutant 'unter," Wisdom shouted back before leaping to his left and rolling away from the Sentinel's near miss. "Bloody gits," he continued, "chase down mutants and capture or kill 'em."

"How do we (ouch!) stop it?" Emily asked in a pained voice, struggling against both the cable and the sparking hands of her would-be rescuer.

"Uh..." said Pete, dodging yet another blast, "let me think about 'at one, luv."

"Man! Let go!" Jeremy yelled, ticked, at the mutant bounty hunter, kicking out angrily at the cable. When his foot connected, a burst of silver electricity traveled up the cable all the way through the Sentinel's arm, which dropped limp to hang like a dead piece of wood from the Sentinel's shoulder-socket. Jeremy hovered, surprised for a moment, then dove to catch the screaming — and falling — Emily a few feet above the metal floor.

"Out o' the way," Pete commanded, holstering the gun, "move it!"

"Unit's top left extremity disabled. Repairs commencing," the Sentinel announced to whomever really cared. Jeremy flashed down to the floor behind Pete before dropping his panicked and in-pain burden, who immediately started cussing him out. Hands free, Wisdom turned to the Sentinel and little slivers of the sun shot from his fingertips to carve through the robot's metal skull, burning, melting, and frying all at the same time. The robot didn't even have a chance to announce its eminent demise to anyone before it was, well, demised. It smashed into the ground, knocking both Pete and Emily off their feet. Jeremy — still hovering — reached down to help the girl up, and immediately got his head handed to him on a platter for his trouble when a spark shot from his hand to hers. A curse and scream later, and Emily was screaming her lungs out at a confused teen while Pete tried futilely to get their attention.

A gunshot into the ceiling finally served, and he had both staring at him, open-mouthed. "Thank, mates," he muttered sarcastically, checking the ammo in the gun. "Some'ow, blokes, I don't think this is over yet."

"How come?" Emily asked, rubbing her hand. "Didn't it die?"

"Yeah," Jeremy added, "it sure looks dead to me."

"Right, but it's still there and so are we," Wisdom pointed out. The others nodded, disappointed, following his logic.

"Oh, great... I have a bad feeling about this..."

"You and me both, luv!" Pete shouted as four metal monstrosities crashed through the walls. "Bloody 'ell..."

Up in the Control Booth, Kitty turned to glare at Cyclops. "What are you doing?"

"I'm seeing how they react under pressure," he replied huffily.

"Scott, c'mon," Bobby interjected from the corner. "They've never faced any of this before." At Scott's glare, he retreated back behind the comic book he'd shielded himself with after Wolverine had threatened to gut Cyclops and had stormed out of the room to mutilate something — probably something belonging to Scott — leaving Kitty and Cyclops to fight it out.

"We need to get a feel for how they act under pressure. And I made sure they would focus more on Wisdom," he added helpfully.

"What!" Kitty exploded. "That is so unfair!"

"He's obviously had experience fighting. And," he reminded her pointedly, "he has a gun." Earlier, that had actually made Cyclops swear... almost. It had also nearly blown the top off the Control Booth when Scott had seen the young Englishman pull out the weapon. Logan's snigger hadn't helped. It would lead to a discussion with Wisdom later.

"You just don't like him!"

"I'm more professional than that. He was insolent. Besides, I'm in charge-- Pryde!" The scream as she dropped through the Control Booth into the Danger Room's holographic battle area was ignored, other than Bobby burring his head deeper in the pages of Star Wars: Rogue Squadron, Requiem for a Rogue.

"Alright, uh... Jeremy, take the one on the left; Emily, the one on the right. I'll take the middle one."

"Uh, Pete, doesn't that leave one?"

"Failed math class, did you, Pete?"

"If yer such a bloody genius, you figure it out!" They both clammed up. Pete fired at the nearest Sentinel, left-handed, blowing its 'eyes' out. His right lifted and started to burn, but he couldn't dodge in time, though, when the fifth one emerged from the wall behind him and shot. Jeremy flew at the back-stabber as Emily danced around, trying not to be blasted, succeeding mainly because she hopped onto the nearest one's boot and clung there like a leech. Jeremy pulled out of his arrow-like flight inches away from hitting the wall as everything dissolved, returning the room to its former emptiness, plus one person. She ran over to Wisdom's prone figure as he sat up, rubbing his head and cursing.

"For the first time, that wasn't too bad," Cyclops's voice crackled over the speaker, "but you were all pretty pathetic. Shadowcat, I'd like a word with you later, so hang around. And Wisdom, I want to talk to you. Emily, Graves, you're dismissed. Iceman will show you to some guest rooms."

"I will?" Drake asked in the back of the control booth.

"You will."

"Oh, okay. I will."

"Good boy." Scott's voice got colder, "Wisdom, don't go anywhere. We have...things to discuss."

Pete replied very eloquently with a finger pointed towards the Control Booth and Summers's general direction.

Cyclops paced around the room, shooting death-glares (only figuratively, not literally) in the young Englishman's direction. "A gun! I can't believe you pulled a gun in there — "

"B'lieve it, Summers -- 'ere, want to see it?" He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help but want to antagonize the man. He pulled it out — too quickly for Cyclops to see where it came from exactly — and held it carelessly. Summers's face went as red as his shades and Pete would swear he saw crimson smoke start to ooze out from under the glasses. "Nice one, ain't it?"

"Put that thing away!" It looked like the bugger was going to have a heart attack. He was too healthy for that, though; too bad. "What do you think you're doing!"

"Nothin', mate. Don't get yer britches in a twist." Pete smiled infuriatingly as he made the gun disappear.

"While you are in this house, Peter Wisdom, you will respect the rules of it!" Cyclops shouted at him as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

After sticking the fag in his mouth, he replied. "'Ey, mate, wosn't me wot had the great idea to come 'ere. And you call me 'Peter' again you'll be wearin' those fancy shades o' yours in yer pocket. Mate."

"And that's another matter! You will stop that habit immediately!" Summers was almost choking, he was so upset.

"Nice to see a bloke can get you emotional, Summers. So give me one good reason," he said in a voice calm enough to freeze the dead, "why I should." He pointedly blew smoke at the man leaning over him scowling 'intimidatingly'.

"If you had any idea of the threats we faced on a daily basis, you would understand that we can't afford to have any of our abilities deteriorated with such — "

"Oh, is 'at it?" Wisdom cut him off. He looked Cyclops up and down evaluatingly. "You can beat me in an 'our-long race or so, I'll stop. You can't, you'll shove it and not bother me again. Got it, mate?"

After opening and shutting his mouth once or twice, Cyclops nodded. "Fine. I'll expect you to turn them in at the end of the day." His only reply was Wisdom shaking the ash from the cigarette onto the chair Cyclops had vacated to pace. Before he could frame a reply to that, the young Brit was out the door.

"Dismissed," Scott shouted after him, trying to gain some of his dignity back and failing miserably. He had a feeling that Logan and Wisdom would soon receive the same rating. Maybe. Logan had to be worse... didn't he? He hoped so, because the Canadian was as bad as it got!

He touched the button on the intercom, "Shadowcat, you can come in — " she walked through the wall. " — now," he finished lamely. "Young lady," he chided her, "just what did you think you were doing?"

"I was hitting the panic button, Cyclops, because you were being a jerk," she spat. The fire in her eyes could have rivaled that of the small dragon on her shoulder.

"Danger Room sessions are only over when I say they are — "

"You were acting like an insulted baby! Wisdom and you didn't hit it off because you had a lousy day and behaved badly, so you took it out on them! You could have seriously hurt someone in there! The only reason I didn't hit the darn button in the very beginning was because Wisdom handled things so well!" Lockheed shot a small jet of flame near Scott's head — but did he wink, too? "If you don't grow up, Cyclops, I vote we let Wolverine head the team instead of you — or maybe even Bobby!" And with that biting insult, the young teen spun on her heal and stalked through the wall, leaving a gasping Scott Summers behind to stutter impotently and prepare for a race he felt certain would end quickly with someone's collapse from asphyxiation.

Nearly an hour and a half later...

Cyclops was struggling to breathe and catch up to Pete Wisdom at the same time. It wasn't going well. Scott had started off at an almost-sprint, figuring the smoker would collapse soon and spare him the need to finish the race. He could almost see the young Englishman in front of him... almost. He had been close enough a few minutes ago, and had caught the impolite one-finger salute Wisdom had given him. He would not lose to the insolent little jerk, no matter what. He would not lose.

Around thirty minutes later...

Kitty, Bobby, Wolverine, Jeremy, and Emily were all out on the front porch cheering or laughing as Wisdom breezed in. Scott was nowhere to be seen — for most of them. Logan could see him about a mile away, huffing like a train, stumbling at top-speed through the woods. Pete hadn't counted on an audience; he determined not to allow himself to breathe hard, and slowed his pace, walking casually the last few yards, quietly whistling a rude bar song.

If it wasn't for his healing factor, Wolverine probably would have suffocated himself with laughter. Kitty wasn't much better. Bobby was doing his best not to laugh loudly enough that Scott would hear him, and the two new recruits could sense that they didn't want to get involved in the 'war' brewing between the two — yet, at least. Later? definitely.

<Well done, Mr. Wisdom,> a voice spoke in Pete's head.

"Bloody 'ell!" he nearly tripped over the steps. "What the fook was 'at?"

<I am Professor Charles Francis Xavier. You are at my school for gifted youngsters. I wanted to congratulate you on your stamina. Might I be so rude as to inquire as to how you accomplished it? I had thought that Scott was in rather better shape.>

"Sod off and get the 'ell out o' my 'ead!"

<Mr. Wisdom, language, please. As to how I am doing this, I am a telepath. It is my mutant gift to speak and see in the minds of others.>

"Then get the fook out of mine!"

<I do apologize,> the thoughts sounded amused. <I have things to attend to; I hope you will not be insulted if I wait to continue this conversation until after dinner? Thank you.>

"Bloody 'ell," Pete commented to no one in particular.

"Alright, young man," Scott Summers said later, "explain."

"Explain wot?" Pete asked mockingly, lighting a cigarette.

Cyclops glowered but said nothing to that; he'd lost, and he was not going to be a sore loser. "Your... physical condition. You don't seem like the kind that would bother exercising for no reason. And your lungs cannot be in the best condition."

A puff of smoke and "Black Air, mate," was the only reply. Wisdom stood up and sauntered out of the room.

"That idiot — !"

Half-in and half-out of the wall, the eavesdropping Kitty tried to stifle her laughter in Lockheed's wings.

Two days later, in the morning...

Logan knocked on the door to the guest bedroom Pete Wisdom had claimed. He growled and knocked again, harder this time; a slight metallic tang accompanied the rappings from his bones. When there was still no answer, the Canadian shoved the door open — or tried to. Something was stopping it on the other side. Logan snarled deep in his throat and pushed the door open, splintering the chair that had been expertly wedged under the doorknob.

The lump on the bed didn't stir an inch. Huh, thought Logan, I woulda thought the kid had better instincts than that. He stalked over to the bed and reached out to yank the covers off. His hand stopped inches from the bed as a sleepy voice issued from under the heap of blankets.

"I wouldn't, were I you, mate," the muffled British accent warned him, heavy with sleep.

Wolverine stood there a moment before he made a realization: Wisdom was still asleep; the response had been an instinctive reaction to the presence of another being in the room. Logan wondered if that was part of the kid's power or if he was just that good. It took some training to be able to do that... That led Logan to wonder just what it was the kid had done before being talked out of it to try out Xavier's School for a few days... And that led him to wonder just why the young Englishman had joined the school in the first place... This one would bear watching. Logan was upset with himself. He'd let his enjoyment of Scott's predicament cloud his instincts. Something was up with the Brit, and he aimed to find out what it was. The fact that he'd been fooled didn't endear him to the older mutant.

"You ain't me," he growled and ripped the blankets off. The bullet would have blown the shoulder off a normal man. As it was, the shot triggered on reflex knocked the surprised mutant on his rear, blood showering the room. The sound of the shot also served to wake Pete, who flew from the bed — gun in his hand, where it had been pointed on reflex at the other person in the room — got tangled in the blankets, and landed in a pile next to Logan. Pete's eyes were almost as wide as his mouth as he gaped in shock.

"Wot 'appened?" he asked quietly, scanning the room for a threat. Only the fact that Kitty arrived just then through the ceiling saved Pete from being eviscerated by Logan's claws. The wound, while annoying, was hardly deadly, and was closing rapidly, leaving only bloodied sheets to show what had happened. That, and Logan's rage. Wolverine had already prepared himself to leap at the Brit, and his flight was stopped only because Shadowcat fell between them. She was phased, and wouldn't have been hurt, but it stopped Logan nonetheless.

"What happened?" Kitty asked, intangible, looking around wildly for the attacker "Dunno," Pete spoke first, "somebody shot the bugger. I was asleep; don't know who. I'll find the bloke, don't worry luv. Eh... maybe you should call for a medic or somethi — "

Logan roared and leaped through Kitty towards Pete, who had turned away and crouched behind the bed, looking around for someone with a gun who had dared to shoot someone in his bedroom. "Wolvie!" Kitty screamed — that warned Pete that something was happening and he instinctively rolled to the side. Stiff from the open wound — for now — in his shoulder, Wolverine couldn't swing his arm fast enough to catch Wisdom, who spun and pointed the gun at he new threat. His mouth dropped in surprise at where it had come from — and then his eyes hardened.

"Alright, mate, I don't know wot game yer playing but if you move a twitch I'll blow yer bleedin 'ead off." The gun didn't waver from its position dead center between Logan's eyes.

"Ooh, tough guy," he growled, "think that pea-shooter scares me?"

Pete shrugged — and pointed with his free hand at the Canadian's forehead as well. "Wotever ace you've got against a gun, fine by me. Think that ace'll work against an 'ot knife, too?" The young Englishman's hand was glowing, heat emanating from it.

Wolverine smiled a feral grin, and — the hole in his shoulder almost closed entirely — shifted his weight minisculely, preparing to spring. Whether instincts or training, Pete was good enough to notice the hardly apparent tensing. His hand swiveled to point at the startled Shadowcat standing behind him.

"Go ahead," he smiled at Logan, "try it. I know she's a bleedin ghost; can walk through walls and bullets. But some energy 'urts 'er. And 'aving a piece of the bloody sun in 'er gut might be one of them. Want to take the chance?"

Wolverine snarled impotently, knowing as well as Wisdom apparently did that he would never do anything to risk Kitty's life.

"What's your angle?" he asked from the floor. "why enter Xavier's school?"

"I was sick of Black Air and you asked me. My turn: why'd you attack me? Wot was yer angle for it? Who d' you work for?"

"Nobody but me, punk. And I attacked you because you shot me, you little — "

"What?" Kitty asked, not understanding what had happened before she'd entered.

"I wot?" Pete asked incredulously.

"You shot me, English!"

"I did not! I 'eard a gunshot and I woke up. I wasn't even conscious when you came in 'ere — fer that matter, wot'd you want in 'ere anyway?" Wisdom asked suspiciously.

"I was comin' to wake you up, and you didn't move, so I pulled your blankets off."

"You bleedin idiot!"

Wolverine almost attacked him, hot knives or no hot knives. The growl in his throat was enough to make even Wisdom falter for a moment.

"I mean, you came in 'ere and bleedin attacked me, and I sleep with a bloody gun under my pillow! Of course I'll friggin' shoot you!"

"Why you little..."

Kitty laughed hysterically, falling down half on the bed and sliding to the floor.

Both men turned around and asked in unison, "what's so funny?" (the one in a British accent, of course, the other in a snarl).

"You two! You both act like you're the toughest thing in town, but don't realize that there might be someone else who's 'tough' too! So you treat each other like you'd treat anybody else, not realizing that when you do that the other might act by reflex and actually hurt you! Oh, this is rich!" She paused then, worried. "Logan, you aren't hurt, are you?"

Wolverine snorted. "From a bullet? You're kidding me, pun'kin."

Pete turned and looked at him. "Are you tellin me that I shot you at point blank range in the shoulder and you don't even need a bleedin' bandage?"

"Yep," Wolverine replied, flexing his arm, "I don't. Won't, neither. No little pop-gun's gonna hurt me. I got a healing factor, Wisdom. Work's wonders," he smiled ferally at the Englishman, who made the properly impressed response that someone in his profession would.

"No fook!"

"Nope."

"Bleedin' jerk."

"Yep."

"Oh, you two! God. I'm going to get some breakfast. Anyone coming?"

"Nope, darlin'. Already ate. Summers Special. Yum," he licked his lips.

Pete laughed. "I'll take yer up on 'at one, luv. One second," Pete snatched a piece of cloth from the piles strewn across the floor. For only arriving with a suitcase and a carry-on, he had taken a remarkably short time to make a complete mess. Logan's trained eye noticed, though, that few things of any import or necessity were out of the bags. Clothes, shoes, cigarettes, ammunition; the Brit probably had at least one extra replacement still packed up. The mess, while huge, was hardly irreplaceable. Pete shrugged into the bathrobe and slipped the gun into the pocket. Wolverine smiled. Cyclops would love it if he saw that. Maybe they'd all get lucky and Summers would die of rage. Ha. Or maybe he'd get into a fight with Wisdom and get his head blown off. That sounded much more plausible. Actually, a lot more... Hmm...

"Let me get this straight, okay?" she asked as she led him towards the kitchen.

"Go 'ead, luv."

"You shot Wolverine before you woke up and didn't even know it?"

" 'bout that, yes."

"Well. Remind me never to wake you up when I'm solid."

"I'd never shoot you, luv," he teased.

"Riiight. Just like you wouldn't have hit me with those hot knives of yours."

"I wouldn't," he protested, honestly.

"Really?"

"Really. It was a bluff, but don't tell anyone that. You'd ruin my reputation."

"But how come — " she wondered curiously.

"I knew he wouldn't risk it that I was telling the truth. He treats you like a daughter."

"Kinda. I mean, not really or anything. He just kinda... adopted me when I became an X-Man. So," she continued, pointing down the right hallway, "how come you trust me enough to tell me that?"

"Well..." Pete paused, "I don't really know. Stupid of me. I'd be drummed out of Black Air for 'at, right quick."

"That's like, the fifth time you've mentioned this 'Black Air' thing. What is it? If I can ask, I mean," she added hurriedly.

"Kind of a paranormal investigative thing. Sort of your CIA mixed with yer crazies out west wot sit in fields waitin' fer aliens, 'cept 'at it's real." He knew what the next reaction would be, and really didn't want to get that reaction from her for some reason. But he wanted even less to lie to her — very odd; he'd lie to his own grandmother for a used stick of gum — so he spoke the truth, albeit hurriedly.

"Oh, wow. Have you ever met any? The Skrulls? Or the Shi'ar? Or the — "

"Wot?" he turned to stare at her. "Wot the 'ell are you talking about?"

"Aliens. Extraterrestrials. Beings from outer space. Ever met Lilandra? She's the Empress Magistrix of the Shi'ar. They're kinda cool — and I never told you this, but she and the Professor are in L-O-V-E."

Pete stared at her for a moment. "You know," he said finally, "I have the oddest feeling that this may be even stranger than wot I did with Black Air..."

"Why'd you quit? I mean, it sounds like it'd be fun, right?" she asked curiously, pulling the orange juice from the refrigerator.

"Uh... not... quite, luv. Some of the things we did in Black Air, well... yer eating. I'll tell you later." She turned form the table with wide eyes and looked at him. "Maybe. If you feel like 'earing 'orror stories. Besides, I was sick of my boss, Scicluna, at Black Air. Thought this might be something better, something that was... I don't know... goin' to make a difference." Pete stopped, surprised. Why had he just told her this? He'd only met her two days ago. Why was he even telling her what Black Air did, let alone why he'd left it? What did she do to him? He didn't know what was wrong, and Xavier was off somewhere — he'd said he had things to do in Scotland or somewhere and taken off yesterday — so it couldn't be the bloody prig playing with his head. Could it?

And why, when she looked at him like that, did he feel like he maybe wasn't such a horrible person after all? Was it the trust in her eyes? No; people trusted him. People as bad as he was, usually, but trust nonetheless. You had to; you basically handed them your lives. If you didn't know how far you could trust people, you couldn't work with them. That was why he and Scratch hadn't... gotten along very well. They'd known exactly how far they could trust the other: nil. So... what was it? Pete turned away quickly and pulled a mug from the cupboard, pouring himself a cup of coffee. That was it; that was the answer. He wasn't awake yet, that was all. Just sleepiness, that's all. He was fine; perfectly fine. It wasn't anything wrong with him at all. He was just tired. That was it.

Alone in her room, Emily stood in front of her mirror. She sighed sadly and tossed the blonde wig back onto the bed. It just didn't look right. When she tried to cover it up, her hair glowed fluorescent. There was no hiding it at all. No dying it either; the last time she'd tried that her whole face had become tinged with violet. She'd had to hide inside her house for a whole week while she tried to wash it out. She hated her hair. It had caused all manner of trouble with school.

Weirdo. Freak. Queer. Geek. And many other, even worse names. That was why she'd dropped out; why she'd had to run away. After she had hidden behind a glowing, purple shield when her father had tried to beat her, they'd figured out that she wasn't just dying her hair purple to be rebellious (it had suddenly turned purple one day; before that it had been red) but that she was...

A mutant. A gene-freak. A demon. A devil. A defect. Something wrong. Something that should be destroyed, put out of its misery like a mad dog. She sniffled, trying not to cry. She picked the brown wig up off the floor and pulled it on over her chopped violet locks, pouting at the glow in the mirror. She turned and started cleaning up. No telling how long they would let her stay here. They all seemed nice — well, most of them. The one with the glasses — Scott — had a stick up his butt and the one with the claws — Wolverine — was scary. The others seemed okay; even Pete, usually, though he tried to act like a jerk most of the time. Still, you never could tell. It wouldn't last too long. Once they realized that they couldn't get whatever it was they were trying to get from her, she'd be on the street again, waitressing in "hip" teenage joints where she could get away with purple hair until they or other people began to suspect things and she had to go again, finding some other place to scrounge a few bucks. At least they hadn't asked her for any money or anything yet. And at least she could talk to Bobby without feeling like she was stupid or lying.

Jeremy was nice, but he knew a lot more than she did. She hadn't had the chance; it wasn't fair. She hadn't gotten the change to learn everything she needed to know before she'd had to leave school. And Kitty; she was the sweetest person she'd ever met, but the girl was a genius! And Pete — okay, he was cute, and he was pretty nice to her, too — Pete was a jerk. A really nice jerk, and one that she looked up to, was glad that he was here to help blunt Scott's attitude, but still a jerk. It was clear that he'd practiced for years to be that big of one. Bobby, though, was a smart-aleck but not a mental giant. And he talked to her like a person — he'd given her a little ice statue yesterday.

She'd walked into the lounge to see him playing around with his powers, surrounded by little likeness and shapes. After expressing her genuine admiration, he'd offered to give her one. Timidly, she'd asked for one of a unicorn, if he didn't mind. Just a tiny one, not big at all. With a grin and a flourish, he'd "snowed" one right out of the air. He'd told her that it would melt soon, but that he'd make her something else tomorrow if she let him tell her a joke. She'd promised that he could tell her as many jokes as he wanted, but had secreted the statue away in the freezer anyway.

She jumped when she heard the quiet knock on her door, then laughed when she heard the voice. "Hello," Iceman whispered, "are you awake? Can I come in? If you aren't awake, don't bother answering that last one. In fact, don't bother answering any of them if you're asleep."

She'd giggled and pulled the door open. "Come on in."

"You're in trouble now, missy," he'd shaken a finger in her direction.

"Oh no! I'm sorry! What did I do now?"

"Relax! You just signed your death warrant, that's all. You promised to let me tell you some of my jokes." He smiled his best evil smile at her and she laughed.

"Well, in that case I guess I'll meet my doom without any dignity, huh?"

"Yep!" he replied happily, overjoyed that she hadn't kicked him out and told him to tell his lame jokes to a brick wall or Logan's fist. He paused and looked at her.

"Didn't you use to have purple hair?" he asked curiously.

"Huh, what? Oh!" she blushed crimson and tore the wig off, tossing in to the floor and kciking it under the bed. "I was just... uhm... wondering what my hair would look like if, you know... uh..."

"Sure, whatever. Hey, I got a really good one! Knock-knock."

"Who'd there?"

"The interrupting cow!"

"The interrupt — " she began.

"Moo!" Bobby shouted, breaking in. She looked at him a moment, then giggled timidly. "Come on," he whined, "I thought that one was great!"

She nodded. "Me too. Tell me another one."

"Okay!" He looked like somebody had just told him that he could have a million dollars and a free ticket to a circus.

"You ever see Star Wars?"

"Uh-huh, I remember seeing it wi — "

"Great. Okay: how many Wookiees does it take to change a light bulb?"

"Uhm... I don't know."

"Two. One to hold the light bulb, the other to turn the house around!"

Kitty Pryde spun in a perfect pirouette, dropped through a deep bend, then raised her arms, pausing for a moment, secure and certain that she had performed perfectly, because there was no one around to say otherwise. She spun again, floating above the boathouse's roof, moon and stars glittering above her, reflected back by the dark waters below her. She sighed, then, and sat on the air, legs crossed, her chin in her hands, unable to escape her thoughts or even make sense of them.

The X-Men were dead. She'd cried and cried and cried until there were no tears left, even while she'd done her best to convince herself that it wasn't, couldn't be real, that they were still alive. She'd done her best to put it out of her mind, to not think of that. She had had no choice. If she'd focused on her grief or let the others focus on theirs, well... who knew where they'd be now. The Professor, at least, seemed to have recovered from his utter despair. He was at Muir now, saying that he'd just wanted some time away, to think things through. Moira MacTaggert wouldn't let him slip into desolation again, Kitty knew. She wasn't worried about that... very much.

Those thoughts weren't the ones troubling her. It had become a numbing ache in the back of her mind, in a corner of her heart, springing up when she least expected that, but while it was completely non-comprehensible, she understood those thoughts, why she had them, what they were about, and, more or less, how to at least cope with them. The pain would never go away, but she could live with pain, even the numbing heart-aching grief that was so fresh in her soul.

It was other thoughts, thoughts not of grief but of... Those thoughts were the ones that she had trouble understanding. They just didn't make sense! She should be home in bed right now; it was almost morning! But instead she was floating above the estate's boathouse, trying to dance her troubles away into the cold night air.

And failing miserably at it, too. She made a sound of exasperation at herself and floated a bit lower, just in case she lost it. It took concentration to walk on air, and if she lost her concentration she wouldn't have enough time to get it back this close to the ground, so she made sure that she was close enough to the boathouse roof that if she fell it wouldn't hurt. Too much.

Then she re-arranged her position until she was sitting comfortably on molecules of air and got down to some serious thinking. Or tried to. She giggled — that wouldn't do at all, she frowned at herself. Okay, it had been funny when Pete had told Scott off this afternoon. The contrast between the two was priceless! Scott, Mr. Boy Scout of America, had looked like he was spitting nails and hellfire, face even redder than his glasses were, and Pete witting there looking oh-so-cool with that cute sardonic look on his face, calmly blowing smoke in Scott's face. Wait a minute. Cute? Did she say cute? Why had she said that? Well, Pete was cute and all, but why — hey, waitaminute! Where did that thought come from?

Oh, no, she buried her face in her hands, shaking her head defiantly, trying to shake the thought out. Oh, no! No no no no no. She would not develop a crush on Pete Wisdom, she would not. That wold just hurt far too much. She would not she would not she would not do that. She didn't know how but she would not let herself do that, she would not —

She opened her eyes and tried to think 'light' but it was too late; she was on her way down and the roof was coming up fast. She closed her eyes and braced herself to roll, hopefully not of the roof, still doing her best to think light and knowing it was futile. Instead of hitting the roof and scraping herself all over the shingles, then probably rolling off it to land painfully on the grass and probably a whole bunch of rocks, too, she landed in somebody's arms.

"Thanks, Wolvie," she muttered, embarrassed that he'd seen her lose her concentration, hoping he wouldn't ask over what.

Her heart nearly stopped when the person spoke. "Sorry, luv, 'fraid 'e isn't 'ere right now."

Oh, shit, she thought so loudly he had to have heard it. "Oh, um, whoops. Thanks for catching me and stuff. I kinda lost my concentration and fell and thanks." She tried to take a deep breath but realized that she was still in his arms. God, somebody up there hated her alright.

He raised an eyebrow that she could hardly see in the dark. "You alright, luv?" Oh, god, why did he have to use that word? It was just his cute — there we go again! — accent, but still, oh, why?

"Yeah, thanks." She swallowed, not sure if she wanted him to put her down or not. She didn't get a chance to figure it out before he did, on the edge of the boathouse roof. Great, Kitty, you almost missed that. Would have really hurt if you'd hit the ground from that high up.

He shrugged, a motion heard more than seen in the dark and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, calm, cool, and collected: all the things she wasn't right now. God, she realized, she was standing here in the dark on the boathouse roof, alone, with a guy she seemed to have developed a serious crush on and he didn't even notice. Does my life bite, or what?

"So, um, any special reason you're out here this late?"

The flare of the lighter illuminated his face for a moment as he touched it to the cigarette. She hoped he couldn't see hers, because she probably looked like an idiot. She shuffled her feet around on the shingles uncomfortably while she waited for an answer. "That place can get t' be a bit crowded. And Summers told me to go to sleep." Pete snorted. "So I rolled a fag under 'is door and took off."

She giggled — oh, great, I sound like some infatuated bimbo now. God! — imagining Scott's reaction to that one. Then he asked her the same question and she nearly died.

"'ow 'bout you, luv?"

He asked it so casually, too. He must not realize that she had a crush, thank god for that. "Oh, uhm, just thinking. You know, about, like, stuff." Oh what a great cover-up, Kitty! That was wonderful! He probably thinks you are so cool, now! Shut up, she told the annoying little voice in her head.

He shrugged in the darkness. "Wotever, luv." She realized then how close he was standing, the cigarette just a small bright spot in the dark surrounding them. She swallowed, quietly thanking every divine being there was that Wisdom wasn't a telepath.

"You fall into people's lives often?" He meant it as a joke, but was there an ulterior meaning to that? Did it mean that she had fallen into his life, that she was part of it? That he wanted her to be part of it? Kitty forced herself to stop analyzing every nuance like a drooling ditz and answer objectively.

"It takes a lot of concentration to float on air. If I don't think about it, I become too heavy and fall. I didn't have time to float again before I... uh... hit."

He nodded, the small spark moving up and down showing her the motion, accepting the answer that wasn't really an answer... maybe? What did that mean? Was he disappointed, happy, did he even care? She was so much younger than he was; he'd probably had tons of girlfriends. Why would he even notice some brown-haired teenager who fell out of the sky and landed on him? Kitty kicked at the shingles, scraping her shoes across them.

"I'm ah... gonna call it a night... or morning or whatever it is. And thanks for catching me." She turned to go quickly and tripped over the rain gutter. Before she could phase or anything, an arm had caught her around the waist and pulled her back up onto the roof. She blushed furiously. "Thanks again."

"No problem, luv." Why did he have to call her that? His arm was still around her waist as they stood, close together in the darkness, staring at the shadows in front of them... Her heart began to beat more rapidly and her breaths came quicker. Why now, why with him? He didn't even care about her... did he? She hoped so much that it hurt, hoped that he liked her, hoped that...

Wisdom cleared his throat and stepped back. "Careful, luv. Looks like you're gonna kill yerself. 'ere, I'll pretend I'm some kind of bleedin gentl'man and walk you back t' yer room," he smiled laughingly and hopped off the roof. Glad that the darkness hid her flaming face, Kitty floated down and joined him on the dock over the water, stars reflected back at them. "Sides, you get 'urt when I'm out 'ere, yer bleedin 'father' Wolverine'll 'ave 'imself an English snack," he teased.

"I won't get hurt. I do live here, you know. I think you just needed an excuse that would get you out of having to ask how to get back to the mansion."

"Who, me?" Pete muttered around the cigarette, trying to sound innocent. Kitty laughed.

The winds over Muir Island were always cold and bitter, and unless there was some type of precipitation to go with them, that was the island's basic climate. Never, though, had they felt so harsh to the man sitting in them. Moira MacTaggert could tell this from the window of her laboratory, but knew that her friend needed to sort things out some more before she should talk to him. He needed the chance to realize that the Dream was still worthwhile on his own before someone — even someone as trusted and cared for as Moira — tried to tell him so.

So she watched, her own heart aching, as he just sat listlessly and stared at the wind. He listened to the wind closely, trying to stop his thoughts while thinking deeply at the same time. He could hear words whispered by the wind in his ears. Wonderful, Charles, now the wind speaks to you. Things were fine when you heard 'voices' but this is stretching things.

Charles Xavier wondered what came after life. There were so many explanations, and he'd believed in a kind and benevolent god all his life, but once again, things were brought home so closely. He'd sometimes wonder if there was one, and sometimes he would wonder what kind, while other times he would force himself not to think of that, wanting to believe wholeheartedly in whatever comfort he could derive to mend the pain of his loss.

The same loss that the wind was whispering in his ears, or maybe in his mind. He could hear his students, those lost recently and those from far too long ago, all no longer here with him, and all a part of a slash cut across his heart every time one of them felt pain, or worse, stopped feeling that pain.

'Professor,' he heard Jean whispering in his mind gently, Jean, who he'd lost so long ago to a power from the cosmos, 'we all love you anyway, Professor. We always knew what the price could be, and we still believe in your Dream. Please, Professor, know that we all still believe.'

'Mon ami, c'est la vie,' Remy LeBeau informed him laughingly, as if he needed confirmation. 'You do, mon ami. You t'ink dat it a bad life right now, but Gambit know better. Life be what you make it. Trust me, mon ami, Gambit know both sides of de world.'

"Professor,' it was Warren, one of his first students now, 'don't get yourself depressed. Come on, I finally look just like everyone else! And you know what? The flying's still fine up here.'  Warren. Also called Angel, up there with the others.

'Life stinks, sugah,' Rogue drawled, and there were luckily few who knew that like she did, 'so why dontcha make it better for someone? Like ya did with me — with us? Ah'm thankful for it.'

'C'mon, Charles,' the crisp British accent of the Asian telepath bit through his head, 'why should you sit around moping? You always did way too much thinking like that; get off it and do something!' He had to smile at the impatience he could hear from Betsy, so much like when she'd been alive.

'Herr Xavier,'  came the demon with the soul and heart of more than a hero, 'why do you sadden your heart? We are free, Mein Herr, but not everyone else is. Give them a chance too, nich warr?'

'Charles,' he could hear his beautiful windrider, 'Charles, what are you doing here? Your new X-Men need you, Charles. Go to them. We know your love for us, Charles, but they do not. Show them, please, Charles. They need you, as we did once, and as the world needs your Dream.'

He knew Ororo was right; she usually was. He knew that the others were as well. Xavier wasn't certain if he'd really heard them, or if his mind had just imagined it, or if it were some combination of the two; perhaps a ruse of Moira's, or someone mentally playing a little game. It didn't really matter, did it? It was just what his X-Men would have told him had they seen him like this, after what had happened. He whispered a goodbye to the waves and promised his students that he would never fail them; that the Dream would never die until the rest of the world woke up and realized it as truth. He promised that he would do better than he had done, that he would fulfil their trust, and be worthy of it and their love.

Moira MacTaggert whispered a prayer of thanks when she saw the Shi'ar hoverchair turn away from the waves and start back towards her facility on Muir; when she saw the sad, loving smile hanging like a ghost on the lips of Professor Charles Xavier, a smile like that of someone in a Dream.

"Moira," he spoke calmly but not in the deadened, emotionless voice he had earlier, "thank you. I must return to my X-Men now. They need my help and guidance. And the new ones need to hear about the Dream."