Preview

Taking the cure was almost the hardest thing Marie had ever done. The hardest came soon after, when she left the X-men to build a life for herself in the "baseline" world. But years later, when her mutation returns—along with some unwelcome and unethical scientists—she to turn to the X-Men once more.

That is, if they can find her.

Story is told through present scenes, heavily interspersed with flashbacks. Never really done those before, so bear with me.

Housekeeping:

This is my first X-men story, and only my second fanfic ever. In the interests of not writing the world's second rambliest fanfic (see my first, still unfinished after three damned years) I will try to keep this one shorter. For now, the rating is an T for strong language. I am an unabashed Rogan shipper, and an equally unabashed lover of angst, hurt, comfort, etc., so eventually that should come around.

Disclaimer: I don't own the X-men. If only I did! I'd need a larger bed. Anyway, all's I have is too much time and a too-active imagination. No profits to be made here, kthxbye.

Chapter 1

There were many horrible things Marie was experiencing at present: the lack of steady and nourishing meals; the clinical detachment and occasional contempt of the lab techs and orderlies; the restraints; and inevitably the painful experiments, but the absolute worst part of her captivity was the sheer boredom.

The room decor—white on white—was uninspiring. Of course there were no windows, so she had no way of seeing what was beyond the lab building, or what the weather was like, or even if it was day or night. There were neither books nor magazines nor televisions in her room. All that existed were Marie's own memories to help pass the time. And she was not at all sure that this was a comfort.

Twice a day, an orderly came with a tray of food. Once in the morning, and then once again in the evening, after the long day of testing and poking and prodding and interviews and observations. But by that point, Marie was usually exhausted, both mentally and physically, and sometimes the residual pain was too difficult for her to try to force down food. The orderlies, the lab techs, the doctors, none of them ever spoke to her, or even looked at her directly, if they could possibly help it. She was either "it" or "Patient 129"-no doubt some sort of obvious way to try to break down her sense of humanity or self-worth, but Marie was having none of that. Each time they referred to her as it, she would begin an inner litany. Her. She. Rogue. Anna Marie D'Ancanto. Anna Marie Lewin. She called to mind every possible self-referential pronoun or proper noun she had ever employed in her life when she heard the word "it." As for when she heard the words Patient 129, she always thought the same thing: Did 128 patients come before me? How do I help them? That last bit was definitely something Rogue would have thought. Rogue was dead, but her spirit lived on.

Marie knew, of course, that there was no helping any other patient so long as she could not help herself. And the only way she could figure to do that was to keep herself sane.

Sometimes, one of the orderlies was particularly rough when they strapped her onto the table; the restraints were so tight that Marie knew there would be marks and bruises later. There was never a word of rebuke from any of the nurses. The first time this happened, Marie immediately knew how it was going to be. She was an expendable; no need to be gentle. The second time this happened, Marie forced herself to go into her mind and think about another time, another lab.

The Worthington Satellite Laboratory in New York City was as welcoming as it could be, given the circumstances: a line of mutants that the reporters were saying would take three days to clear up, and a spate of protestors on both sides of the "Mutant Question", as well as a bevy of police cars and a private army of well-armed security guards. A noticeable number of white-coated people moved through the line of mutants, welcoming, reassuring, explaining, offering what hospitality they could: a bottle of water, a blanket, information on The Cure.

When Marie, along with the rest of the mutants in her "sector" of the line, were finally ushered into the building and then the lab, she was impressed even further. Ten hospital beds; two orderlies per bed, re-sheeting it for its latest patient. A doctor and a nurse by each bed, and –here was the strangest thing—what appeared to be a chaplain. Beside the chaplain was a well-dressed, kind-faced woman.

They were there, one of the doctors explained, to give advice and counseling and comfort.

Were they being cured or killed? Rogue had a moment to wonder this before the chaplain and counselor began to move through the crowd of mutants. Two of mutants—both of them with non-visible mutations-appeared to change their mind, and were allowed to leave the room, and presumably, the building.

The chaplain, seeing Rogue's youth and apprehensive expression, explained it. Worthington Labs was in full support of the philosophy that mutants were humans, and entitled to the same kindness and dignity of any patient with any illness. And like any human, they had the right to decide how and if to treat it. He then accompanied her to the hospital bed. Did she have a place to return to? Did she feel comfortable? Was there anything he could get her?

Rogue may have been about to lose her mutation, but not her courage. She had thanked the kindly priest, and told him to tend to the others. If she was going to go through with this, she was going to do it on her own.

No, her current accommodations and treatment were a far cry from the Worthington Labs of her memory. She had no idea even where she was, or at whose hands she was suffering, but she had a very hard time believing that it had anything to do with the bleeding-heart compassion she had come to associate with the original engineers of The Cure. There was none of that here.

When had she given up on her resolution not to scream? She couldn't remember, but it didn't matter. Now she couldn't scream—in addition to the restraints, they had inserted a leather strap into her mouth. One of the few compassionate lab techs had explained that it was to protect her tongue when she seized, but Marie knew better. She had gone through three seizures before she had finally given into the urge to scream her rage and pain, and it was only then that they had gagged her. They just didn't want to hear her voice as it tore through the lab.

So her cries were high-pitched, muffled, and entirely in vain. Still, the head doctor felt the need to speak loudly. "Increase the dosage."

None of the other doctors questioned this order, other than, "By how much?"

"Another three units."

The cure—the first time she was given it—had been a little uncomfortable. Not, like, agonizing, but certainly a bit painful. The make-up of each and every one of her cells was changing, as well as the bone marrow that produced the mutated DNA. And then, of course, beyond the cause, there was the symptom: her skin. For a fleeting moment, it had felt on fire, as though a poison were rushing over it. And then, just as quickly, it has subsided to a vague itching, and then nothing.

The doctor who had injected the syringe had been careful, even gentle. He had watched her with anxious eyes as The Cure had done its work. And when she reached out and laid a bare hand on his arm, he hadn't flinched.

Now, though, the syringe was unceremoniously jabbed into her arm, and Marie turned her head about, looking from one face to the other, searching for anything beyond clinical curiosity. She stopped this search abruptly as the pain ripped through her, worse than ever, and she tried to scream again. The strangled cry simply seemed to erupt within her throat, and after a moment, she stopped. It would tax her strength, and she needed as much of that as possible—this rational thought slammed to an abrupt halt as a fresh wave of pain clawed at her, as though it were trying to shred her skin to pieces. And before her horrified eyes, that was what appeared to be happening; her skin appeared to be moving, changing colors, rippling and pulling away from itself at the pores, as though in protest of the chemicals and hormones that were now trying to overpower it.

Watching this, Marie was overcome with wonder. It was as though her body knew what was best for her; it was working to protect itself and her from this altered "Cure", and it was working to reject it. And finally observing this, she finally admitted a terrible thing and acknowledged a terrible fact she had denied for four years. If I'd have known The Cure would bring me this much grief, I never would have taken it.

It was a thought of despair, and it was the last thought she had before she lost consciousness.

Even in the beginning, The Cure hadn't helped her that much, anyway.

She should have known it would drive them away, those mutants who had come to accept her more than her own Southern kin every had.

Bobby was the first disappointment. Scarcely had she returned to the Manor when he began to distance himself, to the point where, after three days, he was practically hiding. It was only after she overheard Logan—Logan, of all mutants—giving him a talking-to that she had realized a nasty fact. Bobby didn't want to be with her any more.

"She's different," Bobby had told Logan.

"No shit, she's different." Logan hadn't sounded thrilled to be having that conversation. "But you gonna start doing the same thing to her that the 'normal' humans did to us? Is Rogue less than you because she ain't got her mutation any longer?"

"I don't know." Bobby had shifted uncomfortably. "I just know that things are different with her and me now. I can touch her—but it freaks me out to think that she was willing to take The Cure."

Logan had muttered something about hormonal, wishywashy boys. And then said, "You know what, bub? Why the hell we even talkin' about this? You kids are too young to know what you want, let alone be touchin' each other, anyway."

"You're only half right, Logan." Marie had stepped forward then. "Bobby sure as hell is too young to know what he wants. But me? I've still got half-a-dozen people rattling around in this head, including a Machiavellian Holocaust survivor, and an probably ageless man with feral inclinations and a penchant for rough sex all over the place. So I think I've got the age card covered."

She had swept past them grandly then, and Bobby had reached out to grab her arm. Logan had grunted in disapproval, but before he could say or do anything else, Rogue had jerked away from Bobby. "Don't touch me."

Irony.

When neither of them came chasing after her, she knew exactly how life would be here with the mutants from now on.

Some were more understanding than others—but not the ones she needed. The younger students were, by and large, the same as ever. Piotr was kind, as was Kurt. Kitty and Jubes had made noises of sympathy, but even as they had commiserated with Rogue, she could feel the distance growing between them.

As for Logan, his reaction had been typical. Of course, he had known what she had intended, so had more warning than some of the others. He had merely given her an assessing look, as though trying to gauge whether or not she was satisfied with her decision. And then had held out his bare hand for her to shake. She had taken it, and was unsurprised by the power and the firm grip behind it. His only words were, "We could have used you out there at Alcatraz."

So Logan was disappointed, too, but for entirely different reasons. As a soldier, as a leader of soldiers, he was disappointed that one of his troops had gone AWOL. And other than the talk he had had with Bobby, he proceeded to ignore the situation, ignore her, as though she were just another student. It was as though, in giving up mutant status, she no longer held any interest or worth beyond that of any other of the 5 billion non-mutants of the world.

It had been then that Marie had stopped thinking of herself as Rogue.

"Think we have to call it a day. Take it back to its room for observation."

Two orderlies settled the unconscious form of Marie into the gurney, trying their best not to touch any of her bare skin. Whenever they injected her with various trial versions of The New Cure, they never knew how long it would last. So far, the Original Cure had stuck the longest, but that wasn't saying much.

For now, though, her skin was not deadly. This was the most important part of the trials, observing how long the "Cures" worked, how her body reacted, what side effects there were. How long it took her to regain consciousness. How much stronger her mutation became when it resurfaced. But the orderlies began to relax a little. Their movements got a little looser, a little less tense. And as they wheeled her gurney down the bare, white corridor, one of them in particular seemed to be quite content to be making more physical contact than was strictly necessary.

The lead doctor of the Rememdium Initiative, Dr. Lucas Dipierri, followed after the gurney. Accompanying him was his lead lab assistant—and sometimes lover— Sara Almquist. She was dictating into a tape recorder as they walked. "Patient 129 was injected with nine units of Trial Cure 42 between the hours of eleven hundred and sixteen hundred; the final dosage of units seven, eight, and nine caused her to lose consciousness approximately ninety seconds after injection. Subject has yet to regain consciousness, but all vital signs are steady."

They stopped in the doorway of its room, watching as the orderlies transferred it from the gurney back to its bed. The orderlies then glanced over to Dr. Dipierri, who gave a nod of assent and watched as they fastened the restraints.

"It's the first time you've restrained it in its room," Sara observed. "Any particular reason?"

He continued watching the orderlies. "We've never dosed it this much before. Side effects could include hallucinations or attempts at self-harm."

She nodded. Together they watched as Orderly Nelson finished tightening the straps to Patient 129's wrists, and then began to work his hand up from its wrist, to its shoulder, and then down its shoulder, disappearing under the flimsy hospital gown.

"You never allowed any inappropriate contact with the other patients." Sara uttered this as a statement, but there was a question behind it.

"Contact was never one of the key issues with the others," the doctor answered. "But it is with this one. And we need a way to tell if the cure is taking with it. Orderly Nelson is the perfect way to continue the experiment—with his somewhat dubious appetites, and equally dubious intelligence, he's always willing to see how far he can take it with Patient 129 before the mutation kicks back in. And he always comes back for more."

As it to underscore his point, Orderly Nelson gave a painful yelp and jerked his hand away from the offending breast.

"Does this man have no concept of conditioned response?" Sara demanded incredulously. Without waiting for an answer, she lifted the tape recorder, hit a button, and resumed narrating in an impossibly professional voice. "Patient 129 exhibited resistance to Trial Cure 42 approximately ten minutes after injection."

The first time Marie began to manifest resistance to The Cure, it was less than a week after she had returned to the Manor. It had begun as a faint itching of the skin, a faint pain similar to the one she had experienced when she had taken The Cure. She didn't want to think about it; didn't want to acknowledge what it meant. So she firmly closed her mind to it.

Just as well, for things weren't getting any better for her at Mutant Manor. Her situation was one of increasing isolation, and strangely, she felt lonelier than she had since her mutation had first manifested. It began to occur to her that once more, she was no longer surrounded by her own.

In the end, the most help and sympathy Marie had gotten had been from a most unexpected source.

A few days after her encounter with Logan, she received a summons to Ororo Munroe's office. Instinctively, Marie wanted to drag her feet, delay it as long as possible, but she had accepted that adult decisions led to adult consequences. Time to face the music.

Tentatively, she knocked on the door to Storm's office, and it opened immediately to reveal the tall, elegant woman. At her shoulder was kindly but unnerving Kurt. "Rogue, come in."

She went in, and sat down in the chair that Kurt pulled out for her. She looked expectantly at Storm.

After a moment, the woman spoke. "How are you doing?" Her voice seemed gentle enough.

Marie shrugged. "Okay, I guess." The eloquence with which she had defended her decision to the others now seemed to abandon her entirely. "Trying to adjust."

"I imagine so." Storm glanced at Kurt. "We've been...trying to think of ways to help you."

Marie waited, outwardly composed, but inwardly terrified. The time of reckoning had come. She had no family to take her in in the larger world, no savings, and now, no mutation to justify her existence here at the Manor. She was a stray, now more than ever.

"Professor Xavier..." Storm paused, remembering her teacher and mentor. "He cared for every human, both mutant and baseline, who passed through the doors of this building. Each student he took in—especially the ones with no family—he established a trust for them."

"A trust?" Marie had heard of them, but had no experience. Trusts were for people with family. Family who cared.

"An educational trust, to see them through their college years. Enough usually to go a small private college, or a larger public university." Storm smiled encouragingly. "Not all of the students who have passed through this door wanted to continue living first and foremost as mutants. So Professor Xavier did what he could to help them through the larger world."

Marie remained silent.

Storm and Kurt glanced at each other. And then Storm spoke again. "So what do you think? Small college, big university?"

"You kicking me out?" Marie's voice was not challenging, only resigned.

It was Kurt who spoke. "Nein, Fräulein," he assured her. "We want you should have the best life you can live. With people who will love and accept you for who you are."

In the end, mutants and baselines were more alike than they wished to acknowledge. Each stuck to their own, and shunned The Others.

With the help of Storm and Hank, when he could visit, and with the emotional support of Kurt, Marie began to make the preparations to depart. Applications, essays, references, interviews—it took all of this, plus the right amount of money, and the pulling of a few strings, and soon enough, they had her placed in a huge, anonymous Midwestern university. By this time, it was late July; only a month to go before her permanent departure from the mutant world.

Marie's isolation continued, so there were few people she could try to touch. On occasion, Storm would place her hand on her shoulder, or Kurt would give her a comforting hug. Hank shook her hand every time he returned to the Manor. And none of them were the worse for this contact. It wasn't until one day, when Logan happened across Marie in the garden, sobbing out her grief over her impending leave-taking, that she realized the truth.

The campus was nigh on empty; Storm had taken the year-long boarders—AKA "the orphans"—into the city the into the City for some field trip. Kurt was in the chapel, praying away as he so often did. So Marie had gone down to the gardens. She would be sorry to leave here; the flowers were oddly comforting. None of them had ever wilted when she touched them. And then, she was crying.

She had been at it for a good five or ten minutes when the sound of approaching footsteps fell upon her ears. She paused in mid-sob, but by then it was too late. She could tell it was Logan, and he had probably heard her all the way from the house.

"Kid, you okay?" He set a half-empty bottle of beer on the grass and knelt down in front of her. "What's wrong?"

This gruff kindness, after all the indifference she had encountered from almost everyone, was the last straw, and Marie could only bury her head in her hands and sob harder.

"Hey." Logan pried her hands away from her face and chaffed them, more gently than she would have thought him capable. "What's wrong, Rogue?"

"Don't call me that!" she screeched.

She felt it then, right before she jerked her hands out of his. She felt the surge of power rush through herand then felt the horrible, familiar tug. And then his thoughts and personality were entering her mind, just like it had always happened. The pain of it slammed into Logan, and he dropped back like a stone, looking more shocked than anything. They hadn't held on long enough for there to be any lasting damage, and his healing factor was already kicking in. It didn't fix his surprise, however. "What the hell just happened...?"

"My mutation..." Marie whispered this. "It's coming back. I think it must...must get triggered when I get upset..."

"Kid, what the hell just happened?" Logan demanded again. He was struggling to sit up. "Rogue?"

In hindsight, they both knew that the rage, the speed, the strength were just manifestations of Logan's own personality, running feral through her head. But at that moment, such knowledge helped neither of them. Snarling, Marie leaped towards him, snatching his abandoned beer bottle and cracking it against a rock. The bottle shattered, just as she had hoped, leaving a satisfyingly wicked shard in her hand. Moving with blinding speed, she was on top of him before he could get to his feet, and held the glass shard to his throat. "Don't you breathe a fucking word of this to anyone."

It was a ridiculous threat, and they both knew it. Even as he watched, the rage died out of Marie's eyes, replaced by equal parts fear and confusion. As quickly as she had jumped him, she retreated. He knew that she was terrified, not just of herself, but of him. "Kid-" He manged to get to his feet, and started towards her.

"Don't touch me! Don't say anything!" she cried, backing away a few feet. It was then that she saw the thing in his eyes that she had never hoped to see again. She saw pity.

Marie turned tail and ran.

Late that night, after Storm had returned from the City, Marie stole into her office and had a lengthy meeting with her.

The next morning, she was gone. And because it was the last thing Marie ever asked of him, Logan never said a word about that afternoon to anyone. Until now.

It may have been summer, but school wasn't exactly out for the students or the teachers at the Xavier School.

Each June, about a score of children and adolescents returned to their homes and families, but another two dozen or so would stay behind. To them, the Xavier Institute was home, its staff and students their family. During those hazy, lazy summer months, the pace of the school altered but a little. Only a few classes were offered—more extracurricular than anything—but the rigorous training never stopped. And so, the work never stopped for the staff, either.

For Logan, it was a tough call. He wanted to be annoyed as hell for being locked down in one place, especially during the summer months. But even he had to admit, the fighting and sparring opportunities, to say nothing of the combat scenarios of the Danger Room, all provided a certain appeal. So too did the very decent paycheck.

Plus, it didn't hurt that the school lost close to half of the students. While during the school year, he was perpetually annoyed, during the summer months, he was only inclined towards annoyance.

This hot July day, however, he had gone well past the inclination to be annoyed. Now he was stepping dangerously close to the land of pissed-off.

"I think I'd rather be exposed to supersonic screams all day," he muttered to Piotr Rasputin, who stood beside him. Also known as Colossos, when rattling around in his steel skin, the younger man was Logan's sparring partner and co-instructor, chosen because he was the only one around who could outlast Logan in a fight. Also, it had to be admitted, because his famously even temper was a badly-needed counter-balance to Logan's impulsiveness. Even now, assaulted as they were by a group of seven giggling, talking, squealing nine-to-eleven year-olds—called "tweens" by Storm and "runts" by Logan—Piotr seemed impervious to it. He merely stood to the side, allowing Logan to handle the leadership.

But then, fortunately, Piotr was struck by an idea. "Stay right here," he told Logan, and then headed out of the room...leaving Logan with the noisy runts. They ignored him, however, and he could not help but to wonder why Storm and Xavier had decided they were old enough to start training. I probably did something to piss 'em off. It was fairly easy to do. He'd been here in Westchester now for four years—five, if you counted the year that he had stuck around after Jean died the first time—but he was far from domesticated. Sure, he had stopped taking off...except on long weekends, when he'd hop on his hog and head over a few counties for a few rounds with one cage, two bottles, and three women. But he was still, essentially, the same. Same hair-trigger temper, same impulsiveness, same tendencies towards taking the most violent approach to a situation. He wasn't the favorite mutant at the mansion, not by any stretch.

Before Logan could ponder possible transgressions any further, Piotr returned, with a younger and much smaller girl in his wake: a ginger kid, fifteen-year-old Theresa Cassidy. Mutant name: Siryn. Logan guessed right away what her presence was there for, and he actually grinned in anticipation. "Have at it."

Siryn shrieked.

It was a fairly muted noise, at least compared to some of the ear-splitting, brain-draining hollers she had emitted in the past. But this one was certainly loud enough to make both Logan and Piotr cringe—and it silenced the runts immediately. Watching the immediate effects, Logan found himself grateful for Piotr as his co-instructor. The kid certainly had his uses.

Smirking, Logan nodded his thanks at Siryn, and she trotted off again, no doubt happy to be away from the fledgling x-geeks. Then he turned back to the runts, who were now gazing at their instructors through saucer-wide eyes.

"Listen up, runts," he barked. "God only knows why Professor Cue Ball stuck the seven of you with me. You're too young, and I'm too cranky. Tin Man over here might not mind putting up with you, but I do. Just be glad class ain't first thing in the morning."

Thankfully, they remained silent. He decided to reward them, and snikt, his claws out. Now he really had their attention. "But you're here now, and so we're stuck with each other. Maybe if you pay attention, you'll grow up to be big bad x-men like...well, this one here." Logan glanced over at Piotr, who simply stood and listened impassively. "Right now, just sit still and watch."

It was the same gig, every year. Every year, Piotr and Logan whaled on each other for half an hour, trading blows and but rarely drawing blood—that was a pretty difficult thing to do to either of them, in any case. They'd vary it up a little each year, but each year, it ended with a mutually agreed-upon draw. And the runts would be riveted, every time.

This time was no different. And at the end of the half-hour combat scenario, Logan was covered in a sheen of sweat and grinning in a way that had nothing to do with joy. He retracted his claws, and beside him, Piotr resumed his flesh-and-blood form, seemingly indifferent to the fact that he had spent the last half-hour sparring with one hairy, ferocious Canadian. Logan suspected the younger man was a bit of a pacifist. Damned shame—Tin Man was the strongest one on the team.

In front of them, the kids simply stared.

"Someday you're going to fight like that," Logan told them. When he said this, his eyes almost twinkled, as they always did at the prospect of ass-kickery.

"Even the girls?" asked one of the four females. She was one of the youngest—ten years old, and undersized to boot. According to Storm, her mutation had something to do with manipulating solar power—great, because fire-starters always worked so well in the past around here—and generating waves of energy.

"Especially the girls," Logan told her. His stare had gone quite stern. "It's gonna be tough. We're hard teachers, because you gotta learn. You gotta keep up. And you gotta look out for each other."

Finally, Piotr spoke up. "You saw Professor...Logan and me using our powers. But we've had years to learn how to control our powers, to fight with them, to use them to our advantage. Professor Xavier and Professor Munroe think that they've worked with you enough to have some control over your powers. And so that's why you're here. Your powers are the most important thing to fight with. All of this sparring, that's just extra."

Logan took up the thread. "But if you don't have the fighting practice, your powers still might not do much good. I used to teach a girl with one of the deadliest powers you could imagine. She could knock you out, just if she could latch onto you long enough. But at first, she was useless in combat. By the time we were done teachin' her, she was almost better at the fighting then she was with her power..." He paused for a moment, more surprised than anything. Now, where had that shit come from? He'd never brought up Rogue before in his classes. Shrugging off the thought of her, he continued. "Tomorrow, you're each gonna get up here and demonstrate your mutations, if you can. Once we see your mutations, then we're going to work on how you can fight with them, and around them, and how you can defend yourselves against each other. For now, get lost. We're done for the day."

With this abrupt ending, Logan turned away, not bothering to notice the shuffling of feet, the muted chatter, the alternately awe-struck, admiring, or slightly fearful looks that the runts gave him. Already, he was wiping his face and reaching for his bottle of water.

Not a bad existence at all, when he stopped to think about it. The digs weren't half bad, they let him have his cigars, he got to teach the defense and offense classes. Every now and then—but not nearly often enough—they sent him on a mission. It was the most decent existence he had had in a good long time. Was he happy? Hell, no. But had he ever been? Was he ever supposed to be?

What sort of pansy-assed questions were these, anyway? Cue-Ball hadn't kept him here to teach philosophy, after all. Nodding a good-bye to Piotr, Logan headed down to the garage. Maybe a few hours of tinkering around with the bikes would help him stop pondering pointless things.

At the very least, it would be a welcome respite from the runts.

Several hours later, Storm came looking for him.

He smelled her before he heard her, heard her before he saw her, and finally saw her boots approach him. "Logan?"

Logan rolled out from under the car that he had been poking at. "What's up, Snowflake?"

It was difficult to tell what made Storm more unhappy—his nickname for her, or that she had to be out here in the garage at all. The woman had a knack for mechanics; she spent enough time working on the Blackbird for Logan to know this to be the case. But being out here in the garage reminded her, too painfully, of Scott, who had tended to tinker around as much as Logan now did. He saw the sorrow in her eyes, and almost felt bad.

"The Professor wants to meet with us. Says it's important."

Logan rolled his eyes. "When isn't it?" Still, if Cue Ball wanted to talk with them, it was probably to do with a mission, and anything to get him outta the school for a little bit was fine by him. So he hauled himself out of the garage, and without bothering to change clothes, followed Storm back into the house. Several students glanced at them in curiosity as they passed—the two teachers were a study in complete contrasts. Logan was earthy, burly, and covered head to toe in sweat and axle grease, and Ororo Munroe strode beside him, tall and elegant and impeccably dressed, and probably smelling a helluva lot nicer, too.

Outside of Cue Ball's office, Storm paused. "Play nicely, Logan."

"Why? You gonna make me teach the tweens tap-dancing?" Logan gave her a twisted grin and pushed past her, stalking into Xavier's office without knocking.

Full house, by the looks of it. Cue-Ball sat behind his desk, a cordial expression on his face. Stuffed into a chair across the desk was Dr. Hank McCoy; next to him was Piotr. Kurt crouched on a credenza halfway across the room. All the big kids.

"Logan, Storm." The Professor smiled at them both. "Have a seat."

When the Professor had died four years back, leadership pf the school had passed into Storm's hands. The Professor had believed in her, but she had not believed in herself. The woman had felt herself in over her head, particularly with her friends and mentor all dead and gone. When Logan was honest with himself—and he tried not to be, at least on this point—that was initially why he had stuck around, after Alcatraz. Storm had looked so lost, so at sea; she had turned to him for advice and tactical guidance. And he had turned to her for lack of any other stabilizing influence, especially after Marie took off.

Marie. Rogue. Twice in one day, she had popped, unbidden, into his head. Logan frowned at her unwelcome memory—who invited you, kid?- then turned his mind back to his previous thoughts. Together, he and Storm had forged a sort of friendship, and together they had held the school together, an unlikely alliance strengthened by the gentle faith of Kurt and, eventually, the diplomacy and wisdom of Hank. Still, Storm had never taken over the Professor's office...and at the end of that first, bleak year, when the Professor had returned to them, Storm had quietly relinquished the role of headmistress. She was content as Team Leader, and wished for many more years of experience before she had to step into Xavier's role again. Now, Logan could practically smell the relief coming off of Storm; whatever the situation was, at least she wasn't the first one to have to handle it.

"Gonna tell us why we're here?" Logan asked. "I was thinkin' of headin' into town for the evening, and we ain't gettin' any younger."

"You're not getting any older, either," Hank snapped. Clearly, something had rattled him. Logan glanced over at Kurt, who seemed downright unhappy. At least, that was how it looked to Logan; gauging Kurt's emotions was about like contemplating the contents of a blueberry pie.

"You're going to have to cancel your plans, Logan," the Professor said. "Your team is heading out at first light."

"What is going on?" Piotr wanted to know. He leaned forward, clearly interested, and Logan smirked. Looked like he wasn't the only one jonesing to get the hell out of the school for a bit.

The Professor glanced from one face to another. Finally, he spoke. "We've got a situation."

Situations mean missions. Thank christ. About damned time. Logan tried to stifle the beginnings of a smile.

"Rogue is missing."

The silence that greeted this statement seemed to stretch on for quite a while, but in truth, only a few moments passed. And then, characteristically, it was Logan who broke it. "Ain't you about four years behind schedule?"

Secrets. Seemed like the entire foundation of the friggin' school was built on them. Logan didn't mind secrets--hell, he knew he had enough of them rattling around in his own damned head, even if he didn't know what most of them were. Until that afternoon, however, he hadn't realized just how many secrets existed among the X-men.

“How do we know she's missing?” he asked the Professor “She took off four years ago. What makes you think she's just not out and about, getting' a life?”

“Because her housemates reported her missing. And because neither Ororo nor Kurt have been able to contact her.”

These words hit Logan in a way that Piotr's punches never could. “The hell you talkin' about? Why would the kid be talkin' to the Snowflake or Blue Balls?”

“Because we talked to her several times a year, Logan.” This came from Storm, whose defiant gaze dared Logan to so much even think of popping a claw. “Just because she isn't a mutant anymore doesn't mean we don't have an obligation to look out for her. We were her only family, by the time she left.”

“You knew where she was?” Logan was too surprised to be pissed off, but he wasn't sure how long that would last.

“Of course we did.” Storm didn't even look abashed. “We were the ones that helped place her in a university. She had agreed to become one of our mutant-human liaisons, and she was in touch with Kurt pretty regularly.” Her eyes met Logan's, and he could practically hear the words she hadn't said. If you had wanted to find her, it wouldn't have been that hard. She was right, of course. But Marie had wanted to live a different life, and Logan had never been one to get in someone's way, not even hers. Especially not hers.

“To return to the main point,” Xavier said sharply, “Rogue–Marie–is missing. She was due to begin a post-college internship this summer, and she never showed up. Her housemates are deeply concerned.”

“Of course we should go and find her, ja?” Kurt said. Clearly, he was ready to bampf to wherever Marie had last been and start sniffing around.

Hank cleared his throat. “I certainly think we should,” he agreed. “But I have to ask–isn't this something that is best left to the Baseline authorities? Marie did choose to...unchoose her mutation, after all.”

Almost against his will, Logan turned to look at Xavier, only to see the Xavier looking at him. “Ah, yes,” the Professor said softly, “About that mutation...”

Storm frowned. “What do you mean?” She glanced back and forth between the Professor and Logan. “What's going on? What do you know?”

Something clicked in Logan's brain. “You knew her mutation came back?” he demanded of Xavier. Ominously, his knuckles began to itch.

“Her mutation came back?” Both Hank and Storm repeated this, in shock. Kurt lost his balance and nearly toppled off the credenza, and even Piotr looked unnerved.

Storm was the first to recover, and predictably, she decided to blame Logan. “Rogue's mutation came back? And you didn't tell us?”

“It wasn't my place to tell. And it only was starting to show, just before she left.” Another memory, of another time, darker and more painful, came drifting back into Logan's head. Before Cue-Ball could latch onto it, Logan slammed it back down to another place, where he kept his most private thoughts. Xavier knew to stay out of there. “You knew Marie's mutation returned?”

“I did. I suspected that it might–the 'vaccine' has had a very high failure rate that only increases as the years go on. Quite inadvertently, I located her via Cerebro. But I never intruded on her life. I agree with you, Logan–it wasn't our place to tell, nor our place to interfere. And with Storm and Kurt keeping tabs on her, I knew she was safe.”

“Looks like you guys dropped the ball on that.” Logan had the grace to refrain from adding, “Again.”

“Rogue never told you, Kurt?” Storm turned her fury onto her unfortunate colleague. “Four years, you met with her, and you never noticed? She never said anything?”

“Never a thing.” Kurt shook his head. “She kept her distance, but then, she always had. But...” he frowned as he remembered something. “I saw her back in the springtime, and she touched me then. It was right after when I had accidentally teleported onto one of Logan's claws, in the Danger Room, remember? And it had left a scar. She touched it then.”

Even Logan knew what this could mean. “So she was learning to control her powers...”

“...Which could make her a very valuable weapon, in the wrong hands.” Storm's expression darkened, and outside, thunder rumbled from a previously clear sky. “So who has her?”

“What makes you think she'd be used as a weapon?” Hank asked. By his frown, it was clear to them all that another, equally unhappy, thought had occurred to him. “As the Professor said, the mutant cure hasn't really worked. She'd be a highly useful test subject.”

Neither of these possibilities appealed to Logan, and he felt a telltale pressure join the itch in his knuckles. “Sittin' here and yappin' about it ain't going to make a lick of difference. How do we find her? Why don't you just use Cerebro, or pop into her head or something?”

“Her mind is inaccessible to me...off the grid, if you will.” From the reluctance in his voice, Xavier hadn't wanted to say this, and the next words that Storm spoke showed why.

“Couldn't this mean she's already dead”

This time, the knuckles didn't even itch. The snikt of Logan's claws startled everyone except for himself and the Professor. “Maybe you should stop talkin' now, Storm.”

“Maybe you should face up to some unhappy possibilities, Logan.” Storm did not rise from her seat–she had too much respect for Xavier to start a brawl in his office–but her sharp tone commanded respect, even from Logan. Thunder rumbled again.

The Professor interrupted before his two most valuable X-men could come to blows. “I know she's not dead. But I can't find her. Every now and then, I'm picking up some of her brain waves on Cerebro. Very erratic, I might add. And don't forget, Magneto managed to make his mind inaccessible to me. So there are ways to keep her hidden, even from me.” Enigmatically, he nodded to Kurt, who promptly teleported from the room. “Right now, we have very little to go on. So we need to start with Marie's last known location, her college town in Wisconsin. Tomorrow morning, Storm, you and your team will take the Blackbird and head west to Wisconsin. And that's where you'll start investigating.”

“Who goes?” Storm had already moved on from her run-in with Logan. A wise decision, as Logan was essential to most missions...but it didn't mean she wouldn't be on his case later.

“You, of course. Logan and Piotr, too...” there was a knock on the door, and the Professor added, “and two more people. It's time some of our newer recruits got some field experience. Bring them in, Kurt,” he added in a louder voice, presumably for the benefit of those standing outside the door.

More kids. Dandy. Logan had time to think this before Kurt re-entered the room. Just when I think I'm gonna be turned loose from the runts–this thought sputtered and died as he caught sight of the two females who accompanied Kurt. Okay, maybe 'kids' ain't the right term here. He didn't bother not to stare.

The new teammates definitely were not kids; that much was evident enough by the first female who stepped forward. She was young, no more than 20, judging by her flawless skin–and was so impossibly beautiful that Logan found himself seriously wondering if that beauty was her mutation. She was tall and leggy; with honey skin and platinum-blonde hair that had everything to do with nature and nothing to do with a bottle of peroxide. Her face had the perfect proportions that Logan had seen models sporting on covers of magazines the kids left lying around the manor. She had a ready smile–okay, so that wasn't particularly appealing, Logan didn't trust people who smiled too easily–with dainty lips and perfect white teeth.

It was fortunate that she entered the room first, for all the room's attention was naturally attracted to her, and thus diverted away from the female who followed behind. When Logan finally tore his eyes away from Legs and contemplated her companion, he found himself still staring, but for exactly the opposite reason.

Calling the other girl ugly wouldn't have been quite accurate, he realized, and sternly forced the word from his mind. If he had put the stunning Storm next to Legs, Logan was pretty sure that Storm would be reduced to a mere cloud, trying to obscure the radiant sun.

So stick a plain girl next to Legs, and the poor kid just didn't stand a chance.

Even so, the kid didn't have much by way of looks going for her. She was at least a foot shorter than Legs–hell, she was probably at least a foot shorter than Logan, even, and he didn't have a lot going on by way of height, himself. It also didn't help that she hunched over, as though she knew how she appeared to the world, and wanted to save them all from the trouble of having to look at her. And where Legs was practically luminous, the plain kid was swarthy in complexion. Whereas Legs dressed in flattering, fashionable clothes, this kid was covered from head to toe. She even wore gloves, Her unremarkably brown hair was long and coarse and hung down her back; her nose large and flat, her eyes widely-spaced. Her eyes. They were really what caught Logan's attention; on anyone else, they would have been beautiful, but on this kid, they were just friggin' weird. They were large eyes, unblinking, and such a pale shade of silver they were almost white.

Instinct told Logan that the plain kid was young, probably even younger than Legs, but those eyes told him something different. While her face seemed curiously devoid of expression, her eyes betrayed no gleam of wariness or even hostility. There was curiosity in those eyes, and hunger, and maybe even wisdom. Who the hell was she? Logan found himself wishing that someone would say her name; somehow Plain Kid just didn't sit well with him.

Come to think of it, it probably wouldn't sit well with her, either.

Hank cleared his throat, and Logan figured it might be time to stop staring.

“Logan, I'd like you to meet Charisma Cleaves,” the Professor nodded to Legs, “and her sister Clio.”

Sisters? Shit. Logan goggled. Still, he remembered his manners enough to reach out a hand for them to shake. Charisma gave him a hearty one, but Clio–after glancing uncertainly at the Professor–quietly folded her hands behind her back and actually stepped backwards.

Maybe she thinks I'm ugly too. Maybe she's got a thing against hairy people. Logan actually grinned at her, but her face didn't alter a bit. “So why haven't I seen you kids around?”

“Probably because we haven't been training with you, Professor Logan.” It was Legs–Charisma, dammit–who answered, and although her voice was friendly, there was a knowing, sharp look in her eye that made Logan wonder just how transparent he had been.

Logan ignored this, and turned to Xavier “You want us to take a couple of untrained kids on a mission? The hell you say.”

“My sister didn't say we were untrained.” Finally, Plain Jane–Clio, he reminded himself–spoke up. “We have been training, every day. Just not with you.”

Logan cocked an eyebrow at Piotr, who shrugged, his face the picture of innocence. “I just do what the Professor tells me to.”

Xavier smiled at the group at large. “You needn't worry about their ability to hold their own in a fight. And they will be accompanying you strictly in an investigative capacity. Charisma and Clio came to the school a little more than six months ago, Logan. Both of them have unique talents that I feared would be detrimental to you; that's why I had them receive their combat training elsewhere.”

Logan popped one claw, and drawled, “Unless these chicks can melt adamantium, I think I can hold my own.”

Clio's flat expression didn't change, but Charisma suddenly frowned, as though she was concentrating quite hard. And suddenly, Logan didn't much care any more, not about any of it; not about Marie's disappearance, or these strange women who had seemed to appear out of nowhere, or the fact that everyone in the room was looking at him rather curiously right now.

“Charisma!” The Professor said this sharply, and then Charisma's expression cleared, and Logan's previous concerns resurfaced. But now there was anger, too.

“What the hell did you just do to me?” he demanded. Suddenly, Charisma looked a lot less appealing.

“Showing off, same as you.” Charisma smiled sweetly, then turned to the Professor. “I'm sorry, sir. I'll try harder, next time. He's just such an easy target.”

These words didn't sit well with Logan, not a bit. Xavier sensed this, and smoothly continued to explain the presence of the two females. “Charisma is nineteen, and Clio is about to turn seventeen. They were wards of the state of Colorado, and incarcerated in a mental institution when I found them...you don't mind that I am telling Logan this, do you, my dears? If you're to be working together, you should know about each other.”

Clio shrugged and spoke for both of them. “It's just facts, anyway.”

“You mean we got two nutcases on the team?” Logan glanced around at Storm, and then Hank, and then, finally, the Professor. “Jesus, your recruiters really suck.”

Oddly, Clio actually smiled at this, but it was the Professor who answered. “There's nothing wrong with either of them, mentally. Rather, their mental ability and agility is something entirely new...mutations I had yet to even hear of. Charisma demonstrated one of her skills just now...”

“I can sense emotions,” Charisma told Logan. “I can feel them, hell, I can practically see them. And I can manipulate and influence emotions, too. At first it was just when I spoke, but now the Professor is working with me to do it mentally. And I can tell when someone is being honest or untruthful.”

Lame, Logan thought, and told her so. “What the hell use is that?”

That look of concentration was back. “Tell me about Marie. When you last saw her before she left, was she upset?”

“Yes.”

To the Professor, she said, “He's telling the truth.” To Logan: “Did you keep in touch with her after she left?”

Logan visibly hesitated; how best to answer this? Finally... “No.”

Charisma's brow furrowed as she stared at him. “That's true...somewhat. When was the last time you saw Marie?”

“Four years ago, right before she took off for...wherever.”

“He's lying,” Charisma told them all.

Logan felt it, the moment Xavier started sifting through his brain. “Stop it!” he snarled at him. “It's not your goddamned business!” To forestall any further snooping or questioning from the world's most annoying mutant, Logan turned to the world's weirdest. “What's your power? Livin' in your sister's shadow?”

Still no change in facial expression, but Clio stepped closer to him. When she stood right in front of him, she then began to draw off one of the gloves that she had been wearing.

“Clio...” Logan heard the Professor say. “Be careful.”

Of what, the Professor didn't extrapolate, but Clio must have understood him. She nodded, and then reached out to Logan. Slowly, she ran a hand over his sleeve–it was one of his numerous flannel shirts, nothing remarkable about it. Still, she seemed absolutely transfixed with it, staring at it through those fucking unnerving eyes. And then, thankfully, she closed them, and a look of concentration, almost painful, came across her face.

Finally, she opened her eyes, and when she spoke, everyone could hear her. But as she fixed her silver eyes onto Logan, he realized that everyone else didn't matter at that moment. She only cared that he heard.

“The last time you wore this shirt to the cages, it was back in late April. You fought a guy who was only a few inches taller than you, and he tried to bite you. You felt bad for him, because he obviously wasn't all there. You won close to four hundred bucks that night, but you had one of the barmaids give half to him. It was raining pretty heavy that night, and you thought about staying in a motel until the weather cleared up. And you started to hook up with a red-headed chick.”

Logan was actually feeling a little nauseous. And threatened. And because sometimes he could be a little less than bright when knowing when to retreat, he shot off at the mouth instead. “It's no secret I got a thing for red-heads. You coulda guessed a lot of that. What are you gonna tell me next–that the woman wasn't a natural redhead?”

Finally, Clio showed an actual emotion: she smiled. “She wasn't a woman.”

Midsummer nights in Westchester, New York, were truly beautiful. The cloying, oppressive humidity of late summer had not yet set in, so there was still a fresh feel to the air, supplemented by a gentle breeze. The fireflies would come out in full force, and gently illuminate the gardens with their flickering golden light. It was a setting perfect for romance and lust-filled dalliances in the shadows … or at least it would have been, had Logan not been patrolling it.

Long ago he had drawn “curfew duty”, as Storm had delicately called it. She should have called it “Make sure the kids aren't breeding little mutant babies in the garden duty”, because that was exactly what it was. God knew, the combination of hormonal teenagers and a soft summer night could no doubt result in some truly curious creations on the evolutionary scale. So several evenings a week, right up until about midnight, Logan had to keep a watchful eye on the kids old enough to be out, as he stalked through the grounds and looked discouraging and fearsome. Fortunately, this was not difficult.

Even though he and the rest of the team were due to head out at the ass-crack of dawn, Logan still did his duty that evening. In fact, he went above and beyond, roaming the grounds till nearly two in the morning. He wasn't tired, and even if he had tried to sleep, it only would have resulted in a spate of nightmares. And he wasn't in the mood to endure whatever his creative subconscious could produce by way of worst-case scenarios involving Marie.

Finally, he decided to give up; there were no horny kids out tonight. Probably waiting till I leave, Logan thought, and had to give them credit for patience. Still, he was not yet sleepy, so he headed down to the one place where he knew someone else would be burning the midnight oil.

Down in the hangar, all the lights were ablaze, and the tell-tale clanks and clatters confirmed what Logan had suspected. Storm was hard at work in the Blackbird, checking and re-checking every possible instrument.

“Don't you think it's about time to hit the hay, darlin'?” he asked as she emerged from the cockpit. “You ain't going to do much good findin' Marie if you're asleep at the wheel.”

“I don't want to hear you crying throughout the flight,” Storm answered, and gave him a small smile. Logan's distaste for flying was a well-known fact, and it was a rare day when his team-mates didn't give him some sort of grief about it. “Crazy day, huh?”

“You could say that. The new kids are somethin' else.”

“That's a mild way to put it.” Storm momentarily gave him her full attention. “To be assaulted with all sorts of emotions, or else all sorts of memories, from everything you touch … and not know how to handle it. No wonder they were locked away in an institution. Baselines wouldn't have had any idea how to handle it. They're lucky the Professor tapped into them when he did. Clio, in particular, has strong, potentially tremendous powers.” She snuck a glance at Logan as she said this.

The loaded silence stretched between them, and just as Storm returned to the control panel in the cockpit, Logan spoke up.

“Once I figured out she was a he, I backed off! I ain't a poof!” Logan stopped short, remembering almost too late several students who were of the poofster persuasion. “Not that I got a problem with that. It's just not me.”

Storm didn't bother to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. “Of all that went down in the Professor's office today, that's what you decided to focus on? God, Logan, Charisma was right. You are an easy target. Maybe one of the most transparent men I've ever met.”

“Whatcha see is whatcha get,” Logan answered. “Anything I can help with in here?”

Storm smiled her gratitude; in point of fact, Logan's transparency was one of the most endearing things about him, whether or not he realized it. “Check the supplies. Make sure there's enough by way of first aid, and emergency rations … you know the drill. And check to make sure we have enough spare uniforms.”

They worked in companionable silence for a bit, until Logan finished his task and joined Storm in the cockpit. He was next to useless there, so he simply sat in one of the seats, trying to keep out of her way. The last thing he wanted was to inadvertently sabotage her work, and cause the Blackbird to crash. He wasn't in the habit of jumping from planes, and he was sure healing from that would hurt like hell.

“You think she's still alive, Logan?”

The question came out of the blue. One minute, Storm had been concentrating on the the panel of controls and gauges, the next minute, she was staring Logan down, looking for ... reassurance? Hope? The truth? Or perhaps simply information she wasn't sure he had, or else that he wasn't yet willing to share?

Logan decided to keep it light. “Hell, I'm still not sure she's not just gone off the radar. She did imprint a bit of the wanderlust from me, you know. And you said she had graduated...maybe she just figured it was time to move on.”

Storm wasn't on board with that explanation. “Kurt doesn't think so. Neither does the Professor. Kurt saw her quite a few times, and she was pretty open with him. And the Professor doesn't like how this has developed, not one bit. He knows there's something wrong, even if he isn't telling us.”

Suddenly, Logan was wishing they'd chosen to have this conversation in his room, or the kitchen. Anywhere, really, that he could ask questions and be able to swallow the answers with a chaser of Jack.

“How was she when she went away?”Logan finally asked.

Storm was better versed in weather patterns than human emotions, but she knew enough to respect the tempest that was Logan's personality. Avoiding his eyes, she began to put various tools back into the case that she had kept at her side for the last three hours.

“Kurt said she seemed to adjust really well...like she needed the normalcy. She was pretty cut up to leave here.”

“You were pretty disapproving when she took the cure,” Logan pointed out.

“I was.” It had to be difficult for Storm to admit it, but Logan knew her to be a woman of honesty, particularly when it came to being truthful with herself. “But I began to understand. It had to have been such a horrible decision to make–to give up the thing which had given her a stable home, here with us. That takes its own kind of courage. But she did it, and she moved to another place she had never been, and according to Kurt, she did okay for herself.”

Was there something Storm wasn't telling him? Logan had no way of knowing for sure. He tried to probe a bit deeper. “She make any friends out there?”

Had he overplayed his hand? Storm looked at him, and her gaze was astute. “She made...some friends out there. She was in a diverse setting, where she was. It suited her. She made good grades. Kurt said she seemed happy, most of the time. Or maybe well-adjusted was a better way to put it. I think she had people she could trust, a support network.”

A support network in which neither of them played a part. Guilt doesn't help anything, Logan told himself. Guilt isn't going to find Marie.

When next Storm spoke, it was in a gentle tone. Non-accusatory. “Hey...” she reached out and placed a hand on Logan's arm. “What was Charisma talking about, earlier, back in the Professor's office? When was the last time you saw Marie?”

Living in a semi-cloistered environment, even one as expansive as the Mansion, it could sometimes be difficult to establish boundaries, or to demand that established boundaries be respected. Logan had more luck than most –a threatening snarl, an extended claw, either of those would do the trick–except for when it came to Storm. The two of them had endured and lost too much together, and so Logan rarely shut her out.

Of course, he rarely invited her in, either.

“Drop it, 'Ro. I don't want to talk about it. It's not going to help anything, I promise you–it's best to let sleepin' wolverines lie, and all that.” He gave her a hard stare. “Besides, sounds like we've all been draggin' around a few secrets.”

Unabashed, Storm shrugged. “Marie was pretty clear on what she wanted. You knew she was regaining her mutation, but you respected her secret. The Professor could have found her and brought her back any time, but he respected her free will. And Kurt and I knew she wanted her own life, apart from us, so we respected her desires.”

Logan snorted. “Sounds like maybe we've all been givin' her a little too much coddlin'. And anyway, talkin' more about secrets, why the hell didn't the Prof want me training the new girls?”

“He wanted to protect them.”

“Protect them? What the hell did he think I was gonna do?” Logan found himself actually feeling a little disgusted. “Jesus, Storm, I may growl, but I ain't a total animal.”

“Oh, stop getting your flannel into a twist.” Storm suddenly felt the urge to smack him, or at least conjure a sudden gust to muss up his hair. “We're still trying to figure out the extent of their powers. What if Clio had touched your bare skin? What kind of memories would she have dredged up? How would she have been able to handle them? And in case you didn't notice, Charisma's pretty protective of her younger sister. If she saw Clio being hurt, she would have gone after you.”

An unexpected, and not entirely unwelcome, image of Charisma pinned beneath him on the sparring mat popped into Logan's head just then, but gamely, he thrust it back out again. He had a good sniffer for emotional baggage in a woman, and there was no room in his trunk for any more. Instead, he acknowledged Storm's wisdom. “Good point, Snowflake. I'll try to steer clear.”

Storm glanced around the tight quarters of the Blackbird. “Might be a little tricky, that. Anyway, you're the muscle here; you'll do what you need to do to keep them safe. Just...tread carefully around Clio, especially, okay?”

“Ten-four, leader.” Logan grinned; oddly, he had no problems taking orders from Storm. Of course, he'd probably take orders from a beer keg, if it made enough sense and knew what it was doing. The thrill of the mission was starting to come over him, even if the mission meant, at least in part, baby-sitting the Weird Sisters. “You should try to get some rest, you know. But before you konk out, I got somethin' to ask of you.”

___________________________________________________________________________________

Even a mansion with several wings and dozens of bedrooms could begin to burst at the seams when housing sixty some-odd students. This undeniable truth demanded that just about any space that could be used efficiently would be used so. The room originally intended to be the dining hall had been converted to … well, a dining hall, but with much less grand furniture. The long gallery, which had once boasted a Van Eyck, a Sargeant, and two Manets, in addition to a dozen reproductions of classical statues, had been converted into the common room, used by staff and students alike. The statues had remained, much to the chagrin of Storm and the delight of the students; it was a better lesson in anatomy than Professor Xavier had ever offered.

One of the few areas of the mansion which had never been altered were the attics, if only for the obvious reason that the rejected artifacts of the mansion had to go somewhere. Other items had ended up here over the years–mainly the discarded detritus of many mutants' lives. Just as any home, large or small, bore evidence of the children who had lived under its roof, the mansion was no exception.

The attics were rarely visited, and certainly never at night. Not even Storm had had reason to be up there in the wee hours of the morning, and so she found it difficult to navigate her way around the clutter. “I know I put her boxes somewhere up around this area,” she muttered. Further talk was cut short as her boot caught on the edge of a huge crate; only Logan's solid hand kept her from ending up in an ungainly heap on the floor.

“You want me to take the lead, darlin'?” The question merely a courtesy. Logan didn't bother to give Storm a chance to answer; his eyes could make out every item in the room perfectly. To him, the darkness was practically non-existent. “Tell me what I'm lookin' for.”

“Four boxes. Cardboard cartons.” Storm decided to stick close to him. Flying the Blackbird would be a hell of a lot harder with a broken ankle.

“Right. I'm lookin' for four cardboard boxes in an attic full of 'em.” It wasn't nearly as difficult as it would have been for anyone with normal senses. Logan's sense of smell was even keener than his eyesight, and it had just kicked into overdrive. Almost by instinct, he began to move towards the east end of the attic. Marie's scent, never completely forgotten no matter how absent it might be, had captured his attention.

A few moments later, Logan had practically given into a feral frenzy as he began tearing through the four boxes for which they had been searching. All semblance of civility and control had fled, leaving behind only an instinctive drive to hunt down … something. What, he didn't yet know. But then he found the old, discarded pair of gloves. They were black, made of soft, thin material that had nonetheless done their job, protecting a young woman from her own powers, at the same time cutting her off from those she loved the most. And in so doing, the cloth had forever captured the scent of her. It was a scent that had faded from Logan's memory over the years, but one whiff was enough to restore it, and assure him of an absolute truth: Gone, but not forgotten. Not even the smell of dust and mothballs could diminish the scent of Marie: a unique combination of skin and sweat, a slight puff of inexpensive perfume, and the strange mark of her own mutation.

Her scent had disappeared from the mansion, from the room in which she had slept. It had even disappeared from Logan's conscious memory. Any trail around the area was long gone, and one didn't need to be a tracker or a mutant or even a police officer to know that the scent would not be picked up in the land around the Mansion.

“You get anything?” Storm asked. She couldn't see him gripping the glove in his hand, and couldn't know the primal drive which now coursed through him. Find Marie. Don't stop until you find her. Roughly, he shoved the glove in his pocket.

“I've got her scent.” How Logan managed to get these words out, and sound sane, he wasn't sure. He wasn't even sure sanity mattered, anymore. The Wolverine was beginning to emerge, and Storm could hear it in the unrelenting determination of his next words. “And we're going to find her. We're going to find Marie, and we're going to bring her home.”