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?"