The Game of Empires

Games of Empires

Chapter 1

The woman sat quietly at the bar as she had all evening, head down, gloved fingers tapping lightly on the side of her glass. The regular patrons ignored her, having grown used to her presence. To them she was no longer a foreigner, despite her exotic appearance and distinctly American accent, and they treated her as one of their own.

The bartender came by and refilled her glass without a word. The woman did not look up at him, but as he moved away she downed the vodka in a single shot, sighing as the tingling warmth spread through her limbs. There was not a drop of heating oil to be found in Moscow in winter. But there was plenty of vodka.

A blast of cold accompanied the opening of the front door. Patrons grumbled and huddled into their coats, cursing the idiot who stood in the open doorway while he surveyed the room. The woman turned her head slightly to see him, and decided that this was probably who she had been waiting for. He was a tiny, shriveled old man with deeply tanned skin. He stood straight in the doorway, however, and she could see no indication that he had been slowed by advancing age. He wore odd robes, but the fabric spoke of wealth, as did his obliviousness to the fact that he was letting all of the gathered heat escape.

She turned around on her stool. "Come inside and shut the door."

The old man's gaze snapped to her, keen and curious. Out of long habit, she kept her head tilted down so that the brim of her cap hid her eyes. He stared at her for a long moment, then seemed to absorb the meaning of her words and turned to pull the door shut behind him. With the door closed once more, the patrons of the bar turned back to their own conversations, leaving the woman and the old man in a corridor of enforced privacy. This was not a place where people exercised their curiosity, and she knew that no word of her conversation with this man would ever be repeated.

The old man walked up to the bar and settled on the seat next to her. "My apologies for my lateness, Healer," he said, and she struggled to identify his accent. Middle East? That didn't seem right, but he was definitely from around the Mediterranean Sea somewhere. "I did not realize the snow here would be quite so. . . deep."

The woman kept her thoughts to herself. What did he expect of January in Moscow? She was somewhat surprised by how sheltered he seemed, and how harmless. This was not what she had been expecting, considering the sum she'd been offered.

"What's your name?" she asked.

He shook his head. "My name is unimportant. I am only a messenger."

She cocked a skeptical eyebrow at that and he shrugged, apparently unaffected by his first glimpse of her face. "I was instructed not to tell you." He reached into his robe and pulled out a thick envelope, then laid it on the bar between them.

After a moment, she picked up the envelope and rifled through the contents. The money was there, crisp and green and marked with Ben Franklin's smiling face. She had insisted on U.S. currency -- five thousand in advance, another ten when the job was done. It was more than she'd ever charged before, but she had never taken this kind of client before, either. He was a complete unknown, save for the bank account numbers she'd insisted on being given in order to verify that he could meet her price. She knew she was taking a heavy risk, but this one job would give her the rest of the money she needed.

"Very well," she answered, and tucked the envelope into her coat. "When would you like to leave?"

He smiled, though the expression did not quite reach his eyes. "Now, if you prefer. There is a jet standing by, and I have no wish to remain in this frozen wasteland any longer than necessary."

The woman shrugged, hiding her smile. There was something supremely likable about the old man, despite the ancient sadness in his eyes. She didn't exactly trust him, but her internal alarms were silent. She nodded and slid off her stool. The old man copied her, and seemed terribly surprised to find her eyes at a level several inches above his own. This time, she did grin. He obviously considered himself to be a tall man, despite his rather average height.

Deliberately ignoring her smile, the old man motioned for her to precede him. "Shall we?"

The woman shook her head. "Tell me which airport and I'll meet you there in an hour." The money she carried would go to a very safe place between now and then.

He frowned, but did not seem inclined to argue. He gave her the name of the airport and the tail number of the plane.

"I'll be there."

She left him in the bar. She needed to gather a few things as well as take care of the money. And as she made her way through the heavy snow drifts gathered against the storefronts, she felt the first stirrings of excitement. For the last two years, she had slowly been clawing her way up from the bottom, finding a way to survive in this foreign place. She had started with nothing. No money -- not even the ability to speak the language. Now, for the first time in a very long time, Renee LeBeau was beginning to hope that she might be able to go home.

The plane was exactly where the old man said it would be-- a sleek custom jet that reeked of secret technologies. Renee studied for several minutes before she started out across the tarmac. The closer she got, the less she liked the situation, but she had come too far to go back now. It concerned her that she couldn't identify the technology she saw. She knew a good deal about what the various governments of the world kept in their secrets files, and she had her own knowledge of what would be developed in the future. Plus, she had at least a passing familiarity with Shi'ar and other alien technologies. But none of that matched what she was seeing.

The door opened, extending the stairs, as she approached. The old man appeared at the top and beckoned to her. Renee didn't hesitate. There was little chance that what the future held was worse than the past, and she had survived that. At least, that was what she kept telling herself as she settled in her seat and watched the crew prepare for takeoff.

The old man settled in the seat across from her, but didn't seem inclined to talk. That suited Renee fine. She stared out the window as the snow-bleached streets of Moscow dwindled beneath them, lost in her thoughts. Renee lost track of the time as they flew, even dozing a little, until they touched down in pre-dawn darkness. Outside the windows, she could see the outlines of stone bluffs, blurred by the lack of light. She saw no man-made lights, no signs of an airport or civilization of any kind, and she wondered how the pilots had found the runway.

"Where are we?" she asked the old man.

He ignored her as he went forward toward the door that the copilot was opening. Renee followed him, and was struck by a blast of hot air swirling in from the outside. It smelled dry and dusty, and she instinctively shielded her eyes.

"Come, Healer. We must walk from here."

Renee climbed down the steep stairs until she was standing on the hard-packed dirt of the runway. Sand scattered across her boots, making tiny scrabbling sounds. "Where are we?" she repeated.

"The sands of Egypt," he answered without looking at her. His attention was focused on a distant point.

Renee followed his gaze, but saw nothing but more darkness. Above her, the stars were incredibly numerous, filling the sky until the inky black of space seemed almost silver from the twinkling lights. For the stars to be so clear, she guessed, they had to be hundreds of miles from the nearest city. Despite its beauty, the star-filled sky left her with a chill of fear. Moscow was a hard place. Hard to survive, harder still to leave. But she had learned the rules there and had found a place on the fringes of the underworld, where enough money would eventually buy her what she wanted. Here, she had no such assurances. She could only hope that she had chosen her client well.

Bracing herself against the unknown, Renee pulled a thick tube of metal out of her pocket. At her touch, it telescoped into a staff, more than six feet in length. It was the very last piece of home that Renee had, and even the Shadow King had not seen fit to take it away from her. She planted one end in the hard dirt and leaned on the ancient weapon.

"I'm ready."

The old man nodded and then started forward. He produced a lantern from somewhere that Renee did not see. The wick seemed to light spontaneously, but then burned with a warm and ordinary flame. Renee filed the event away in her mind for future reference, but was inclined to dismiss it as a parlor trick. Of course, there was still the question of why he was using a lantern instead of a flashlight of some kind.

They reached the bluffs, climbing steadily upward as the sky lightened. Renee was almost unsurprised when the old man led her into a narrow cave near the summit of one of the taller crags. She paused at the mouth of the cave to allow her highly sensitive eyes to adjust. She could see the old man standing before a short but ornate door, carved, apparently, out of the very stone of the cave wall. It was covered with graven images -- individual pictures that reminded Renee of hieroglyphics. The door opened with a scrape and the old man beckoned to her.

More curious than wary, Renee followed him. The jet had made her think she would be arriving at a palatial estate. This rabbit warren was not what she'd envisioned at all, and she wondered just what kind of person hid himself under a mountain this way. She could think of several possibilities, both good and bad.

They wound down through a maze of tunnels hewn from solid rock, until the light of the old man's lantern was drowned in white, man-made light. The long glowing tubes that ran along the ceiling looked like fluorescents, but the quality of the light wasn't right for that. It was purer somehow, and much easier on the eyes. The old man extinguished his lantern and hung it on a hook in the wall that appeared to be there for that express purpose. A long carpet began at approximately the same place and stretched out before them. It was of an oriental cast, and Renee caught the occasional glimmer of gold thread in the design. The carpet was extremely soft beneath her booted feet, with a springy resilience that seemed to invigorate her with each step.

The walls remained stone, but were now decorated at intervals with tapestries and occasional groups of what Renee was certain were ancient hieroglyphs. The images painted on the walls were faded with time and sometimes marred with chips and cracks, but they retained their power. Renee found herself gawking as she followed the old man, awed by the museum-like majesty that surrounded her. The ceiling rose further and further above their heads as they walked, until it was nearly lost to the darkness beyond the light tubes. Carved pillars decorated the corners of many of the rooms, and Renee had the feeling that they were as much architectural as decorative. There was little furniture, little evidence that anyone actually lived there, but they passed a huge fireplace at one point which was being tended by a young woman in a white sarong. The woman looked up in surprise as they passed, and Renee could see that she was busy shoveling out the remains of a past fire. Renee found it an encouraging sign. Someone lived here. Someone who liked the warmth of a fire to ward off the underground chill.

They saw no one else until they reached a set of double doors, which were guarded by two. . . beings. Renee tried not to react to their appearances as she studied them. They appeared to be mutants of some kind, though they were identical, which left her wondering how natural the mutation might be. Each appeared to be a mixture of man and cat, with a humanoid form that was covered in extremely short, black fur. They stood a good six inches taller than Renee herself, and their faces were feline, but more stylized than truly catlike. Their eyes were blue and the irises slit like a cat's, but they watched herself and the old man approach with obvious intelligence. Tall, triangular ears topped their heads and swiveled independently as they captured the sounds around them. Earrings jangled musically with each twitch. Both mutants held very large swords in clawed hands, but their stances were relaxed. They were dressed alike, in Egyptian skirts of blue and gold. It was a style that Renee vaguely recognized from her history classes.

The two guards stepped aside as the old man reached for the door handles. He pushed the doors inward, and Renee found herself staring into a dimly lit bedchamber. A sickly sweet smell assaulted her -- the smell of disease and rot. Mixed with it came the thick stench of incense, which did little to cover the smell of sickness. Tiny flames flickered at points around the room, where curls of incense-filled smoke rose toward the ceiling. A wide bed took up the center of the room, and she could just barely discern a form lying on it.

"Have you brought her?" asked a voice from the darkness. It was a surprisingly deep bass, and despite its weakness the voice rumbled with overtones of power. The form on the bed shifted slightly, as if turning to look at them.

"Yes, my lord," the old man answered, taking Renee's arm and drawing her into the room. "She is here."

Renee did not resist as he led her to the bedside. She waited quietly as the old man fumbled with the lamp that sat on a table next to the bed. In the darkness, she could hear the sick man's labored breathing.

"You do know that my powers are unpredictable when it comes to diseases?" she asked the unseen form. She was beginning to feel frightened in this strange place.

"I ask only that you use your gift, child." A hand reached toward her just as the lamp flared to life. Renee gasped at the face of the man lying before her. His skin was a grayish-blue, sagging on an emaciated skeleton. His jaw was wide and square, like a caricature, and the wide lips purple. His dark gray hair fell across the pillows in long, greasy strands. Even without the ravages of the disease he suffered, he would have been one of the ugliest men Renee had ever seen. But that wasn't the reason for her shock. The reason was that she recognized him.

"Apocalypse?" She jerked involuntarily as his large hand engulfed hers.

The dark eyes narrowed. "I have purchased your service, Healer. You will do as you agreed."

Renee sucked in her breath and tried to still the rapid pounding of her heart. She wanted to run screaming in panic, but Apocalypse's grip was like iron. Even so badly weakened, he was far stronger than she.

Go with this, she told herself sternly. He isn't asking for anything unreasonable. But in her heart she was utterly terrified that she had just become the possession of another madman.

Chapter 2

Jean Summers dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter, drawing concerned glances from the other three people at the table. She was unaware of their looks and the silence that now enveloped her. Her attention was entirely focused on the scene that played before her mind's eye. A short slice of memory that was both frightening and distasteful, but one that she simply could not let go of. She didn't have the least clue why.

"Jean?" She felt more than heard the question as it came across her psychic link. "Jean, what's wrong?"

With a start, Jean refocused on the reality around her. She glanced up at her husband, but could not meet his gaze. She didn't know what to tell him. She could not even define for herself what disturbed her. Without a word, she rose from the table and walked over to stare out the window. She wrapped her arms about her waist, feeling chilled, as the light snow continued to dust down outside.

A moment later, arms wrapped around her from behind, engulfing her in a warm embrace. Jean sighed and leaned into her husband.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Scott asked.

Jean stared at the snow. "I don't know what to tell you," she finally admitted. "I can't stop thinking about Onslaught."

"Onslaught?" Scott sounded surprised. In his very orderly, defined way, she knew, Scott had already come to terms with the experience and then filed everything away as a part of the past. He would not drag it out again in his own mind unless something in the present pointed in that direction.

She, on the other hand, still had nightmares. "We missed something, Scott." She pulled one arm free of his hug and gestured toward the window and far-distant Westchester. "I don't know where or how... or even what. But I know we missed something important. Something about Onslaught -- " She paused, frightened by the implications of what she was thinking. "--about Onslaught and Charles."

Scott turned her around to face him, his expression shading toward alarm. "What do you mean?"

Jean shook her head again, feeling helpless. "I don't know. When Onslaught attacked me, he went into my head. Deep into my head." She looked away from Scott's face as she spoke. She did not like to admit how violated she felt. "He was trying to get past all of my emotional defenses so that he could hurt me as much as possible." That was when he had shown her all of Charles' ugliest secrets, including some very inappropriate feelings toward Jean herself. At the time, she had felt almost overwhelmed with horror and a sense of betrayal. But with the passing of time, she had been able to look past what Onslaught had been trying to show her, to what was really there.

"While he was showing me all those things, I was able to watch him. I think I saw a lot more than I could have ever seen from the outside." Recently, she had been going over the memories, hoping that by doing so she would see how Onslaught had taken something that perhaps really existed in Charles, but then had amplified and twisted it into the horrible things he had poured into her mind. But she had found no reassurance. Only the instinctive fearful certainty that if she looked deep enough, she would find a reality worse than the fiction.

She shook her head in frustration. "There's just... something there that I'm not seeing."

Scott squeezed her shoulders. "Easy, honey. You'll find whatever it is."

Encouraged by his confidence, Jean summoned a small smile. "I hope so."

He drew her into a hug. "Maybe you should try not to think about it so much. Let your subconscious work on it for a while."

Jean did her best to push the thoughts away. She knew she was making herself miserable. "Is that your way of telling me to lighten up?"

She could feel his smile. "Something like that."

Behind them, Scott's grandparents had watched the conversation in silence. But now, Jean heard the clink of silverware as they resumed their meal.

"Scott, Jean. Your dinner is getting cold," his grandmother said, and Jean felt some of the tension running out of her. Westchester, the X-Men, and all of those problems were a very long way away from them here. The least she could do was enjoy this interlude of peace rather than inviting more trouble into her life.

"We're coming," she said, and slipped her hand into Scott's as they turned back toward the table.

Remy LeBeau crouched in the mottled shadows, a penlight gripped in his teeth. The fine beam illuminated a portion of the circuit board in front of him, as well as the tips of his fingers as he spliced the wires with casual ease. Not that what he was doing was easy. Not by a long stretch. This, after all, was a private estate in the Caymans, where money laundering was the main source of income and anyone who had lots of money did not come by it legally. The security was good.

He grinned in the darkness. 'Course, I'm better. He twisted the last pair of wires together and cautiously replaced the access panel. His attention was tuned to the yard around him, and he listened with both his ears and his mutant powers for signs of trouble. The dogs were on the far side of the house, still distracted by the scent of the dead rabbit Remy had left just beyond the fence.

After one last sweep of the yard, he straightened, backed up a step and then vaulted to the low hanging tiled roof of the garage. His landing made only the faintest crunching noise as the red tiles absorbed his weight. He balanced delicately there at the edge, testing the security of his perch. The Spanish roof was a tremendous natural defense against thieves because the slippery tiles came loose very easily, often cascading down in long rows to shatter on the ground below. Remy checked each step as he crept across the roof toward a second story window in the main part of the house, and arrived in silence.

Adrenaline pumped through him as he went to work on the remote alarm circuit on the window. He was thoroughly exposed here. The guards were clustered at the gate, but they did wander sometimes, and if one happened to look around at the wrong time they would spot him easily. The bizarre thing was that he really didn't care.

He circumvented the alarm and raised the window, then slid quietly inside. He crouched beside the window as he studied the room. The glassy eyes of a twelve point buck stared down at him from over the empty fireplace. A fat recliner sat in front of the fireplace, covered by a tarp whose edges did not quite reach the floor. There was nothing else in the small room, and as far as Remy could tell, it served no purpose except as a place for the owner of the house to sit and stare at his dead deer.

Shaking his head, Remy padded silently across the room. He paused at the door to listen, then opened it a crack and peered through. As expected, the hall was dark. He was fairly certain that this portion of the house was unused, which was why he had entered there. Boldly he stepped out into the hall and made his way toward the master bedroom. The owner of the house would be out doing laps in the pool, as was his habit, and, as far as Remy knew, the misses was still with her boyfriend. He expected to have all the time he needed.

The master bedroom was dark. Remy pulled the curtains closed, then turned on the computer sitting on the desk and settled in front of it. His current employer had given him some useful information about the security on the machine itself, and hacking in proved to be little challenge. He hooked up the CD burner he'd brought with him, then sat back as the long list of files began to download.

It was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking to simply sit there and watch the meaningless names scroll by. He could have gotten up and checked on the guards outside, checked the hall, but he didn't. He needed the adrenaline high. Needed to push his risk factor, which was why he was taking a dangerous pinch like this one.

Gotta live on de adrenaline, ‘cause it's de only t'ing dat lets me know I'm still alive. His lips twisted sourly. The problem was that it just wasn't enough anymore. He was risking his life to make a pinch, but that was all. Just his life. And his life didn't weigh very heavily on anyone's scale these days. Got too used t' bein' a hero. Now, there were no weighty consequences to whether he succeeded or failed. The fate of the Earth didn't hang in the balance, nor did the lives of people he cared about-- or even people he didn't particularly care about. What he did now really didn't matter on the grand scale he had become used to. But, he was a thief, and it was the only thing he knew how to do.

So here I am. The download finished and Remy quickly slipped the disk into his coat and put the burner away. He shut the machine down and walked to the door, opening it just a slice to look out. Unfortunately, he did so at the exact moment that one of the roving guards turned the corner. Their gazes locked, despite the shadows that enveloped Remy, and then the guard launched himself toward the bedroom door, drawing his gun.

Remy barely had time to jump back as the man barreled through the door. He danced aside and then lashed out with a spin kick before the other had time to find him. The guard crashed into a table beside the door, sending the bowl of daffodils there tumbling to the floor in a shower of petals and broken glass. Still doubled over against the edge of the hardwood table, the guard pointed his automatic pistol at Remy and fired.

Remy's spatial sense tracked the bullets as he dove beneath them, rolling toward the window. The lead storm followed him, demolishing the computer and shattering a large mirror on the wall, as Remy put his arms up and leapt headfirst through the window. He landed on his shoulder and rolled, but immediately felt the tiles give way beneath him. Helpless in the grip of gravity, he slid off the edge of the roof and dropped into the yard below. Floodlights came on suddenly all around him, and the sounds of men shouting filled the air. Remy turned and sprinted for the fence.

Renee woke with a start and sat up. Kneeling beside the fireplace, Shala looked up in alarm then ducked her head when she saw that Renee was all right. Shala was one of the slaves, a shy girl of fifteen or so who brought Renee clothes to wear and drew her bath and set the fire each night. So far, Renee had been able to understand nothing from her except her name. Her only language appeared to be Egyptian, which Renee could not speak, but even so, they had developed a kind of friendship.

Shala rattled off a question in her reedy voice. Renee smiled and pulled the bed covers aside. "If that has anything to do with breakfast, then the answer is yes. I'm starved." Whatever disease possessed Apocalypse, it was tenacious. Renee's powers were having an effect, but only slowly, and each session left her feeling utterly drained. She hadn't figured out how to read the water clocks yet, so she couldn't tell how her new routine compared with the norms of day and night outside the mountain, but she had the feeling that she was sleeping in eighteen to twenty-four hour stretches most of the time.

Renee stood and stretched, curling her toes in the heavy wool rug. The sheepskin was deliciously soft, and rather than step off onto the cold stone of the floor, Renee simply sat down where she was. Shala brought clothes to her after a moment and Renee changed into them. In her first few days there, Renee and Shala had engaged in a running battle over what was a servant's job, and what Renee could do for herself. Renee was pretty certain she'd lost the contest, and now did not protest when Shala brought her clothes to her, or braided her hair, or served her spiced tea. Renee was simply grateful for the girl's presence in this otherwise forbidding place.

One by one, Renee slipped on her anklets. The slim gold circles jangled together musically as she shook them. Shala smiled in approval and donned a pair of silk gloves as she moved around behind her. Renee flipped the corner of her diaphanous skirt out of the slave girl's way, and then crossed her legs and settled in to let Shala work on her hair. It had to take at least an hour, every morning, to comb out Renee's waist length hair and then pull it up in intricate braided loops wrapped with gold cloth and ribbons. Renee didn't understand why she had to be dressed up like a harem princess every time she left her room, but Shala was adamant, and the guard outside the door would not let her out without Shala's approval. It gave Renee the chills to think that Apocalypse might have ordered it, but he had said almost nothing to her since that first night.

Renee stood when her hair was finished and walked over to the mirror that was suspended in a stone frame carved out of the wall itself. She admired her reflection for a moment, marveling at how different she looked with her hair pulled back, and her red-on-black eyes clearly displayed for all to see. She had gotten so used to trying to hide her mutancy that it was startling to see herself this way. Finally, she turned to Shala and rubbed her stomach. "Breakfast?"

Shala nodded and went to the door. Renee followed her through it, nodding self-consciously to the cat-man who fell in behind her. The guard betrayed no expression, and Renee wasn't certain what kind of feelings he might be capable of. There were a dozen or more of his kind there in Apocalypse's palace, all of them as emotionless as this one. She didn't know if it was because of the rigidity of their faces or perhaps something else, but she had never seen a reaction of any kind from them.

Ozymandias was already seated at the table when Renee arrived. She had seen him only rarely as he hurried about on some business of Apocalypse's or another. He stood hurriedly and bowed to her. Renee paused, then quickly moved around the table to a place opposite him. She had not been offered gloves of any sort since her arrival, and her dress had only a pretense of sleeves. It left her feeling both nervous and exposed.

A young boy came forward to hold her chair as Renee sat. Ozymandias followed suit. He appeared to be in the middle of a meal, and Renee eyed his plate with interest.

"What is that?" She recognized very little of what she ate these days, and most of the time she didn't question. It was generally good-- certainly a far cry better than standing in the bread lines. Ozymandias spoke English as well as Russian, and Renee was eager for intelligible conversation.

Ozymandias glanced at his plate, surprised. "Boar, I believe. With dates and oranges." He seemed nonplused by the prospect of a companion. Renee had the feeling he hadn't had anyone to talk to for a very long time.

"Is it dinnertime, then? I just woke up." It was an inane thing to say, Renee thought, but she didn't mind using the opportunity to remind the old man of how isolated she was here. Moscow was miserable this time of year, but at least she had been able to see the sky.

Ozymandias didn't answer as the boy returned and set a cup filled with some kind of steaming broth in front of Renee. She picked it up eagerly and breathed in the rich scent.

"Apocalypse wanted me to ask if there is anything you need to make you more comfortable."

Renee stared at him over the rim of her cup for a moment, then carefully set the beautifully painted piece down. A nervous shiver crept down her spine, and she shoved away the thoughts that came immediately to mind. She didn't want to go back to that dark place, not even in a memory.

"My staff," she said on impulse. The bo staff she had inherited from her father had disappeared along with her Russian clothing, and no one had been either willing or able to tell her what had become of it. "And a place to practice."

Ozymandias looked doubtful. "I will ask. But I don't think he will approve. It is... inappropriate for a woman of status."

Renee deliberately jangled her ankle bracelets. "Is that what I am?"

Ozymandias noted the censure in her voice and his eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes, child, you are." Then his expression relaxed. "Our customs are ancient, so perhaps I shouldn't be surprised that you don't understand. You are a treasured guest here, Healer, and for as long as you are with us, you will be treated accordingly."

"Oh." Abashed, Renee dropped her gaze. "Then, could I go outside sometime?"

Ozymandias' expression was oddly sympathetic. "That is not allowed."

Renee nodded without looking at him. She hadn't really believed that she had any freedom here, but it was still hard to accept. The Shadow King had taught her just how fragile a thing freedom was, and now she knew for certain that hers was again shattered.

She stood up from the table. "Excuse me. I'm not hungry anymore." She felt Ozymandias' gaze tracking her as she walked out of the room, but he did not try to stop her.

Chapter 3

Renee held her breath as she stepped into Apocalypse's darkened chamber. The smell in the room was nauseating, and she had learned to breathe shallowly until her senses adjusted. She padded silently across the rugs that surrounded the bed, headed for the far corner of the room. The breathing of the man on the bed did not change as she passed, and she guessed that he was still sleeping. That was fine with her. It would give her a chance to light the lamps. She had discovered that Apocalypse did not like to have the room well lit, and if she arrived when he was awake, he would forbid her to light more than the small lamp beside the bed. However, if she could get to the lamps before he woke, he would not make her turn them off. Renee didn't have the faintest clue if it was out of courtesy or some kind of bizarre power struggle between them, but she wanted the lights. The darkness held too many frightening things.

She touched the tall light pole, smiling slightly as the warm glow surrounded her. A rustle alerted her and she turned to find Apocalypse sitting up in the bed, watching her. His expression was inscrutable and Renee had to throttle the desire to bolt from the room. Her hand felt like it was locked around the light pole, which was quickly growing warm. Despite his weakness, Apocalypse frightened her. This was the evil of the ages, an ancient and terrible creature who had roamed the Earth for millennia.

After a moment, she forced herself to let go of the light and walked over to the opposite corner of the room. Apocalypse's gaze followed her, but he did not say anything. Renee reached for the tall lamp, wondering what, if anything, it meant that he was going to let her finish turning on the lights.

Finally, she forced herself to walk back to the bed. The dark eyes tracked her. The skin around them was no longer quite so sunken, Renee noted, and his eyes had lost some of their bruised look. She expanded her examination to take in the rest of his face. The bones still showed prominently under his skin, outlining the shape of his skull. Renee always marveled at the incredibly wide, square jaw that made him look so utterly inhuman. But the skin of his face seemed to have taken on a new elasticity and did not sag in unhealthy wrinkles as it had before. He was definitely healing. Her gaze dropped lower. He was still going to have a very long recovery, though. The heavy muscles of his chest and shoulders were badly atrophied. He was not going to be able to simply spring out of bed once he started to feel better. Briefly she wondered what Uncle Hank would think of her now. She had wanted to become a doctor and had spent a great deal of time under his tutelage, helping him tend to the X-Men's various injuries. What would he have thought of playing nursemaid to Apocalypse himself?

Apocalypse studied her with similar interest. Renee felt a bit like a lab rat beneath the coldly intelligent stare.

"You are afraid of me," he finally said. It was not a question, and Renee didn't answer. She found herself staring at the headboard beyond his shoulder while he continued to watch her. She wanted to fidget, to toy with the jewelry that adorned her hands, but she forced herself to stand still. She would give away as little with her body language as she could.

"Child, look at me."

Renee's breath froze in her chest as she raised her eyes, compelled by the deep, resonant voice.

"What reason have I given you for fear?"

Renee could read no expression on his face, but there was a hint of curiosity in his voice. She wondered if he already knew the answer to his question.

She gathered her courage. "You're Apocalypse," she finally told him. "And I'm your prisoner."

Her reply seemed to please him. He settled back against the pillows and pulled the heavy blankets up around himself. It was such an ordinary, human action that Renee was momentarily surprised. But history had never recorded Apocalypse as a man -- only as a mutant -- and until a few weeks ago, the history was all she had known.

"Are... you ready?" she asked as his motion stilled.

"Tell me your name first."

Renee paused. She had assumed he simply didn't care who she was. It was somewhat unnerving to think that, as he began to feel better, he might ask her more and more personal questions. The past was not something she wanted to talk about

"Nightengale."

He lifted an eyebrow and Renee blinked in surprise. It was the first expression she'd ever seen.

"You give me a mutant name. That is good." Renee breathed a silent sigh of relief as Apocalypse closed his eyes. "I am ready."

Renee nodded. Despite having done so many times before, it made her nervous to settle on the edge of the bed next to him. As always, he gave no discernible reaction as she reached over to place her bare hands flat on his chest. She loathed the feeling of skin against her own, but this was what Apocalypse demanded of her -- and what she had agreed to. She did not want to find out how he would punish her if she refused him.

The tingling sensation of her powers started in her palms, spreading through her body and then seeming to leap directly into her mind. She fought to control the feeling, to direct her powers to heal, to rebuild the cells. On a level she could not describe, she could sense the disease that ravaged Apocalypse. She could feel what was damaged and what was not. Cell by cell, she forced the damaged areas to grow whole, pushing the disease another step backward.

She stayed that way until her head began to spin. Apocalypse did not respond as she withdrew her hands. He was asleep. Aching with the drain of her powers, Renee stood up. She stared at the still face for a moment, mind empty, then turned away. Shala would be waiting for her outside, to take her back to her room.

Renee stared at the rain blowing against the hotel window without seeing it. It was monsoon season, and the streets of Jakarta were always wet. The hotel was of only moderate quality, but better than many she had seen. The rattle and clink of a metal chain made her turn. The man she had come there with was in the process of unlocking a handcuff from his wrist. The other end was attached to a black briefcase. Renee watched without interest as he attached the empty cuff to the iron frame of the bed.

He was a Chinese businessman with an international market for his miniature orchids. But Renee was there because he also served as a courier for the Chinese government. Currently, he was helping them to purchase Russian arms and pouring out of the fractured remains of the Soviet Union. Unfortunately for him, he had decided to double-cross the people who employed him.

The man pulled off his tie and began to unbutton his shirt. Renee's pulse quickened as she watched him. The Shadow King was hungry for this one. The Chinese government did not yet know of his defection, but if he was allowed to go over, he could do tremendous damage to their plans. China was quietly gathering an army that no force on the planet would be able to stand against. They were buying aircraft carries, fighters, ballistic missiles and weapons of mass destruction -- all very, very quietly. And with the Shadow King's assistance, they were virtually unobserved.

Had she been able to, Renee would have screamed. But her Master controlled her every motion and she could do nothing but slide toward the Chinese man, pulling off her gloves as she did so. She didn't know his name, nor did she care. He was a pervert to have picked up a sixteen-year-old prostitute in the little bar he frequented when in the city. Renee smoothed her short skirt, and under the Shadow King's control, the motion became a caress.

The man's eyes lit with the animal hunger Renee had come to recognize. She raised her hands and moved to kiss him. His mouth was wet and slimy on hers and she knotted her hands in his hair as he jerked in pain, trying instinctively to pull away from her. Renee hooked her foot behind his ankle and yanked. He crashed to the floor on his back with Renee landing atop him. She smothered the sound of his screams with her mouth over his, using her weight and leverage to hold him to the floor as he thrashed wildly. The gruesome effect of her powers rippled across his skin, and by the time he had grown still, there was nothing left but an unrecognizable lump of flesh. She rolled off of him, curling into a fetal ball as the Shadow King's spasms of pleasure coursed through her.

Renee woke screaming. Immediately, the darkness was shattered by a piercing light as the door to her room was thrown open and two figures rushed in. The guards held their swords ready as they moved through the room, searching for the threat. One of them came over to the bed, his ears swiveling in constant motion. Renee barely registered him. She dragged the covers up to her chin and squeezed her eyes shut as violent tremors shook her.

Jean Summers was drowning in sewage. She hated this part. It was the chasm Onslaught had thrown her into at their first real meeting, when he had forcibly taken her to the Astral plane and shown her Charles' repressed memories. She struggled to keep her head above the roiling surface while Onslaught loomed over her. These were all of the worst things Charles had ever thought, ever felt. They sickened her with their ugliness, but Jean knew better than to let them sully her opinion of the Professor. He was just a man, as human and fallible as the rest of them. She was determined not to judge him for his weaknesses. She had never once seen him act on these darker impulses, and she knew that Onslaught had only shown them to her in an attempt to shatter her loyalty to his dream.

It was this pit that bothered her, though. Not for its contents, exactly, but for some other reason that she was still struggling to piece together. Scott would be upset if he knew that she was going through these memories yet again, but she couldn't help it. There was something so very wrong here. Something subtle that she just could not pin down. It was almost as if Charles' darkest secrets had a secret of their own. They loomed all around her, hinting at something just beyond her recognition.

Then it struck her. This pit was all wrong because it shouldn't exist like this. People didn't throw all of their darkest thoughts into one great pit of ugliness. It was too hard to ignore that way. Instead, they tucked individual thoughts and memories away into little crevices in their minds where they could easily be overlooked. It was a kind of self-defense mechanism that literally every person Jean had ever mind-scanned used, because no one wanted to be reminded of their guilt.

Charles had made this pit and poured everything he hated about himself into it. Jean was almost certain he had to have done it on purpose. But why? She tried to push herself up out of the glop to look around. The stone walls rose all around her, their sides worn smooth from the constant motion of the muck, and their reddish color reminiscent of blood. The memories themselves were a putrescence soup that smelled of bile and less pleasant things. It was the last place Jean would have chosen to be. In fact, even Onslaught had eschewed the place, though he had been happy enough to shove Jean face first into it.

Jean paused. Could that be why? Could Charles have created this place for just that reason -- because it was so repugnant that neither friend nor enemy would willingly go there? Onslaught had been able to scrape enough ugliness off the surface that he hadn't seen need to delve deeper into Charles' memories. He had gotten what he wanted very easily, it seemed, without having to dredge through this pit himself.

Jean sucked in a deep breath and, closing her eyes, dove into the disgusting muck. What was Charles hiding down here? It was obvious to her now that he had created the pit as a shield for something he wanted to hide even more desperately than these memories. She swam downward, struggling as the sludge became thicker and thicker. But just when she was about to give up, her hand struck something. Something hard and smooth that stretched across the bottom of the pit. She explored it with her fingers until she was certain. There was something down here. Something that Charles had wanted to hide so desperately that he had been willing to show Onslaught his darkest thoughts and most evil impulses in order to protect it.

She opened her eyes and immediately sought out her husband's mental touch. Scott?

I'm here, Jean.

I found it, Scott. I found what's been bothering me.

She felt Scott pause in what he was doing. There was a sense of both relief and dread from him. What was it?

Seated on their bed, Jean wrapped her arms around her knees. Charles was hiding something. He gave Onslaught all of those other repressed memories just to distract him from this other thing he was hiding.

She could feel Scott thinking it over, though she didn't listen in on his thoughts. Do you know what it was? he asked.

Jean shook her head, though he couldn't see her. No. I'd have to scan him if I wanted to find out.

The silence following her statement grew uncomfortable. I don't know, Jean, Scott finally answered. That seems a little extreme. How do we know he wasn't trying to protect the X-Men somehow? He could have been hiding the code keys to our databases or a dozen other legitimate things. Besides, we don't even know where he is right now.

Jean knotted her hands in the quilted bedcover. I know, but... I just don't think so. Call it intuition if you want. That pit of memories was old, Scott. He didn't create it when Onslaught first showed up. It feels too stable, too well established. I think he's been hiding something from everyone for a long time.

Chapter 4

Ozymandias tapped the end of the chisel lightly, barely noticing the fine layer of stone that flaked away beneath his skilled touch. The ringing tone echoed away into the darkness, too small to fill such a vast space. Ozymandias ignored it. His mind was far away from the cavern and his eternal sentence of carving both past and future into its stone surfaces. His hands knew their task, and the images that arose from the stone around him came much more easily if he did not take note of his actions. Five thousand years ago, En Sabah Nur had thrown him into the coils of a futuristic machine, which burned the history of mankind-- past, present and future-- into his brain. It was more than his conscious mind could hold, but the imprint remained true and steady in his subconscious, emerging in the carved images that surrounded him. Ozymandias had long since forgotten his anger, his despair, his hatred of the unending labor. There was nothing left but the doing of it -- and the occasional break to attend to other business of Apocalypse's.

His thoughts drifted to the Healer. Nightengale. She was... unexpected, to say the least, and it had been a long time since he had found himself surprised. It was a novel experience, and one he was enjoying.

Beneath his fingers, a face began to take shape, molded by his subconscious. He had known that the healer he had heard whispers of was both young and female, but he had not expected to find the shy, enchanting creature that now roamed almost freely in the halls of Apocalypse's palace. Ozymandias had no idea what to make of her. She was obviously a mutant and raised in the United States, a country which was not know for producing pliant spirits. Yet she made no attempt to escape, nor did she seem to be gathering information to use in some later attempt. Instead, she seemed, if not content, then at least willing, to remain within the bounds set for her.

The figure beneath his hands gained definition, the angular, almost aristocratic features framed by a wealth of braids, golden chains and flowing scarves that blended back into the natural grain of the stone. One scarf, however, rose over her head, as if born on an errant breeze. Its trailing end did not return to the stone but instead expanded, becoming the bottom of something else. Ozymandias inched himself higher as he continued to carve.

At first, he had thought that there was nothing left inside their healer but a shattered spirit. The echoes of pain in her eyes were all too familiar to Ozymandias. But, as he had watched her, he realized that there was still life in her eyes. Most often, he saw keen interest, even curiosity, in her face, though she observed everything in silence. She was unlike any of the women Ozymandias had known in his long life, though those, admittedly, were few. The most notable, perhaps, was his sister, Nephri, whose fiery rebelliousness, though fueled by a love of her country Egypt, had contributed to the fall of the Pharaoh and to Ozymandias' own defeat at Apocalypse's hand. Thoughts of Nephri were no longer painful, the events of the past having been dulled by the passage of the millennia. He had become accustomed to the knowledge that he had used his sister for his own political gain, and, in the end, had chosen to kill her rather than acknowledge the mistakes he had made.

The scarf became a coat, worn by a man standing alone on a precipice. Ozymandias moved away from him, past a long, jagged crack in the stone face, and began carving again on the far side.

There was one thing in the healer that reminded him of his sister. He wasn't certain what to label it. Not gentleness, exactly. Nephri had been capable of violence, as he suspected Nightengale was, as well. It was more a... a lack of ambition. Ozymandias nodded to himself. That was right. Nephri's motives had always been completely unfathomable to him, and now, nearly five thousand years later, he had the feeling that he would understand no better what drove Nightengale. It was an unsettling feeling.

Ozymandias paused in surprise when he realized what he was carving. Faces stared back at him -- familiar, frightening. The X-Men stood united, their combined stance shouting defiance of Apocalypse and all of his plans. Slowly, his eyes traced the shapes, following his work back toward the beginning. He had been thinking about the healer. How had the X-Men become involved? He inhaled sharply as his eyes passed over the crack in the rock and came to rest on the solitary man. His face was a twin to Nightengale's, and now that Ozymandias thought about it, he realized that he should have seen the resemblance long before this. But Gambit had never been of much interest to Apocalypse.

Ozymandias looked between the carvings. Gambit was no longer with the X-Men. That was interesting, though what it meant, he couldn't begin to guess. The intriguing question was the nature of the link between the outcast X-Man and their healer. He nodded to himself again, this time in satisfaction. Apocalypse would be pleased by his discovery.

Renee stepped into the living room she had at least privately adopted as her own and stopped dead in her tracks. Apocalypse was seated in one of the high-backed chairs. The fireplace crackled with orange flames, and the slave who knelt beside the hearth looked up at her in surprise, the log in his hands falling to the stone floor with a dull thud. Apocalypse turned his head, and Renee could see the effort he required to make such a simple motion.

"Sit." The deep voice did not reflect its owner's weakness. Renee's stomach squeezed itself into a tiny, hard knot as she forced herself to walk forward into the room. She wondered if he had been waiting there for her, but then dismissed the thought. This was Apocalypse's domain. He would sit wherever he chose. It was rather egocentric of her to think that he would particularly care where she spent the few hours she did not spend tending to him.

Apocalypse was wrapped in a heavy blanket, patterned intricately in shades of blue and black. Renee could see little of him save his face, which was gaunt and gray as always. His long hair was tied up in a rough topknot and then fell across his shoulders in a tangled mess. It was a darker shade than his skin but also gray, like wet slate. Renee settled hesitantly in the other chair, tucking the slit skirt around her legs and crossing her ankles beneath the seat. She noticed then that Apocalypse had his feet propped out in front of him, sock-clad toes poking out of the enveloping blanket to soak up the warmth of the fire. For a moment she could only stare in bemusement. It had never occurred to her that Apocalypse had toes, let alone that they might get cold.

Renee stared down at her lap, uncertain of what to say or do. She tucked her hands beneath her thighs to keep them still, but found herself tensing her fingers rhythmically against the fabric of the chair beneath her. It was a small comfort as she waited, wondering if Apocalypse was watching her. Finally, she snuck a glance in his direction, only to find him staring into the fire.

See, he's not paying any attention to you at all, she told herself sternly.

The silence stretched, and Renee imagined that she could hear a clock in the distance, ticking away the endless seconds. She was a little surprised to find herself growing bored. Apocalypse did nothing but watch the dancing flames, and had he not commanded her to sit, she might very well have thought he hadn't noticed her presence.

And I always thought he was so scary. Next to Sinister, he had seemed like the most frightening of the villains when she was a child. Cody had teased her endlessly about being afraid. She felt the corners of her mouth turning up in a long unused smile. He and Rachel had made up silly names for all of the mutant villains, just to prove that they weren't scared of any of them. Apocalypse's nickname was Uncle Pocket Lips, and she remembered clearly how hard her mother had laughed the first time Cody told her that.

It was hard to equate the man seated beside her with the terrible creature from her history classes. Perhaps it was only because what she saw now was the man himself, without his exoskeleton and futuristic weapons, and without the storm of destruction that invariably surrounded him whenever he came into contact with humans. She was not foolish enough to think he was merely misguided, or misunderstood, or anything else short of evil. He hated all of humanity and everything else he perceived as being weak with a relentless passion.

Perhaps that was the real reason she feared him -- because in his estimation, she knew, she could only be rated as one of the weak. Her life was likely to last only as long as she was useful to him.

Remy stood in front of the French doors leading out onto his balcony and stared at the sliver of moon riding low on the horizon. Almost beneath his feet, the ocean tumbled over itself as it spilled onto the sand, the foamy crests turned luminescent in the moonlight. Remy wasn't thinking about the moon. On some level he acknowledged the night's beauty, but there was no one there to point it out to, so the thought merely subsided, mixing into the rest of the day's impressions.

He shivered. I'm a fool t' be standin' here, starin' at de moon an' tryin' t' talk m'self out o' bein' tired.

More than anything these days, Remy dreaded sleeping. For as long as he could remember, his nights had been haunted by dreams... nightmares. For the last few years, the dark hours had been filled with open graves, stretching across the ground as far as he could see in any direction. The bodies of those he had inadvertently helped murder lay in those graves, and they reached out of the soil to claw at him with desiccated hands.

Perhaps not so strangely, his dreams of the graveyard had begun to fade of late. The horrible things he had been party to in the past, that he had hoped so desperately to keep hidden from the X-Men, were now known. The X-Men hated him for it.

Remy sighed. Their reaction was just exactly as bad as he'd feared, but, now that it was all over the pain seemed to be ebbing some. As if the confession had done him some good, despite the fact that it had also cost him nearly all of the people he cared about.

Go t' bed, Remy, he told himself, but he didn't move away from the patch of moonlight in which he stood. Now that the more recent horrors were fading, older dreams were coming back to him. The images that had followed him since his youth. Those dreams were rarely coherent, and he never remembered much after waking, but the confusing impression of images always left him shivering in apprehension, filled with feelings of loss, pain and fear that he could find no source for. He figured it was all part of some repressed trauma that had followed him from the hard streets of New Orleans. Since he couldn't remember anything about his real family or the events that had left him an orphan, the chances were good that whatever had happened was not something he wanted to remember. Sometimes he wished he could see more of his dreams, good or bad. Just so he could know.

He pushed the melancholy thoughts away and smiled. There was also the bizarre fact that Jean Summers kept showing up in his dreams. Not the woman that he knew, but a much younger version. A girl of sixteen or seventeen, whose picture he had seen many times at the mansion. And though her place in his dreams seemed to be that of a close and intimate friend, it never went much beyond that, for which he was secretly grateful. He had always cared for Jean, though never romantically, and it made him curious why she, of all the X-women, would be the one in his dreams. She seemed like the least likely candidate.

Remy turned away from the doors. Maybe Jean was just a safe topic for his dreaming. A little bit of the warmth the X-Men had brought to his life, but without the hurt and confusion that thinking about people like Storm and Rogue caused him. He padded softly to the bed and knelt on the edge to reach up and pull the covers back. If so, she was welcome to visit him anytime. As angry as the X-Men's rejection made him -- the hypocrisy of it -- he still couldn't help but admit that he missed them.

Which jus' means dat you're either entirely pathetic... or de X-Men somehow turned into family, an' y' have t' love dem no matter how bad dey treat y'. He snorted in private disgust as he slid between the cool sheets. Neither option was very appealing, but he had the feeling he was stuck with them.

Chapter 5

Warren Worthington closed his eyes as the wind rushing past his face began to make his eyes burn. He was diving toward the Earth in a tight spiral, his wings arched as far as possible to increase the speed of the turn. Abruptly he snapped his wings straight, spreading the primary feathers wide on one side. The long feathers acted exactly like an airbrake, and the fast spiral ended dramatically as he yawed hard toward that wing, then recovered and rose with strong beats in to the clear sky. He wheeled again as soon as he had built up some airspeed, exulting in the freedom of flight. The air ruffled his feathers, and he could feel every variation in wind direction and speed through the gentle tugging of the quills in his skin. He wasn't sure how or why it had happened, but he could hardly express the joy he felt to have his wings back. His wings -- not Apocalypse's. Not hard, cold, unfeeling metal. No, his wings were soft to the touch and warmed by his own blood flowing through them.

A shadow fell across him, blanketing him, and Warren rolled away instinctively. Whatever made a shadow like that had to be big. He completed a half barrel roll so that he could look up and found himself staring at a gigantic bird. It looked for all the world like a crow, but it was the size of a small passenger jet. And it was dropping straight toward him, taloned feet extended.

Warren didn't bother to question the bird's origin. He wheeled about, sacrificing speed for a change in direction. He gritted his teeth as the strain from the g forces on his wings became painful, then nosed into a steep dive as soon as the sensation lessened. Unfortunately, the bird had the advantage as it plummeted from above. It corrected for his new course with a few twitches of its mighty wings and the distance between them shortened alarmingly.

Warren tried one more desperate maneuver, knowing that it would not be enough. The bird had gotten too close before he saw it. Something hit him with the force of a truck, even as he twisted away. He heard a terrible snap, like a branch breaking, and then a stab of agony that blanked his vision for a moment. He could feel the bird's talons wrapped viselike around his body, trapping his wings against his sides. He struggled briefly, gasping against the pain, but its grip was like iron.

Betsy! He wasn't that far from the mansion. Certainly the X-Men would be able to catch up to this monstrosity.

Betsy Braddock was his lover, and though they did not share a rapport as deep as that between Scott and Jean, his cry brought an immediate response.

Warren, what's wrong? As always, her voice was carefully controlled, but Warren could feel the alarm that underlay her words.

He never got a chance to respond as the bird's head flashed down toward him. It struck him on the head with the side of its beak, sending him into darkness.

Scott zipped up the suitcase that lay on the bed in front of him, wondering if he looked as uncertain as he felt. It had been hard enough to see the man he loved like a father transformed into Onslaught, and even harder to fight him, there in the streets of New York City. But through it all, Scott had always believed that the Professor was striving for the good. Even if he fell short -- or failed miserably, for that matter -- he was driven by his desire to build peace between humans and mutants.

Now however, Scott was beginning to wonder if he had ever understood what drove the Professor. He wanted to dismiss Jean's concerns as being overly paranoid, but he couldn't. They had at least fairly trustworthy evidence that the Professor had been hiding something from them for a long time, perhaps as long as they'd known him. The possibility had sparked Scott's memory, unearthing a number of little things that the Professor had said or done over the years that had never seemed quite right, and that now raised alarming flags in Scott's mind.

Why had the Professor insisted on maintaining the mutant database himself? That was the first thing that had struck him. He remembered Hank complaining at one point that he couldn't get to half of the information he needed to aid his Legacy research without going to the Professor first to have him unlock the files. And it had always been that way. At first, perhaps, it was simply because the rest of them were only high school students and did not have the skills to maintain the complex database of genetic information. Later on, though, the task should have fallen to Hank. There was absolutely no reason for the Professor to have kept the database keyed only to his personal codes unless there was something there that he didn't want the X-Men to see.

Jean walked out of the bathroom and set her cosmetics bag down beside the suitcase. "I think that's everything."

Scott nodded and Jean's expression filled with concern. "Honey, are you all right?"

He shrugged. "I suppose."

She gave him a sympathetic smile and settled on the edge of the bed. "I really hope I'm wrong about this." There was an echo of sadness in her voice, twin to his own feelings.

He sat down beside her and took one of her hands in both of his. "Me too." He sighed. "But we have to know."

Rogue was standing quietly off to the side, watching the other X-Men cavort in the snow under the pretense of building a snowman, when Betsy abruptly stiffened. Her head snapped upward and she scanned the sky, eyes wide in alarm.

"Warren!" Her cry was full of fear, and Rogue felt a rush of adrenaline, mixed with a sense of relief so sharp it was almost painful. Trouble of any kind was a welcome distraction to occupy her mind and distract her from the shadow in her heart. She flew to Betsy's side in an instant, eager for action.

Betsy's gaze dropped to scan the X-Men. "He's under attack!"

"Where, sugah?" Rogue felt a twinge of real concern. She had heard Warren say he was going out to stretch his wings, but that had been almost an hour ago. He could have covered a lot of distance in that time.

Betsy shook her head. "I don't know. Nearby. I've lost contact with him."

Rogue didn't need to hear any more. If Betsy couldn't hear him, then Warren was either shielded or unconscious. She refused to think he might be dead. But in any case, the faster the X-Men could get to him, the better.

"Storm, Rogue, Joseph. Get up top an' see if ya can find him," Logan barked. "Bets, keep us in contact."

Rogue didn't hear anything else as she powered skyward. If there were more instructions, Psylocke could find her telepathically. Joseph caught up to her after a moment, then passed her, arcing away toward the north in a crackling ball of magnetic energy. Storm was moving roughly west and the turbulence she kicked up as she fought the strong easterly buffeted Rogue.

Rogue quickly outran the turbulence and, as she hit smoother air, began a wide spiral that would allow her to search most effectively. The wind was deliciously chill, but she focused her thoughts on Warren as she scanned the sky. It suddenly struck her that they had never been close friends. She wasn't exactly certain why, but she and Warren had never connected at anything beyond the surface level. Rogue pushed the thoughts away. She didn't want to think about it. She didn't want to care.

She turned south and almost immediately spotted a dark spec in the sky in front of her. She added speed, feeling the lurch that meant she was passing the mach boundary. The black dot swelled rapidly, becoming the most gigantic bird she'd ever seen. Warren hung limp in its talons, his form bouncing with each sweep of the huge wings.

Sugah, ya ain't gonna believe this, she told Psylocke as she relayed the image.

She felt the telepath's surprise, but there was no emotion in her mental voice as she replied, Cannonball is on his way. Storm and Joseph will be a little behind him.

Rogue didn't bother to answer as the bird craned its head to look over its shoulder. It spied her instantly and Rogue cursed her luck. She was outracing the sound of her own flight. There was no way it could have heard her coming, and only blind bad luck could have made it turn its head at that particular time.

The bird screeched, an awful, ear shattering sound, while Rogue was still two miles away. As she watching in shock, it seemed to flatten and elongate, becoming oddly two-dimensional. Then, it simply... folded. Over and over on itself until it was nothing but a tiny dot, and then it winked out. Rogue flew through the space where it had been only a second before, her mind numb. Warren was gone.

Renee jumped up in alarm as the door to her room was thrown open. The small harp she was vainly attempting to draw a single clear note from tumbled out of her lap, landing on the rug with a discordant twang. One of the guards rushed in. He stopped in front of her and bowed, his breath hissing between pointed teeth. She could see his chest heaving as he gulped in air, and she wondered where he had come from. Unfortunately, if the cat men spoke any language at all, it was not one she understood.

"What is it?" she asked, knowing that the creature would remain bowed before her indefinitely unless she recognized him.

The guard straightened at her words and gestured urgently toward the door, as if to indicate that Renee should go with him. Both curious and apprehensive, Renee nodded and grabbed her cloak from the back of the chair. Her dress might be appropriate to an Egyptian noblewoman, but the air inside the mountain was far cooler than that of the Nile delta, and, after asking Shala several times in her fractured Egyptian, she had finally been given the cloak. She wrapped it around herself, then followed the distressed guard to the door.

Another of the cat men waited silently outside. Renee could tell by his earrings that this was the one who normally stood beside her door. He nodded to the first guard and fell in behind Renee as they left.

The cat man led Renee through familiar rooms and halls that she had explored when the confines of her chamber became unbearable. Renee had no idea what instructions the guards had been given regarding her, but they seemed content to allow her access to a large portion of the mountain. The residential portion, at least. Renee had yet to find a kitchen or storeroom, or even a hint of any kind of machinery except for the lights. Common sense told her that there had to be such things, but she could not find them. The guards would simply step forward and bar her way to any area she was not allowed to enter. Renee had found three of those so far, but could not guess what might lay beyond them. Occasionally, she could feel the stone floor beneath her vibrating ever so slightly, a mechanical hum that convinced her that there was far more to Apocalypse's domain than she had seen.

They reached a tall arched doorway that led to one of the areas Renee was not allowed access to. The guards who flanked the door, however, did not twitch an ear as she passed by them with her escort. Renee felt her curiosity growing. Until now, her routine under Apocalypse had been very orderly, as if Apocalypse wanted to demonstrate to her that he could control every aspect of her life despite his illness. This was something different. Something big enough to disturb Apocalypse in his own home.

They passed through the door and into a plain, rough-hewn tunnel. Renee was startled. She had gotten so used to the ornate carvings and tapestries that covered the walls that the sudden shift was dramatic. It was exciting as well, because she had not seen a passage like this since the one that Ozymandias had taken her through on their way into the mountain. The passage ended at a staircase seemed to be carved into a natural tunnel in the stone. A lava tube? Renee wondered, but she didn't even know if there were volcanoes in Egypt, extinct or otherwise. The staircase stretched both up and down from her location, disappearing quickly into darkness in the down direction. The way up was lit, and Renee was unsurprised when her guide turned and began to climb.

After a while, Renee gave up counting stairs. There had not been a single break in the staircase save for the landing where they had entered, though the tunnel they followed had made occasional jinks and turns. They seemed to climb forever, until her thighs burned and her feet felt like lead. She had been able to keep up a minimal exercise routine for the sake of her sanity, since no one seemed to care how she behaved in her own room, but the climb made it patently obvious that she had lost some of her physical tone.

She was just about to ask the guards for a short rest when she spied a point of bright light well above them on the stairs. It had to be a door, but for a moment, she couldn't figure out where the intense white light was coming from. Then she realized that it was sunlight. An almost childish eagerness filled her. She forgot about the pain in her legs as she climbed the last yards to where the bright, warm light spilled in through a square doorway cut in the stone. Renee was forced to shade her eyes even before she reached the top of the stairs. Her red-on-black eyes were abnormally sensitive to light anyway, and, by her estimation, she had not seen the sun for at least a month.

Renee stepped through the doorway and found herself at the edge of a wide expanse of stone that appeared to be the top of a butte. All around her she could see the tops of other mountains. They were small as far as mountains went, having been worn down by the passage of time. Their age showed in their rounded peaks, which reminded her of nothing so much as a herd of sleeping camels. Nothing living grew anywhere that Renee could see. Everything was shaded in rose and salmon and tan, and the wind whispered past her, carrying with it a mournful rattle of pebbles clattering down the stone faces. The sunlight that beamed down on everything was starkly white, but the warmth on her skin was delicious.

Then her gaze pulled inward, withdrawing from the incredible wide panorama around her to focus on her immediate surroundings. The guard was already halfway across the top of the butte and gesturing urgently to her when she realized that there was a crumpled figure lying near the far edge. Sudden dread filled her as she picked up her skirts once again and forced herself into a trot. Apocalypse lay on his back as if he had simply collapsed. The skin of his face had turned a chalky color, and instinct told her that she was seeing the effect of too much exposure to the sun on his skin.

Renee knelt beside him and leaned down to lay her ear against his chest. She heard his heart immediately, a strong, steady pulse, and felt the gentle rise and fall as he breathed.

Must have simply collapsed from exhaustion, she decided. I wonder what possessed him to come all the way up here, let alone how he managed to do it. She shook her head and reached for the laces of his shirt. The guards watched as she pulled the shirt open and laid her hands on the exposed skin at the base of his throat. Renee closed her eyes, concentrating, as the entire world narrowed to encompass only the tingle of her powers in the palms of her hands, and the throbbing of Apocalypse's pulse beneath her thumbs.

She didn't know what he had done, but he had somehow pushed his body's meager energy reserves to their limits and then beyond. The massive drain had caused his body to fall on itself for the needed energy, devouring its own cells simply for sustenance. The disease that she was slowly eradicating had begun to spread again, further weakening his system. And to top it all off, he'd managed to crack his skull on the rock when he fell. Renee healed that immediately, knitting the bone back together and attending to the concussion. She was just about to start on the virus again when he stirred, blinking slowly against the harsh light. Renee pulled her hands back before she lost control of her power, then watched as Apocalypse raised a hand to shield his eyes. He turned his head to look at her, his expression unreadable.

"You are not permitted here." The incredibly resonant voice was scratchy and dry.

Renee stared at him, amazed by his arrogance. She doubted that he could stand without help and yet everything about his carriage suggested utter confidence that he could back up his statement.

Apocalypse turned to look over at the two guards, who bowed their heads humbly. "I will not tolerate such disobedience."

Before Renee realized what he was doing, Apocalypse raised one hand and pointed at the guards. A spear of energy leapt from him, sizzling with the fury of a lightning bolt. It split as it left his fingers, and one lance pierced each of the cat men through the chest.

"No!" Renee leapt to her feet in horror as the two fell. She knew before she reached them that they were dead, but she knelt between their bodies anyway, one arm held across her mouth to ward off the stench of burnt flesh and fur. She examined them both, then gently closed the blue eyes. She could not claim that she had felt any real affection for either of the strange creatures, but they held a place in her heart for the simple fact that they had stood guard at her door, protecting her. And because they had died for no reason.

Renee turned to Apocalypse, her fear of him eclipsed by anger. He had managed to roll onto his side and prop himself up on one elbow, and was now in the process of sitting up. It stunned her that he could be so weak and yet still so dangerous. No one had ever known the complete extent of Apocalypse's powers, and Renee was not so foolish as to think that she could retaliate for the guards and hope to survive.

"Why did you kill them?" The question was both a plea and a demand.

"They were weak." Apocalypse stared at her and the two dead guards that flanked her with indifference.

"Because they disobeyed you?" Renee wasn't certain why she dared to challenge him, save that her heart demanded an answer for what she had just seen.

"Yes."

Renee pulled her cloak tight around her. "They were just trying to protect you." Their deaths were all the more tragic for that fact, and she felt the anger inside her sharpening into a fine, hard point. "You had no right to kill them."

Apocalypse's gaze narrowed. "You try my patience, Healer."

Renee felt a wash of terror and dropped her eyes. In her peripheral vision, she could see him gingerly shifting his position on the hard rock of the butte. It took her a moment to realize that he was trying to find a way to get to his feet, but his physical weakness kept sabotaging the effort. Head still bowed, she smiled grimly. The Shadow King had taught her that outright resistance against his kind of power was useless. But that didn't mean she had to accept it.

Wondering if she would die in the next few moments, Renee bowed deeply and tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "As you said, I am not permitted here." Without looking at him, she turned and walked back to the head of the stairs. The spot between her shoulder blades itched with every step, anticipating a strike that never came. She forced herself to a measured pace on the stairs until she knew she was out of sight, and then she began to run.

Chapter 6

Valerie Cooper leaned back in her seat with a sigh. "I wish I knew how you people manage to keep waltzing in and out of here. This is the Pentagon. It's supposed to be a secure facility."

Jean smiled at her chiding tone while, beside her, Scott shrugged. "Trade secret," he said lightly. They were seated in Val's office, a somewhat dismal cube buried in the depths of the labyrinthine complex.

"So, spit it out. What do the X-Men want now?" Val regarded them evenly and Jean admired her composure. She would most likely lose her job if anyone ever discovered her connection to the X-Men.

"This isn't exactly official business," Scott told her, and Jean felt her interest sharpen. "The other X-Men don't know we're here."

Scott paused, his discomfort obvious to Jean, but probably not apparent to Val. Valerie looked between them. "I'm not going to run out and tell them."

Jean shook her head. "No, that's not it. This is just a... difficult topic."

Val frowned and set her glasses down on her desk. "All right." She steepled her hands in front of her. Jean could feel her settling herself to wait.

"How is Professor Xavier?" Scott asked suddenly. Val's eyebrows arched, but the rest of her face remained impassive.

"Honestly, I wish I knew," she finally answered.

"Then you haven't heard anything more?" Jean had been hoping that she might have stumbled across some mention of the Professor.

Val shook her head. "Why the sudden interest? It's been months since Operation Zero Tolerance was terminated, and we didn't know where he was then, either."

Scott and Jean traded glances. Jean was suppressing their natural rapport to avoid detection by the Pentagon's mutant screening systems, but she didn't need it to read her husband's thoughts. She had the same question in her own mind. How much could they afford to tell Valerie? She was still a government agent, despite her mutant sympathies.

Jean saw Scott take a deep breath. "This is off the record, Val."

Val stared at him intently, then nodded.

Scott looked down at his hands for a moment, then looked back up at her. "We didn't ask about the Professor earlier because, when he made the decision to turn himself in voluntarily, he asked us not to interfere on his behalf. We have honored his request."

"Until now."

Scott nodded. "Until now." To Jean's surprise, Val waited silently for him to continue. After a few moments, he did. "Recently, we have seen evidence -- some -- evidence that suggests that the Professor might have had an agenda that we were unaware of."

Val's frowned. "What kind of evidence?"

"I'd rather not say." Jean could feel Scott carefully choosing his words. "But it seems to predate Onslaught, perhaps even by years."

Jean could see the impact of his words in Valerie's eyes. She laid her hands flat on her desk. "Do you have any idea what you've just told me?"

Scott nodded somberly. "Is there anything you can do to help us find him?"

Val's gaze flickered between them. "Off the record?"

"Off the record."

She drummed manicured nails on the desk top. "A couple of splinter projects survived the end of OZT. The only name I've heard is Grayscape."

Jean frowned. "Do you know what it is?"

"No." Her hands closed into loose fists. "And I'm afraid that's all the help can give you."

Warren woke slowly, consciousness returning to him in stages. As soon as he was aware of himself, the pain hit him, weighing him down like a heavy blanket of lead. For a while the pain was all he could see or feel, but eventually it began to recede. Not enough to simply become part of the background, but at least he could think beyond it.

The first thing he noticed then was the cold. Something cold that stretched the length of his body. It seemed to be molded to him, leaving the skin of his thighs, stomach and chest chilled. After a moment, he oriented himself and realized that he was lying on his stomach on a cold surface. Then he remembered. The bird. And he knew that the pain he felt was from his right wing, which had snapped in the grip of the bird's talons. Slowly, he began to move his fingers and then his toes, checking to see if he had any other injuries. He discovered that he was very sore, but everything else seemed to be in some kind of working order.

His right wing was unfurled and stretched out beside him, covering his arm. Warren opened his eyes and raised his head to look, hissing at the pain even that slight motion caused him. The light was poor, but he immediately spotted the break and his heart sank. The radius and ulna had both been snapped in two. He could see the pale ends of the bones poking out. And with the main structure of the wing gone, the outer portion hung limp, lifeless.

Utter terror gripped Warren. He'd lost his wings once before because they'd been so badly damaged that they had to be amputated. Now, having finally gotten them back, he couldn't bear the thought that they might be damaged again. He began to shiver as his fear amplified the cold seeping into him from the stone floor, and a single tear squeezed out of the corner of his eye and traced a path down his cheek.

Get a grip, Warren, he snarled at himself. He wrestled with his panic for several long minutes, then finally brought it under control. He wasn't dead, or even maimed. He was injured. And imprisoned, he added after a moment. A metal shackle encased his neck and the attendant chain ran across the floor past his head to a large loop that was bolted to the wall with a pair of screws that he knew he had no hope of pulling out. There was little slack in the chain. Enough that Warren would be able to sit or stand easily, but he would not be able to move far from the wall. He debated sitting up, then decided that it would hurt too much. He would rather live with the cold than jar his injured wing.

He craned his head to look around his new environs, and realized with a start that he wasn't alone. The cell was surprisingly large, perhaps ten feet by ten, and chained to the opposite wall from him was a woman. She sat with her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. Her hands were curled around her bare toes in a vain attempt to keep them warm, and she had her forehead pressed against the tops of her knees. She was shivering violently. Warren could see the light that drifted down from a small slit of a window flashing off of gold ornaments in her hair as they trembled. It was a strangely beautiful effect.

"Hey," he called softly. The woman's hands tightened convulsively, but she didn't answer. He tried again.

"Do you know where we are?" That was the first order of business. The bird that attacked him was both puzzling and frightening, and had filled him with a sense of foreboding. He knew of one mutant in particular that might use such an agent. One that already had an interest in him. But he needed to be sure before he started thinking too much about that.

The woman made a snuffling sound and Warren realized that she must have been crying, though he hadn't heard a sound. After a moment she raised her head slightly, but did not actually look up. "You're Apocalypse's prisoner."

Warren's heart froze at her words. The name itself sent a tiny bolt of terror through him. He had never told anyone except Professor Xavier just how much Apocalypse frightened him. Not because of what he could do to Warren, really, though his blue skin and former biometallic wings were testament enough to that. It was because the things that he offered Warren-- the power, the fury, the total abandon -- were like a siren song that nothing could completely block out. He had left Apocalypse once and had made the long, hard climb back into the sun, but like every recovered addict, he was secretly afraid of the day when he would again tumble over the edge.

To distract himself, he looked back at the woman. Her demeanor suggested both fear and dejection, but for all of that she was remarkably composed.

"I suppose introductions are in order," he said as diffidently as he could manage. "I'm Warren."

Slowly, the woman raised her head, and Warren felt his jaw go slack. Blood red irises, lit with some inner fire, stared at him from the depths of dark eyes in a face that Warren had thought he'd never see again. She was slightly younger than Gambit, he guessed, but her face was a near-perfect duplicate of his.

She watched his recognition with interest. "Renee LeBeau."

"Well that certainly clinches it," he quipped. "Gambit never mentioned he had a sister." He couldn't help the distaste that crept into his voice. There were a lot of things that Gambit had never mentioned.

Renee's eyes widened in surprise, and Warren could see the flare of her nostrils as she drew a sharp breath. "Gambit?" She stared at him, her gaze flickering as if the comment had set her mind to racing. Warren watched her curiously, and even more so when she seemed to reach a conclusion. She let out her pent breath in a relieved sigh, nodding to herself.

"It worked," she whispered with something that sounded suspiciously like awe.

"What worked?" Warren was thoroughly intrigued.

Her gaze darted back to him, clearly startled, and Warren realized that she had been so involved in her thoughts that she had completely forgotten about him.

The sound of approaching footsteps forestalled whatever answer she might have given him. A key rattled in the lock, the sound an unmistakable scrape of metal on metal. Curious, Warren craned his head to look up at the door and was amazed to see that it was, indeed, an iron lock.

Doesn't make much sense, he thought as he heard the bolt slide back. Why would Apocalypse be using this low-tech cell? The X-Men would be in here in less than a second. In Warren's experience, Apocalypse had always favored his highly advanced technologies when he simply wanted to get something done. Apocalypse was conveying a message with this archaic prison. Warren glanced over at Renee, wondering which of them that message might be directed toward.

The door to the cell swung open, flooding them with bright light. Warren saw Renee wince in pain and shade her eyes, but other than that, she did not react to the man who stood in the doorway. Warren found himself staring at Ozymandias as the reality of his situation slowly sank in. The terror that he had managed to ignore until now forced its way to the front of his mind.

Ozymandias glanced at Warren, but then turned his attention to the girl who now stared at her toes. He watched her for several moments, his expression oddly sad.

"That was a foolish thing you did, girl." To Warren's amazement, his voice was gentle, as if he actually regretted seeing her chained.

Renee continued to stare at the floor. "I know," she answered, her voice tinged with sarcasm. She flexed her shoulders minutely and Warren saw Ozymandias' eyes narrow. He wasn't certain what barb Renee had thrown with her understated body language, but he was certain that it had struck Ozymandias squarely.

Ozymandias stiffened, the anger obvious in his clipped tone. "I did as I was commanded. No more, no less."

From his vantage, Warren could see the humorless smile that stretched across Renee's lips. "So did I," she said without looking up.

Ozymandias stared at her, his face darkening. Warren tensed, anticipating the explosion. He didn't know what he could do to protect Renee from Apocalypse's warlord, but he knew he would try. But after a moment, Ozymandias threw back his head and uttered a short bark of laughter.

"I admire your audacity, child." He walked into the cell and dropped to a crouch in front of Renee. "Apocalypse is still fuming." Something about his stance made Warren think that he was enjoying Apocalypse's discomfort immensely. But it also left him wondering why Renee was still alive. Those who angered Apocalypse did not often survive the experience.

Warren was surprised when Renee shivered, her fear obvious. There was none of the extravagant bravado he had always attached to Gambit, and so by association expected from her. Instead, she seemed truly afraid of Apocalypse's anger, though she had obviously defied him in some way or she wouldn't be in the cell to begin with.

"Is that why you're here?" she asked Ozymandias and Warren refocused his attention on the exchange.

Ozymandias stood, wrapping his cloak about his sparse frame, and looked down at her. "Perhaps, child." His voice was heavy. "Apocalypse has called for you."

Renee's head snapped up, and she looked directly at Ozymandias for the first time. Warren saw the dread written there, but as he watched, she seemed to gather herself and the expression shaded into acceptance. Ozymandias stepped back as she slowly climbed to her feet. He did not offer to help, though it was obvious that the simple feat required a great deal of effort on her part. She clung to the wall for support, her breath hissing through her teeth, until she was completely upright. Then she let go of the wall and stood, swaying slightly, as she stared at Ozymandias.

Warren was almost certain that he saw a flash of approval in the old man's eyes as he reached up to unlock the collar around Renee's throat. Warren pulled quietly at his own chain, gauging distances, but he knew it was useless. He could see the two guards who waited outside of the cell. Even if he could get to Ozymandias' keys, he wouldn't have time to free himself before the guards were on him. Maybe, if he knew Renee would back him up, it would be worth the risk, but he had no idea how she might react. In truth, she looked like she could barely stay on her feet, and her very face made it hard for Warren to trust her. So he forced himself to lay still as Ozymandias unlocked the collar and dropped in on the floor with a metallic clang.

Ozymandias stepped aside and gestured to Renee to precede him. She took a deep breath, then looked over at Warren.

"What about his wing?" she asked.

Ozymandias also looked at Warren, and something in the man's face made Warren's stomach clench in apprehension. "His suffering has only just begun, child. He is not your concern."

Renee looked for a moment like she might protest, but then her shoulders slumped and she hung her head. Without another word, she walked toward the door. Warren felt a sharp stab of anger for her acquiescence which died when he caught a glimpse of her back and the lines of dried blood and surrounding bruises which covered it.

Stiffly, gingerly, Renee moved out into the hall. Ozymandias followed her and one of the guards closed the door, leaving Warren in solitude. He watched the door for a while, until his neck began to ache, then laid his head back down on his arm and closed his eyes. For the moment, there was nothing he could do except wait, and hope that the X-Men would be able to find him. But instead of the X-Men, he found his thoughts returning to Renee. Gambit had told them so little about himself in the years he'd spent at the mansion. Amazingly little, as Warren had come to realize recently. And what they had finally learned about him, apparently, was only the beginning of the truth. Renee was living proof of that, and it left Warren wondering bitterly how much more they still didn't know, and what damage the Cajun might yet do to them.

Chapter 7

Remy LeBeau stepped into the plush office a step behind the secretary and paused to absorb his surroundings. The only light in the room came from a small lamp on the mahogany desk, but that glow was lost in the fairy tale glitter of the New York skyline that was visible through the wall of windows behind the desk. The sun had set while Remy was waiting for this appointment, and the transformation of the city from day to night was startling.

A man sat behind the desk, apparently oblivious to the view that framed him. He stood as Remy entered.

"Mr. LeBeau. Please, come in. I'm Jeremy Sands."

Remy focused on his host, an obscure but powerful player in the defense contract industry. He was perhaps fifty, reasonably fit and with a tan that proved he didn't spend all of his time at the office. Black hair, only touched with gray, was pulled back in a short ponytail, and was matched by a neatly trimmed goatee of the same color.

Remy crossed the room and shook the hand Sands offered. His grip was firm and confident, which fit with what Remy knew about him. Remy settled in the leather bound chair that fronted Sands' desk.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. LeBeau." Sands folded his hands before him on the desk, reminding Remy briefly of Charles Xavier. "I was encouraged to hear you've gone back into business."

Remy cocked his head in an approximation of a shrug. "Figured I'd been on vacation long enough." He couldn't completely erase the sarcasm from his words. Even the easy parts of being an X-Man were harder than what he was doing now. Not in terms of skill, perhaps, but certainly in the things that counted most.

Sands seemed to read his reluctance to broach that particular topic, and turned immediately to business.

"It's my nature to be blunt, Mr. LeBeau, so I'm just going to lay this out on the table. I'm sure you've done enough research already to know a great deal about myself and Event Technologies." He gestured at the office around them. "We are a primary space systems contractor to the U.S. government, as well as a defense contractor."

Remy nodded. Event Technologies was the industry leader in launch vehicle contracts, though, since they weren't involved with the Space Shuttle, their name was almost unknown outside of the aerospace industry. The company had also made strong bids for missile and space-based defense systems, and currently held several development contracts. Event appeared to be well-managed and financially viable.

"Unfortunately, recent government spending cuts have reinforced my concern that we are too dependent on contracts for our livelihood," Sands continued. "There are tremendous opportunities in the private sector that we should be taking advantage of, as, in fact, we are beginning to do. Have you heard the term HALS?"

Remy nodded. "High Altitude Launch System."

Sands smiled. "Yes. The basic idea is to launch a space vehicle from a mobile platform at something like sixty thousand feet. The amount of fuel required to escape the Earth is dramatically reduced, and the number of launch windows increased by a factor of ten or more. Right now, we're using a modified 747 as the platform to keep the cost down."

Remy was beginning to wonder if Sands had mistaken him for a potential customer. He was willing to wait, knowing that what he did made people uncomfortable and that they often needed time to broach the subject of what they really wanted.

Sands went on, oblivious to Remy's thoughts. "The HALS is one of a very few technologically feasible means for putting private industry in space. The government has a near monopoly on space launch capability, which means that there is a real need for a private launch system that is unfettered by government restrictions, and that does not rely on use of government property such as Cape Canaveral." He leaned forward. "We have reached a stage in the development of the HALS where we will need to start investing significantly more money in the project in order to proceed."

He sat back abruptly. "In short, because of the development cost, we will have to bet the entire company if we want to manufacture a HALS. If we attempt to capture the private launch market and fail, Event Technologies will not be able to recover financially." He paused. "So, this is where you come in."

Remy was fairly sure he knew what Sands wanted of him, and Sands confirmed it. "There are two other private companies that we suspect are developing a HALS. I need to know where they are in the development cycle. If we can be the first on the market by a reasonable margin, we can almost guarantee enough market share to turn a tidy profit."

Remy kept the expression off of his face. Defense industries were tough to break, almost unilaterally. Stealing individual bits of technology wasn't particularly difficult since engineers weren't a security-conscious bunch. But the things Sands was going to want -- schedules and planning descriptions -- those were high level documents, seen only by a few members of upper management, and would be fiercely protected. Interestingly, Sands hadn't suggested any kind of industrial sabotage, in the event that one of his competitors turned out to be ahead. It was a type of work that Remy avoided, which he suspected Sands already knew.

"My fee -- "he began, but Sands waved him away.

"The price tag on most of our products is well over a billion dollars, Mr. LeBeau. Your fee is inconsequential in comparison."

Remy arched an eyebrow at the blunt assessment, but he found himself tempted to smile. That was, indeed, several zeros more than he would be asking for.

Sands met his gaze without any sign of uncertainty. "Bring me the information I need, and I will pay you any reasonable sum. I'm fairly confident you wouldn't be willing to give me a final number until the job was done, anyway."

This time Remy did smile in acknowledgment. "You're right, dere."

Sands nodded. "Good. Then, unless you wish to refuse, we've only one more thing to talk about."

Remy was impressed. Not only was Sands confident, but he had also done his homework extensively, not just to choose a thief who had the skills he needed, but also to make his offer one that Remy would be hard-pressed to refuse. And since Remy had done some homework of his own, he knew that Sands was basically trustworthy and would honor his contract.

"What's dat?" he asked.

Sands rested his elbows on the desk. "Well, here's the thing. I can't even offer you a project name for the HALS development going on at other companies. That means that I'm going to have to provide you with some pretty detailed technical information about our HALS, so that you will have enough knowledge to find the projects elsewhere. It's sensitive information, and would be worth quite a bit to the right people, I suspect."

Remy's lips tightened angrily. "I don' turn on contracts, Mr. Sands."

He nodded. "No, your reputation is generally good. However, there were a somewhat alarming number of times when I asked a question about you and got the answer ‘Don't ask". And, the truth is that I don't hire this kind of work without insisting on a telepathic scan."

"Den I'm afraid y' gon' have t' hire someone else." Remy stood abruptly.

Sand's didn't seem surprised. "I'd heard that about you as well. Which is why I thought I might be able to offer a compromise."

Remy watched him warily. "What kind o' compromise?" He didn't want to lose the contract, despite how nervous the talk of telepaths made him.

"A non-telepath who can still give me the kind of assurance I require."

That piqued his curiosity. "A mutant?"

Sands nodded. "Yes. Her name is Token. She has a limited ability to tell the future. She would be able to tell me if you were going to sell Event's secrets."

Remy considered. It was certainly possible. Destiny had been a very capable precog, though she was the only one he'd heard of. He found himself nodding slowly.

"I'll t'ink about it."

Sands smiled. "I'll be waiting for your call."

Token was a tiny thing. Remy estimated her height at something like four foot ten. She was extremely slender. Remy felt like he might accidentally break her if he so much as bumped into her. She was completely normal looking, except for her eyes, which were pupiless and the color of pewter. It made her gaze rather eerie, and Remy chided himself for his reaction. His own eyes were at least as strange and drew the same kind of response. Often, he found that to his advantage, but there were a few times that it bothered him.

They met in a private room in Event Technologies corporate office. The woman who showed him in assured him that the room was unmonitored, and considering the white noise generator that sat in the middle of the table, he was fairly confident that was true. Token sat behind the standard conference-size table, her slim fingers clasped before her.

"Good morning," she said. Her voice was as slight as the rest of her.

"Mornin', cherie," Remy answered. "You must be Token."

"And you're Gambit." She smiled at him, her expression full of gentle good humor.

Remy moved to the table and took a seat across from her. "I see y' usin' dat power o' yours on me already." He found himself grinning at her in return. There was something about her that put him immediately at ease. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to listen with his mind. He wasn't exactly a telepath, but he would be able to feel it if Token were projecting something. He found nothing, and finally concluded that it must simply be her personality that was so engaging.

He opened his eyes to find Token watching him expectantly. She was still smiling slightly, as if she was used to his kind of wariness and would patiently wait as long as was required. She was not the kind of person Remy expected to be hiring her services out, especially here on the gray edge of industrial competition. But what little he'd been able to dig up on her suggested that she worked on contract for a wide variety of people, including a few law enforcement agencies that were willing to believe her predictions. She had a reputation for telling exactly what she saw-- mercilessly, in some cases -- and for being sporadic but accurate.

"Are you ready to begin?" she asked him.

He shrugged. "Might as well." His investigation had also found that, as far as anyone knew, she could only look toward the future. Not the past.

She nodded. "My powers work only on contact, so I will be asking you to hold my hands here in a moment." Remy bit back the reflexive comment that rose to his lips. Her voice was inflectionless, as if she had begun to recite a standard spiel, and he had the feeling that she had heard all of the jokes before.

"I usually receive a number of impressions of various future events. The detail and type of impression varies widely. Sometimes I am restricted to a single sense -- sight, sound, feel. Sometimes it's as if I'm actually there. They often come in mixed chronological order, though I can usually sense things that are distant future from things that are near. In general, I can't go looking for a specific person or event. I can only direct my power toward a general segment of time. In your case, my employer believes that it will be sufficient to examine the near future, assuming that, if you were to betray him, it would be a reasonably significant event during that time period, and one my power will most likely detect. Questions?"

"Jus' one. Why doesn' Sands just have y' look t' see if he's gon' be first on de market wit' his new technology?"

Token tucked a lock of chestnut colored hair behind her ear. "That's too general an event. I wouldn't be able to see it." She made a small gesture. "I can't predict who will win the Super Bowl and that kind of thing. I can't even tell you who will be elected President next -- unless by chance, I touched that person. Then it would be specific and personal enough for me to see it."

Remy thought for a moment, weighing once again the risk of doing this. It was a very sweet job that would keep him busy for a while. The risk was the unpredictability of Token and her mutant power, and what she might learn about him. Despite that, he had to admit that he was both curious and a bit excited. After all, who didn't want to have their future told?

"All right. I'm ready." He held out his hands.

She didn't move for a moment. "Do you want to know?"

"Know what?"

"What I see. I can tell you as I go, or I can keep it to myself. Fair warning -- it's an all or nothing proposition. I won't censor and I won't just tell you the good parts."

He chuckled at her severe expression. She looked as if she was used to arguing the point. "Got it. An' since I've always been too curious f' my own good, y' might as well tell me."

Her face relaxed into a smile. "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me." A subtle change in her body language told him that they had just stepped across the line between pure business into a more dangerous mix. She reached across the table and took his hands in hers, then snatched them back immediately as if she'd been burned.

"What happened?" Remy asked in mild alarm. He hadn't felt anything.

Token shook her hands out and looked at him. "I'm not sure." She gave him an embarrassed smile. "You're a bit like touching a live wire." Somewhat hesitant, she reached out and took his hands once again. Remy could tell from her expression that whatever she experienced hadn't gone away.

"That feels... very strange," she murmured to herself as her strange gaze grew distant.

Remy bit his tongue against asking her another question. He had the feeling that she wouldn't hear him. Her eyebrows arched momentarily.

"Chocolate eclairs for breakfast? Tsk, tsk." Despite her empty gaze, she still seemed to know that he was there. There was a hint of teasing in her voice. "Tomorrow, I think. They'll be stale."

Remy blinked at her, surprised despite himself. He wasn't certain exactly what he thought she would see, but his breakfast wasn't it. Then her expression changed.

"It's hot out here." She looked around, smiled. "You're in a desert."

Her fingers tightened around his almost reflexively. "You... will be... searching for something. Not business. Personal." Her brow furrowed. "No, not something. Someone. Ah. And you'll find someone... I'm not sure if they're the same person, though."

"In de desert?" Remy wasn't sure how much to trust the woman's visions. He wasn't much of a believer in destiny or predetermination, but, if it would satisfy Sands, he would listen.

Token cocked her head. "You will find someone in the desert, but that's not where you'll find yourself."

Remy was grateful she didn't seem to be able to see him. Woman, I ‘found' m'self a couple months back in Antarctica. He almost said it out loud, then decided he didn't really want to hear her response.

Token was silent for a while, then, "I see a woman. Young. Very beautiful. Very important to you, also." Then her expression clouded with confusion. "She is... a reflection in the mirror?" She paused, frowned. "No, because she's on this side of the mirror with you." Her brows knit in concentration. "Y'know, it's not really a mirror. The surface is all black. The woman is still there, though. You're talking with her. Arguing about something, actually... I wish I could see her face, so I knew for sure, but it feels like she's your sister."

That got Remy's attention. "Sister?"

Token shook her head in puzzlement. "No, I was wrong. Not a sister... but what?"

Remy watched her with keen interest. He couldn't explain why he was suddenly so tense, with little nervous flutters in his stomach, except that he'd always wanted to know about his real family. The question was, how much could he believe Token's predictions? Until a moment ago, he'd been regarding her power as a kind of mutant voodoo. All you had to do was not believe it and it couldn't affect you.

After several long minutes, she looked up at him with her strange, unfocused gaze. "I'm sorry, she's gone." She shook her head. "You're extremely hard to read."

Remy adjusted his grip on her hands, feeling a bit disappointed. "Lot o' people tell me dat, chere." It seemed to be his curse. He had so much to hide that now the walls were too high, the pit he had dug for himself too deep, to ever let anyone inside him again. Even the woman who loved him couldn't forgive. He doubted anyone else would, either, even if there was truth in what Token said.

He was distracted from his bitter musing by Token's expression. She looked surprised. "You will meet a lot of important people. Mutants, mostly. I recognize some members of X-Factor... and that's Captain America." She nodded toward something he couldn't see. "The X-Men are there, too." Her face grew suddenly solemn, almost frightened. "It's some kind of huge battle! I can't tell who's fighting who. There are Sentinels and some kind of... of animals -- they look like demons." She shivered and started to pull away from him. Remy tightened his grip on her hands, his thoughts of family banished. He'd been through too many strange things with the X-Men to dismiss what she was seeing. It simply sounded too familiar. And the mounting terror in her eyes was enough to convince him that he needed to know what this battle was about.

Token's unfocused eyes darted around the room. "It's utter chaos." She seemed stunned. "You're there -- in the middle of the battle. You're injured." She flinched and sucked in a sharp breath. "Not too badly, but... it hurts... Enemies are starting to close in on you. The others are trying to hold them off, but they're failing. Slowly. Falling back." She shook her head and struggled harder against his grip. Remy fought her, leveraging his greater reach to keep her hands locked in his. "The enemies push forward -- they smell victory. There's something coming up behind them... " Token froze as her face drained of all color. She stared at something beyond Remy in pure horror. "What is that?" Panic filled her face as she yanked her hands out of Remy's grasp with surprising strength and collapsed back in her chair.

Remy stared at her, his heart pounding. "Token?"

She lay limp in her chair, her breath coming in shaky gasps. But after a moment she opened her eyes and then covered her mouth with the back of one hand. He could see her gathering herself by degrees. Finally, she straightened and met his gaze.

"I -- I'll tell Mr. Sands that he doesn't have anything to worry about." She still sounded deeply shaken.

"Token, what was so frightening? What did you see?"

She blinked at him slowly, then shook her head. "I don't know. Something huge... evil." She crossed her arms over her chest, clearly disturbed.

In his life, Remy LeBeau had been in a number of large scale conflicts. The war between thieves and assassins in New Orleans. The Mutant Massacre. The battle to reclaim the Shi'ar throneworld from the Skrulls. The Brood. The conflict with Stryfe, and a number of others. And then, most recently, the battle against Onslaught. It was strangely reassuring to know that such things could become part of his life again, like a promise that the things that had made him feel most alive weren't gone forever.

He took a deep breath. "How long?"

Token glanced at him. "A year. Maybe two, at most." She seemed to sense how he was feeling and looked puzzled. "I thought you were just a thief."

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Me too, chere."

Chapter 8

Renee's insides were knotted into a cold, hard ball by the time she stepped past Ozymandias into Apocalypse's chamber. She heard the heavy door latch behind her as Ozymandias left. The smell was overwhelming, and Renee felt a sense of deja vu. This was how she had first seen Apocalypse. Now, she was back where she started, but how much had changed! Each step jarred her injured back, until she was gritting her teeth against the fiery pain. Her lips were dry and cracked and her throat ached with a thirst that was almost as powerful as the pain of her back. She didn't know exactly how long she had been imprisoned, but she had been given neither food nor water during that time, and she had no inkling as to whether Apocalypse had done that on purpose, or simply because it hadn't occurred to him that she would need such things.

She paused beside the bed, her hands clasped together and her eyes fastened on the floor. She didn't dare look up at the reclining figure, though she could tell from his breathing that he was awake. A small part of her mind catalogued the hollow rattle and decided that he did not sound very good. The disease had gotten back into his soft tissues.

"I will not tolerate disobedience in my house," Apocalypse said without preamble. Despite the rasping wheeze of his breath, his voice was solid, angry, and Renee flinched under his imagined stare. "Is this clear?"

Renee nodded without looking up. She had learned very well how Apocalypse would react to any obvious signs of rebellion. She heard a rustle as Apocalypse shifted on his bed, but he didn't speak. The silence stretched as Renee waited in growing uncertainty. He had to be watching her, but she didn't dare look up to see his expression.

Finally, he spoke. "At least you are contrite." His voice had lost its hard edge and seemed, if not exactly pleased, then at least accepting.

Renee felt a little of the tension running out of her. When the guards had first caught her, she'd thought they were going to kill her. But at first, all they did was lock her in her room. She'd started to believe that was all that was going to happen when they came back and dragged her in front of Apocalypse. Apocalypse had given her no chance to speak, no chance to explain or even apologize. The guards had tied her wrists to the arm of Apocalypse's heavy stone chair and held her there on her knees while Apocalypse ordered Ozymandias to give her twenty lashes. Terrified and humiliated, she'd listened to Ozymandias counting out her agony. Defying Apocalypse had been a horribly foolish thing to do. She should never have reacted so blindly.

The experience made clear to her a surprising difference between Apocalypse and the Shadow King. She wasn't used to being able to react to her anger and revulsion. The Shadow King had controlled her completely -- not just her actions, but her thoughts as well when he chose. He had always left her enough freedom so that her emotions were her own, because he enjoyed feeling her hatred, her fear and horror. He would never have done something like this. In all the time Renee was his hound, he had never hurt her to gain her obedience-- he'd never needed to. But Apocalypse needed to intimidate her into doing as he desired. He had the power to imprison her, and he had the power to kill her. But he could not completely control her mind or her heart.

Her thoughts turned to her Uncle Warren, chained somewhere beneath her feet. She felt a kind of helpless fear for him, but she had to believe that he would be strong enough to resist Apocalypse. And that, she understood then, was the key. Apocalypse was the greatest physical power on the planet, but he could not prevent people from resisting him.

Renee found herself relaxing by degrees. She was still afraid, but she felt an amazing sense of freedom as well. She had not realized until that moment that she alone owned her soul. She waited in silence, marveling at her discovery.

"Nightengale."

Startled, Renee looked up. Apocalypse was watching her, the fire in his basalt-colored eyes the only sign of life. "Come closer, child. Have you forgotten why you are here?" One skeletal finger beckoned to her.

Renee forced herself forward and stopped when her thighs brushed the edge of the bed. She didn't want to be so close to him. The bite of the lash on her back was much too fresh a memory, and she remembered his face, cold and uncaring, as he'd watched. His face seemed a little softer now. She could see the lines of exhaustion etched into his skin. After a moment, he closed his eyes and Renee wondered if he trusted her so much, or if he simply believed that she wouldn't dare defy him.

She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. There was little room, leaving her uncomfortably aware of Apocalypse's ribs pressed against her hip, and the gentle rise and fall of his breath. After a moment's hesitation, she reached over to lay her hands in her customary place at the base of his throat. The motion stretched the skin of her back and she hissed softly. Apocalypse's eyes opened at the sound. Renee found herself staring into their gray depths from a distance of barely a foot. She had no idea what emotion she saw there, but his gaze burned through her until her activated power overwhelmed her senses.

She forgot everything then and was consumed by the battle to control her powers. Exhausted and aching, she had little strength left to force the mutations to obey her will. And yet, she refused to let it escape her. Since the first time the Shadow King had used her powers-- used her-- to kill, she had sworn that she would never do such a thing of her own will. And she never had. At times, that knowledge had been the only thing that had defined the boundary between where she ended and the Shadow King began. It had become intrinsic to who she was, and even Apocalypse's arrogant cruelty could not entice her into sacrificing that part of herself. If she touched him, it would only be to heal. And as much as she might like to refuse that contact, she didn't think it was practical to believe that Apocalypse would allow that.

She sat back when she had done as much as she could without losing control. Apocalypse slept, his breathing slow and steady. The ugly rattle in his lungs was gone, and Renee felt a bizarre sense of satisfaction. The question of right and wrong continued to spin in the back of her mind, but she pushed it away. She didn't know if it would be worth the price to destroy this ageless evil, and since she had no one to turn to, no one who could help her choose the best path, she could only follow her heart.

Remy let out his breath in a tired sigh and leaned his head back, wincing at the stiffness in his neck. He spent a moment trying to massage the kinks out, then straightened once again.

"Ready to give up for a while?" Token was perched on the arm of the sofa, her toes tucked into the pile of throw pillows that inhabited that corner of the couch. "I made some soup."

Remy glanced up at the clock on the wall and was surprised by how much time had passed. Like most technical industries, the space industry spoke a language of its own, comprised not only of advanced mathematics and engineering, but also of a dizzying array of acronyms. It was a language he needed to learn before he would be able to decipher the clues that would lead him to the information he wanted. It was also hideously boring.

He stood and stretched, then followed Token into the kitchen, where the smell of good things cooking assailed him. "Smells wonderful, cherie." He took a seat at the small breakfast table, marveling once again that such a tiny space could be so inviting. Sunlight filled the corner where he sat, filtered through the leaves of a multitude of plants until it was diffused into a warm glow. The kitchen itself was filled with bundles of fresh herbs, onions, garlic and various peppers, all hung to dry wherever a space could be found. The floor and the counter were both made of fired clay, painted in sunset colors and glazed, and wherever Remy looked in the busy kitchen, he spied frogs. Most were ceramic, of various colors, sizes and varieties. They inhabited the many plants in the room and peeked out from behind the canisters of flour and rice. By far the largest sat on the floor just inside the door, and, if it was as solid as it looked, Remy guessed it would weigh about thirty pounds.

Token smiled as she set a bowl of soup down on the table in front of him. "Have you found them all yet?"

Remy shook his head as she settled across from him with her own bowl. "Nope."

Token claimed that there were forty-four frogs in her kitchen. Remy had found thirty-eight. But rather than tease him about his power of observation, she simply began to eat. And that, he reflected in the comfortable silence, was probably why he kept coming back here. The little house was less than eighty miles from Westchester -- uncomfortably close to the past -- and yet, Token had made it bearable. She had a kind of quietness to her, and a natural hospitality that had invited him into her life from the beginning. In that way, she was much like Ororo, and he found himself feeling the same kind of affection for her. There was still an undercurrent of the attraction he'd felt when they'd met, but so far, neither of them had made any significant effort to explore that direction. For Remy, the wounds were too raw, and the things that had made it impossible to stay with Rogue would be just as destructive to any other relationship he tried. He hadn't said anything to her, but Token seemed to understand, and she seemed perfectly willing to let him show up without warning on her doorstep, to stay for a couple of days and then disappear again.

He looked up from his thoughts to find Token watching him, her head cocked thoughtfully to the side and her long hair nearly falling into her soup. "Would I be intruding if I asked what you were thinking about?"

Remy shook his head and tried the soup. It was good, though a little bland for his taste. "Non. I was jus' t'inking about how nice y' house here is." He gestured with his empty spoon.

Token's eyebrows rose. "My house?" She looked around at the busy clutter, obviously surprised.

Remy shrugged. "Mostly because you're in it, but oui."

She flushed slightly and grinned. "Why, thank you."

He returned the smile. "Y' welcome."

They sat in silence for a few moments, until Token jumped up and held out her hand. "C'mon. I want to show you something."

Remy eyed her with mild suspicion for her sudden enthusiasm. "Show me what?"

She caught his hand and tugged lightly. "Just come with me."

Remy surrendered and dropped his spoon back into the bowl. He stood, ducking to avoid the low-hung plants, then allowed Token to lead him into the back of the house. He was unsurprised when she took him to her workshop, which was filled to overflowing with various artistic efforts in clay and ceramic. Shelves lined all four walls, displaying a tremendous collection of pottery and sculpture, all awaiting either glazing, firing or both. A sheen of gray-brown dust covered the floor, mottled with innumerable footprints until it almost seemed to form a pattern over the bare wood.

Token went to her work table and Remy followed. He had spent some time there before, poking curiously through the collections as she worked at the pottery wheel. Oddly enough, he felt a little nervous every time he entered the workshop, as if even his exceptional reflexes could not keep him from accidentally knocking one of the fragile pieces down and shattering it.

Token picked something up from the table and turned around to give it to him. It was a bust, carved in red clay and still moist. The detail was amazing, but it was the woman's face that took Remy's breath away.

"That's her. The woman I saw you arguing with." Token watched him intently.

Remy turned the sculpture in his hands, studying every angle. She was young and strikingly beautiful, though that, Remy supposed with a dash of conceit, was not too surprising for a female version of himself. But it was the expression on her face, even more than the resemblance, that made him pause. There was such fierce determination written there, such anguish, as if the argument Token had seen was tearing her heart in two.

"Who is she?" he asked, unable to tear his gaze away.

Token gave him a lopsided smile. "I was hoping you would tell me. But if you don't know, then I guess she's a mystery."

Remy looked up from the sculpted face to meet Token's gaze. "But you saw us together in the future?"

She shrugged, nodded. "I can go looking for her again, if you want." There was a slight hesitation in her voice, as if the prospect frightened her ever so slightly.

Remy looked down again at the face in his hands. He had lost everything that had ever meant family to him, mostly to his own bad choices and inability to face up to the consequences for those choices. But only blood could have made this woman's face so similar to his own. Even without asking, he knew that her eyes, too, were red on black, the signature that said that this could not be coincidence. Blood was the only hope he held now. Blood was the thickest of bonds that held people together, and perhaps, with the chance to start fresh, blood might prove to be enough to overcome the sins of his past.

"I would... like dat."

Token steeled herself against the buzzing sensation she felt whenever she used her powers on Gambit. It was a maddening sensation, as if her powers were brushing up against a tremendous well of energy that leapt the gap like an electric spark and raced through her nervous system. It was a portent of great things, she believed, and the glimpse she had seen of his future confirmed it. And so sheer curiosity drew her to read him again, though in the back of her mind she was afraid of what she might see.

Remy was watching her expectantly, so she closed her eyes and tried to tune her powers to search for the woman she had seen before. It should be possible to find her again, having touched that place in time once already.

Pieces flashed by -- images, sounds, scents. Most went by too quickly for Token to identify them, but here and there she touched something coherent. A woman's arms, holding him tightly while he cried, her voice murmuring softly. The rough interior of a cave was lit with firelight that threw their shadows on the wall. Voices came and went. One, a man's, was full of anger and disappointment. Another was filled with sadness.

The pieces whirled on until Token saw a flash of something familiar. She grabbed it, struggling to absorb what was there before it escaped her again. She could see the woman's face, the one that was so much like Remy's, and the eerie eyes that reflected the same kind of pain. They were standing together in the midst of what looked like a battlefield, their argument plain in their stances and the ever changing language of gesture and expression. Corpses of men and creatures littered the ground around them, though neither one seemed to notice. Token forced herself closer, pushing toward them through air that felt as thick as syrup, until she was close enough to hear the words that passed between them.

"No! Absolutely not." Remy shook his head vehemently.

The woman's lips thinned. "This is not the time for you to go all noble on me, Remy. We need him. We can't fight this battle on two fronts -- you said that yourself."

Remy looked away, his gaze roaming the field of death that surrounded them. Slowly, he nodded. "We can't. But we'll find another way. I won't trade your life for an advantage."

The woman crossed her arms and stared evenly at him. "You won't, but I will."

Remy's gaze snapped to her in alarm, but she spoke again, forestalling him. "And don't you dare try to stop me. Just tell him the answer is yes," She made a sweeping gesture at their surroundings, "so we can stop this insanity."

"Do you have any idea what kind of life you'd be living?" There was pain now, more than anger, in Remy's voice.

The woman dropped her gaze, and Token saw fear written in her face. But then her expression firmed, though she continued to stare at the ground. "It doesn't matter what kind of life I'll live. You and I both know that. Or have you forgotten that my father sacrificed his life to save the X-Men? That my brother and my best friend died trying to protect us from the Shadow King. And my other best friend -- " her voice caught for a moment, "gave up his life, his dreams, his future -- even his throne -- to protect us." She paused and slowly raised her head to stare at him in proud defiance. "I am a LeBeau, and I would be ashamed to show my face here or anywhere if I wasn't willing to sacrifice whatever I must."

Token felt her grip on the moment slipping. She clawed desperately, hoping to hold on for just another moment to see what answer Remy would give. But the fragment was whisked out of her grasp and whirled away. She had found part of the answer, though, and perhaps that would be enough.

She opened her eyes to find Remy staring at her in concern. "I'm o.k.," she reassured him.

He looked skeptical. "You were... gone... a long time, chere."

Token let go of his hands and shook her head, trying to clear the miasma of emotions that the future scene had evoked. "I found her."

He leaned forward. "An'?"

"And, I guess she really is a lost relation. She said she was a LeBeau."

Remy's high brows drew together in a deep frown. "Dat don' make any sense."

Token could only shrug. She knew precious little about his family. "I suppose it's always possible that you two were separated as children. Or even that she's a more distant relation than she looks. The genes are strange beasts."

His troubled expression hadn't faded. "Y' don' understand, Token. I was adopted." He tapped his chest. "Off de streets o' New Orleans when I was fifteen. Even if I had a sister... or a cousin or whatever, she wouldn' have de same name."

Token gave him a puzzled frown. "You're right, that doesn't make any sense." She sighed softly. "I don't know if this will help, but she mentioned that both her father and her brother had been killed. It had something to do with the X-Men -- " She faltered momentarily as his eyes snapped to hers, "and someone she called the Shadow King."

"De Shadow King?" Remy seemed almost disbelieving. "He's been dead more dan three years now."

Frustrated, Token sat back. "I don't know what it means, Remy. My power doesn't give me that. All I see is pieces."

Remy shook his head. "Not y' fault, chere. Dere are ot'er people I should be askin' f' explanations." He stood slowly.

"Are you leaving?"

He looked back down at her with a tiny smile. "Not tonight, cherie." Then he turned and wandered out of the room, toward the front door. Token heard it open and then close with a quiet click. For a moment she debated following him, and then decided that it would be best not to interfere. Whoever this man was, he was tangled in a mess of terrible and important events. And for all that she cared about him, Token wasn't certain she wanted to become any more deeply involved with Remy LeBeau.

Chapter 9

Warren woke abruptly. He wasn't sure what might have startled him out of sleep, but he was momentarily disoriented, unable to identify where he was or how he had gotten there. He felt strangely weak and exhausted. He opened his eyes cautiously, squinting against the harsh white lighting. The sight of the intricate machinery that ringed him brought back Warren's memory, along with a sinking feeling of horror. He was strapped to a metal table, his arms, legs and wings immobilized. The broken wing ached dully.

He wasn't sure how long it had been since Apocalypse's lackeys had brought him to this room. Days, at least. Maybe weeks. The stark white light never changed. Even with his eyes closed, the light seemed to burn its way through his eyelids and left him aching for some brief respite of darkness.

He felt the first twinge of discomfort, like an irritating prickle in his bones, as the machines sensed his waking. Warren tensed, his stomach tightening into a hard knot in instinctive reaction. When he'd served Apocalypse in the past, he'd seen this particular device in use, but had never been subjected to it, until now. Though he couldn't feel them, he knew there were a pair of probes attached to the back of his neck. They fed impulses directly into his nervous system. In this case, the machine generated sensations of pain that began as a mild irritant, then grew to excruciating over the course of many hours. Eventually, the pain would simply become too much and Warren would pass out, but that only brought him relief while he was unconscious. As soon as he woke, the cycle would start over again. And no matter how much he screamed, no one ever appeared. There were no demands, no threats, no promises.

He could see the I.V. that fed him through a vein in one arm dangling off to one side, and knew that he would tear it out if he could. Dying of dehydration would at least bring a release from the pain. But he was certain that he was watched, and that even if he did manage to do such a thing, it wouldn't go unobserved. The manacles that held him were padded, as were the clamps over his wings. His wrists and ankles were badly bruised from his struggles, but that was the most damage he was able to do to himself. The break in his wing was covered by a strip of some black, tar-like substance that struck Warren as being some kind of techno-organic bandage, but he couldn't see what, if anything, was happening to his wing. All he knew was that the outer portion -- the part beyond the break -- was numb and unresponsive. In a small place in the back of his mind, he was terrified that he had been crippled once again.

Warren understood the purpose of the device. He'd seen it used with great effectiveness by Apocalypse in the past. It wasn't intended merely to inflict pain. In Apocalypse's view, pain was only a tool. No, it was designed to strip away all of the trappings of civilization within a person. To destroy the limits imposed by society and conscience, and to reveal the raw, unfettered creature within. Warren had found that dark and vicious core within himself once before, when the horror and pain of losing his wings had done to him exactly what Apocalyse's machine was trying to do now. He was determined that he would never fall back into that madness again, but his convictions were hard to keep in focus as the pain built and built until he could no longer hold onto a single rational thought. As it grew, the agony sparked fury for the injustice of what was happening to him.

Warren shoved the thoughts roughly aside. He couldn't think about how unfair it was. That was what had trapped him the first time. That self-pitying loathing of himself and his situation. Instead, he searched for a distraction. He forced himself to look around, to take in the details of the room about him. He tried to speak to himself in his head, describing the things he could see in excruciating detail as his fingers clenched into involuntary fists in reaction to the growing signals being sent to his pain centers.

He went through each of the banks of machines, describing to himself the various indicators and even the details of each of the indecipherable characters printed beside them. He described the color of each light on the displays, and estimated the diameters of the cords or tubes that ran from the machines to Warren's table. Eventually, he exhausted that topic and turned to reciting things that he knew from memory. The last status report he'd seen on his company's year-to-date earnings, stock dividends, lost time accidents and other statistics. Multiplication tables. The Giants' home game schedule. But after a while, he couldn't hold on to such complex topics. He started reciting the lyrics to songs he knew, first popular music and finally nursery rhymes.

As it grew hard to breathe except in shallow gasps, he let his gaze fall to the left, toward his uninjured wing, and began to count the feathers. He couldn't get past twenty-five or so, but that didn't matter. He just started over at one and kept going. Anything to provide an anchor for his sanity. Anything to keep Apocalypse from regaining his Angel of Death.

He kept trying to count feathers, beginning at the wing tip and moving slowly inward toward the root. The feathers close to his body were much smaller, the newest growths interspersing bits of gray with the pristine white. In the back of his mind, a little piece of Warren noted the dark feathers as something of importance, but he couldn't hold on to the thought long enough to wonder why.

Remy's breath caught in his chest as the man walked into the room. He knew he was invisible in the shadows, but the man stopped abruptly and turned, a twitch of his wrist causing the knife sheathed there to drop into his hand. Remy tapped his powers ever so gently, knowing that it would set his eyes to glowing in the darkness.

The man paused in surprise, then let out his breath in a relieved sigh. "Remy? Is dat you?"

Remy stepped out of the shadows. "Hello, Father." It had been a challenge to infiltrate the Guild catacombs, to enter his home without invitation or consent, but Remy had found it oddly satisfying. He was done with blind obedience to Guild traditions, rules and laws. He needed to ask this man some questions, and he had no intention of asking anyone's permission to do so.

Jean Luc did not seem to have any trouble reading the simmering anger in his son's eyes. His welcoming smile died and was replaced by something both hard and sad. "What is it, Remy?" he asked quietly.

Remy felt a pang of regret. It was the Guild who had exiled him from his home, not Jean Luc, but Remy found it hard to separate the two. Especially with Rogue's mocking last words still echoing in his heart.

"I need t' ask y' about someone."

Jean Luc raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"A woman." Remy dug a cigarette out of his coat and rolled it between his fingers. He wouldn't smoke it here -- the scent would alert those nearby to his presence.

Jean Luc watched him dubiously, but with a tiny curl at the corner of his mouth. "It's been years since y' asked me f' advice about women."

Remy snorted sourly at the joke. "Not dat kind o' woman." He paused and looked directly at his father. "Accordin' t' what I've heard, dis woman looks jus' like me." He tapped his temple. "Eyes an' all. An' she calls herself LeBeau."

Jean Luc's face remained politely interested, but Remy knew him well enough to see the knowledge that clicked into place in his mind with a tiny "Oh" that Remy could almost hear.

"I t'ought y' might know somet'ing about dat." He let a hint of sarcasm leak into his voice, challenging Jean Luc to admit what he knew. Whatever that was. Remy's gut twisted into a knot in a kind of horrible anticipation of what his father might say next.

After a moment, Jean Luc shook himself out of his thoughts. He briefly met Remy's gaze, but then looked away, pressing his lips together in a thin line. "I'm sorry, Remy. I can' tell y' who she is." His voice was colored with regret.

"Can' or won'?"

Jean Luc shrugged. "Take y' pick."

Remy felt a burst of real anger. "Y' know who she is." The words came out as an accusation.

Jean Luc stared at him in silence, until Remy began to think he simply wasn't going to answer. But then he let out his breath in a tired sigh and sat down in a nearby chair. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together.

"I can' tell y' about her, Remy," he said softly. He looked up, his expression firm. "I swore an' oath. I won' break it."

Confusion swept through Remy. "An oath? An oath t' who?"

"It isn' important, Remy."

"It is t' me."

Jean Luc straightened slowly in his chair. Remy could see the conflict reflected in his eyes, but wasn't certain he understood the source. "If I tell y' who, will y' promise me dat y' won' try to find dis woman?" he finally asked.

Remy frowned. "Why is dat so important t' you?"

Jean Luc rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "T' tell de truth, I don' really know how important it is at dis point." His gaze dropped, centering on Remy. "But I want y' word."

Remy paused, considering. There had been a time when he would have agreed without the slightest intention of keeping his promise, if it would get him what he wanted. But in the three years he'd spent with the X-Men, he'd never once intentionally broken a promise or betrayed a responsibility that had been given to him. It was something he was proud of -- and something that he'd only just realized that he wanted to continue.

"All right," he finally agreed. "Y' have m' word." After all, Token had predicted that Remy would soon meet this woman. It was something of a conundrum, but chances were fair that he would find her whether he was looking for her or not. "An oath t' who?"

Jean Luc leaned back in his chair. "To y' father."

For a moment, the rest of the world went away. Remy felt like his knees were going to buckle. "Y'... know... who--?" A million questions spun through his mind, the implications of which turned everything Remy had ever believed upside down.

Jean Luc nodded slowly. "Oui."

"But-- I don' understand..." Remy stared at nothing, his mind whirling chaotically.

"I know."

Remy's gaze snapped upward. The calm statement was, if anything, more unsettling, though he thought Jean Luc was probably trying to reassure him. "Why didn' y' ever tell me?"

"I couldn'." His frustration was obvious. "I can'. I've already said more dan I should, but I wanted y' t' understand dat dere was a good reason."

Remy stared at him, his natural suspicion warring with the love he held for the man who had raised him.

Jean Luc watched him for a while, his expression sympathetic. "Out o' curiosity, have y' asked Xavier about dis?" he asked.

"Xavier?" Remy floundered for a moment until he caught up with the sudden turn in the conversation. "Xavier's gone."

Jean Luc sat bolt upright in his chair, startling Remy. "He's dead?"

"Non." Remy frowned in surprise at his reaction. "'Least, dey don' t'ink so. He turned himself in t' government custody after everyt'ing wit' Onslaught." Actually, since Remy hadn't been back to the mansion since before Bastion was overthrown, it was entirely possible that the Professor had returned in his absence.

Jean Luc looked confused. "Really? What did Xavier have to do with Onslaught?"

Remy pulled himself away from the restless churning of his thoughts long enough to flash him a sarcastic grin. "Didn' y' know? Xavier was Onslaught." And even if he had returned to the X-Men, he wasn't going to be of much help to Remy.

Jean Luc's eyes widened as his face slowly drained of color. "Merde."

Remy found his reaction rather odd, and it rekindled the suspicion he had just about discarded. "Why do y' care, anyway?"

Jean Luc ran his fingers through his hair and voiced a sigh. "Because I t'ought maybe he could help." There was a deep rooted sadness reflected in the long lines of his face, along with a sense of helplessness.

"Help wit' what?"

Jean Luc turned to look directly at him, his gaze piercing. "Not'ing, Remy. Jus' let it go."

Scott Summers closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in the hopes of relieving the headache that was threatening to pop his eyeballs out of their sockets. But after a moment, he returned his ruby glasses to their customary perch, and went back to work. He and Jean were in a small office on the grounds of Whiteman Air Force Base. The office was the bureaucratic home of a little project named Majestic, which was somehow tied to Grayscape, though, as yet, they didn't know how.

Scott readjusted the penlight gripped in his teeth and turned another page in the file he was looking through. It was their third week of searching, with little result, and Scott found himself wishing bizarrely that Gambit could have been there to help them.

Thoughts of the Cajun thief twisted his stomach into a painful knot. The things they had learned about him from Hank and the others after their return from Antarctica left Scott with a keen sense of betrayal. Not so much that Gambit had once made a mistake in working for Sinister. That was forgivable, despite the horrendous results. The thing that bothered Scott was how thoroughly Gambit had deceived them during his years with the X-Men.

Gambit had seemed to them all to be nothing but a scoundrel -- a thief, admittedly, but a fairly petty one. Bragging about his abilities, but never showing exceptional talent, save for a few separated instances when it had been his life on the line. Scott had always overlooked those brief flashes of ruthless efficiency, putting them down to the extraordinary circumstances, but now he knew better. It amazed him how blind he had been. Logan had always maintained that Gambit was dangerous. Sean Cassidy had never trusted him, nor had Psylocke. Somehow, they had sensed the truth hidden beneath the facade of harmlessness, and Scott had just refused to listen to their warnings. But then, even as now, he believed that Gambit had been sincere in his desire to start a new life with the X-Men. The problem was, he had done it under false pretenses. He had never been willing to show them where he was coming from. He had hidden his past, his abilities, his beliefs and his motivations, and fed the X-Men an intricately woven set of lies, half-truths and misdirection. And that was what hurt so deeply.

"Scott, look at this." Jean's low voice dragged Scott out of his thoughts. He turned to her as she brought a manila folder over from one of the filing cabinets that lined the wall.

"What is it?" He looked at the top page as she laid the file down on the desk before him. It was stamped "Secret" and the letterhead was from the Office of the Director of Project Grayscape.

Scott grabbed it up and began to read. The page was only a short memo about staffing limits, but the letterhead was invaluable. It gave an address for Project Grayscape.

"Pack your bags, honey. It looks like we're going back to D.C.," Jean commented with a smile.

Renee raised her hands over her head, stretching slowly until she stood on her tip toes with her arms fully extended above her. The skin of her back felt like it was pulled painfully tight, but she ignored it as she bent forward to touch her toes. After all, that was the point of this exercise. As the scars began to form on her back, the skin tended to pull inward and to lose its pliancy, despite the medicated oil Shala rubbed into it each night. Renee was aware that if she didn't do something to stretch the scars as they formed, she would end up splitting them open during any kind of extreme physical activity. And so she gritted her teeth against the pain and pushed the last inch to touch her forehead to her knees. She had taken up a far more stringent exercise routine of late, much to Shala's amusement. The slave girl was delighted by Tai Chi in particular, though Renee was trying to practice a full spectrum of martial arts, along with basic strengthening and endurance exercises. She was limited by the confines of her room, and had also discovered that, if she wanted to work out, she needed to do so either late at night or very early in the morning. Apocalypse expected her to be presentable -- which in his terms meant dressed, perfumed and ornamented -- at all times during the day and evening in case he decided to call for her.

At the moment, it was very late. Shala was curled up in her usual place beside the hearth, sleeping soundly. Renee envied her peaceful slumber. She had slept only an hour or two before nightmares woke her and drove her from her bed with their disquieting echoes. Renee was hoping that a little bit of stretching would help calm her enough to get back to sleep.

She finished her normal set of limbering and warm-up stretches feeling refreshed, but invigorated rather than tired. She sighed softly and pulled on the band holding her hair, letting the heavy auburn waves tumbled down around her. The brush that Shala used was lying on the low table beside the bed, and Renee picked it up. She ran it through her hair experimentally. It had been a while since she'd brushed her own hair. Bemused, she sat down on the bed, brush in hand, and began to brush her hair. The smooth, repetitive motion was oddly comforting.

Her life had once again settled into a routine that might have been a comfortable one, were it not for the looming knowledge that one misstep would bring instant retribution from Apocalypse. In the morning she got up, worked out, bathed, dressed, and then let Shala braid her hair as she ate a sparse breakfast. Apocalypse, apparently, wasn't a breakfast person because there was never anything to eat before noon, save for some kind of dry biscuits and tea, which Shala would bring to her. Renee had always liked large breakfasts, which were the norm in the X-mansion, but since no one had asked her what she liked to eat, she had concluded that she was stuck with whatever Apocalypse preferred.

By the time Renee was ready, Apocalypse was usually awake, and a cat man would be waiting to take her to him. He was making a quicker recovery this time, and was already beginning to get out of bed for short periods of time, though where he went or what he did, she didn't know and was not going to ask. But even healing him had become routine. Renee went to him in the morning and evening, using her powers at a level that left her weary, but not exhausted, and allowed her to keep a normal daily schedule.

Often, when she saw Apocalypse in the evening he seemed thoroughly wrung out, and she ended up using most of her energy just to bring him back to where he'd started out that morning. It made healing him a slow process, and in the inbetween times, Renee was left to herself most of the time. Unfortunately, there was little to do. Apocalypse's palace was an austere place, and he would not condone anything that he did not consider appropriate for an Egyptian woman. Nor would he give her any access to the outside world. Renee spent much of her time working to learn the language that the slaves used, simply so that she would have someone to talk to. But the slaves were just as sheltered as she, if not more, and when Renee asked Shala about the world outside of the palace, she received only a blank stare. Though she would probably never say so aloud, Renee was growing bored.

Renee's stomach grumbled, distracting her from her musings. She was usually hungry by the time she woke, and that hour wasn't all that far off. Renee glanced at the door, then quickly slid off of the bed and retrieved her cloak. It was the middle of the night. Surely she would be allowed to go out without her normal trappings.

She slipped to the door and opened it a crack. The guard turned slightly to look at her, but he made no move to bar her way as Renee opened the door fully and stepped out. Breathing a short sigh of relief, she set off toward the dining room. As far as she knew, the baskets of fruit that adorned the table were never removed, and she was hoping that the slaves did not go so far as to put the fruit away each night.

The light in the halls was dim, even for Renee, but she knew her way by memory. She turned down a narrow hall, intending to shortcut her way through the sitting room just outside of Apocalypse's chamber, but she stopped short as soon as she stepped into the room. Apocalypse was seated in the single chair that fronted the fireplace. His head was tucked into the corner of the high backed, overstuffed chair, and she could tell immediately that he was asleep. It wasn't Apocalypse's presence that stopped her, however. It was the staff that was propped against his knee, one end loosely clasped in his hand. The embers from the dying fire were reflected in lines of glowing orange along the metal surface.

Renee sucked in her breath and crept forward. Just the sight of her staff evoked a dozen memories -- of her home, her life, her family. It was the last link she had to her past, and as a real and solid reminder of the people she loved, it was very important to her. Silently she dropped to her knees in front of Apocalypse and stretched out her hand to gently touch the cool, smooth surface.

Apocalypse's eyes flickered open and Renee froze, her fingertips hovering just above the metal surface. She stared up at him in guilty terror, but his expression reflected surprise rather than anger before disappearing altogether. Renee snatched her fingers back as he straightened, his grip tightening on the staff. He looked at the weapon in his hand for a moment, but then turned an appraising stare on Renee, who faltered under the intense gaze and looked away.

"How did you come to possess an X-Man's weapon?" He tucked the staff under one arm and leaned forward until his face was nearly level with Renee's. Something about his manner made her think that the question was some kind of test, as if, perhaps, he knew a good deal more about her than he appeared to. That thought was frightening in its own right, and Renee struggled with her fear, wondering desperately what she could tell him. It had to be the truth. She didn't think she could lie to Apocalypse, and she continued to stare at the floor rather than meet his questioning gaze.

"It was a gift," she finally said, which was true enough.

He shifted slightly. "An interesting gift."

Renee didn't respond. She continued to stare at the floor in silence until a hand on her chin forced her head up. She gasped in surprise and horror as she desperately tried to grab hold of her powers before they could cause any harm, but then she grew still as she realized that her powers had not been activated. The shock of the unexpected contact robbed her of her defenses, left her vulnerable. She found herself staring into Apocalypse's eyes with her heart completely unguarded, watching as he read her, but unable to guess what he saw.

"Who is Gambit to you?" he asked.

Renee felt like she had been pinned to the floor by his gaze. She couldn't have given him anything but the truth. "My father."

The gray eyebrows twitched as his gaze left her eyes and drifted upward to her hair. He held her that way for a moment longer, then abruptly released her and sat back. Renee's heart was pounding as she watched him, but he seemed to become engrossed in the staff, which he turned slowly in his hands.

Eventually, the motion stilled and Apocalypse extended the staff toward her. His face was still, expressionless, but it was obvious he was offering the weapon to her. Hesitant, Renee accepted it and felt the familiar weight settle comfortably in her palms. She felt horribly confused by the emotions that were tangled up inside her. She didn't know whether to be frightened or pleased by the gift, and Apocalypse was inscrutable as he crossed his arms and watched her examine it.

For lack of any other direction, Renee fell back on the lessons of her childhood. "Thank you," she said quietly.

Apocalypse did not respond. After a moment, he levered himself to his feet and stepped past Renee. Without another word, or even a glance in her direction, he turned and walked away.

Chapter 10

Rogue sat quietly in the back seat of the cab, her eyes fastened on the scenery passing by outside the window. A thin piece of paper, a computer printout, was folded into quarters and clutched in her hands. After a moment, she unfolded the page and looked down at it as she had many times since she'd entered the cab. The form was a standard medical form, filled with dozens of possible laboratory results printed in tiny letters, each with a convenient check box located to the left. Only one of the little boxes was marked with an off-center, typewritten "X", and beside it was typed the word "negative". Rogue folded up the printout and turned back to the window, her heart numb. She'd been so sure.

The doctor had told her that her symptoms were most likely caused by stress. Rogue had been forced to acknowledge that yes, she had been under a great deal of pressure in the past few months, though she certainly hadn't told the doctor what had caused it. But she'd been convinced, finally, by her third missed period that there could be more to her mysterious illness than just a heartache.

Face it, she told herself as she folded the paper carefully along its well-worn creases. There ain't nothin' left. Not of him. Not of us. But it had been wonderful to hope for a little while that some small piece of what they'd had might have survived. That hope had softened the pain of losing Remy -- of knowing that she had played a part in his death. His suicide, she corrected. Or was it murder? She wasn't certain she would ever know.

She closed her eyes, letting the memory swallow her.

"What?!" The name Sinister was like a shock of ice water. Her stomach clenched painfully tight as she stared at Remy. "You were in bed with one of our greatest enemies?! For how long, Remy? How long?"

She was amazed by how much it hurt. She'd been trying to prepare for this moment, to steel herself against whatever horrible knowledge she would have to face. Ever since she'd found Remy in chains and realized that he was ready to force the issue, she'd been trying to come to terms with the inevitable. She thought she had. But the tiny fear she'd been shoving down into the dark corners of her mind exploded into terrifying certainty-- the painful knot in her gut, the sense of keen betrayal, the anger and disappointment. . . they were her own feeling to be sure, but they were echoed by something else inside her, like a shadow heart that now threw her own feeling back at her redoubled.

Ever since Seattle, she'd been secretly afraid that not all of what she'd absorbed from Remy had left her. That there was still a kind of... imprint of his mind in hers. She couldn't explain how or why. Her powers usually didn't work that way. Parts of both Cody and Carol Danvers' minds had remained with her for years, until the Siege Perilous and torn them out of her, but that had been like having additional minds inside her own. Independent minds that were capable of fighting her for control of her body. This was different. Remy's imprint, or shadow, or whatever it was, was a part of her.

"Ain' like dat, Rogue," Remy protested and she felt a tiny echo of his frustration. It was almost as if they shared some kind of empathic connection, except that it only went one direction. And it only worked for feelings about things that had happened before Israel. "It was somet'ing I'd done, an' wasn' too proud of -- but once I joined de X-Men, I put all dat behind me. Jus' like you did once, chere. Remember?"

Rogue ducked her head. She remembered. She remembered how uncertain she felt those first days with the X-Men. How awkward, as if, no matter how hard she tried to do and say the right things, she never could. How often she despaired of ever being able to live up to what she aspired to be. And how often she disappointed the people she cared about. Even without her powers, she would have known that Remy shared some of those same feelings, and the gentle reverberation in her mind confirmed it.

"You cannot set your past aside!" Erik glared at Remy. "A man's character is the sum of his actions."

Rogue ignored Erik's sneering response as nothing but inflammatory rhetoric. She wasn't quite sure why Remy wanted to go through with this insanity. Whoever Erik the Red was, his "trial" was about judgment, not justice, and until now, she'd thought Remy understood the difference between the two. But maybe this was the only was he felt he could get the words out -- to have them bodily dragged out of him.

Her momentary reflection was broken as Erik called Psylocke to his "stand". Rogue stared at Elizabeth in puzzlement. What could she have to do with all of this? She and Remy had never been close, so it seemed strange that Elizabeth would have such intimate knowledge of what Remy had been hiding from them all for so long. Rogue fought the immediate suspicions that leapt to mind as some invisible force dragged the telepath up to the stand. Oddly, she felt nothing from Remy. She had almost become accustomed to the additional presence in her mind, which had been growing steadily stronger over the past few hours.

She glanced over at him, only to find his watching Psylocke with a mixture of expectation and curiosity.

"I know the names of some of those he assembled..." Betsy answered Erik, her face betraying her reluctance. "Arclight, Scrambler, Scalphunter, Vertigo, Harpoon, Riptide... " Rogue's stomach clenched into a hard painful ball as Betsy raised her hands to her head and knotted her fingers in her hair. "...and Sabretooth."

Rogue shivered in the cold damp of the cavern. The knowledge was there, just around the corner in her mind. She knew that if she thought about it, even for just a moment, she would know what it was.

Warren saved her from that discovery as he lunged toward Remy. "You created the Marauders?! You cost me my wings?! You did that to me?" The cords stood out in his neck as he strained against his chains. "And then you stood by my side -- pretended to be my friend -- and never said a word about any of it?"

Rogue's breath caught in her throat. She wasn't sure what was more frightening: Warren's berserker rage or the utter lack of expression on Remy's face. Was he there? she wondered in horror. Did he see Warren crucified on that wall?

Erik watched them all with a knowing smirk. Then he swung around and pointed directly at her. "The court calls the reformed villainess Rogue to the defendant's box."

Something grabbed Rogue. Suddenly she was helpless in the grip of some force that took hold of her body and made it move. It was like one of those nightmares where you tried and tried to run but your limbs were so heavy you couldn't lift them. Dread filled her.

Erik the Red -- whoever he really was -- stared at her, his lips twisted into an expression of cruel triumph. Whatever Remy had done, whatever the truth behind the shadow forms that whispered meaningless words in her mind, she knew that Erik already knew the answer. This mockery of a trial was purely for his amusement, and it made her suddenly furious that he had the power to torture them with his ugly game. It made her even angrier that her feelings weren't echoed back at her, doubled and tripled. It was Remy who should be most furious about all of this.

The grip that held her forced her to her knees, and her gaze locked with Remy's. She stared into their red depths, hoping against hope to see something there that she couldn't feel, but knowing it was useless. There was nothing in his eyes but a flat serenity that went beyond terror. He was resigned to it, she realized. No, more than that. He was waiting expectantly. Not with any pleasure, but she knew in that instant that he wanted this. For a moment, she couldn't understand why. Why submit to the humiliation of this mock trial and force the rest of them to go through it too? Why didn't he just tell them -- right now even, and spare them all any more of Erik's abuse? The only weapon Erik had to use against them was Remy's silence. So why didn't Remy fight back and take that one weapon away?

And then it hit her. The answer was simple. It was pure, unadulterated cowardice that kept him silent. She felt a surge of outrage, mixed with shame. She wanted to slap him and tell him in no uncertain terms how she felt about being dragged through his muck just so that he didn't have to find the strength to come clean himself. But she didn't get the chance to open her mouth before her feelings began to echo back from the shadow inside her -- not doubled or tripled, but a hundred times as intense.

Coward! her inner voice screamed at him. It was as if her anger had struck a nerve at just the right frequency so that it resonated, growing stronger and stronger until something would have to break beneath its assault. Rogue's vision began to go red with the kind of horrible rage she had only felt a few times in her life. Her desire to inflict pain became a desire to kill. She was combat trained. It would be a simple thing to break his neck. The stocks that imprisoned him would make it even easier. Her fingers twitched as she imagined the blow, and then a bolt of pure horror shot through her at the thought, shattering her fury.

She jerked back against the force that propelled her ever closer to Remy in near panic. "Don't make me do this... I don't want to do this... you can't -- " One trip through his memories had nearly driven her insane. Now, with this thing leftover inside her mind, she was terrified by what his agonized guilt might do to her.

Remy misinterpreted her fear. "Feel no responsibility, chere. It ain' your doin'." His voice was gentle. "Jus' please find a way t' forgive me f' what you're about t' see."

No! Ah can't control this! she wailed silently. It had suddenly ceased to be about what he'd done, or even whether she could forgive him. She couldn't help the half-sob that escaped her as their lips touched. The transfer started as a trickle of thoughts and impressions that quickly grew into a torrent that swept over her. Remy's mind engulfed hers, his memories becoming so real and sharp that she could almost believe she was there.

She saw, almost in review, the weeks of research and careful manipulation that went into building the Marauders. The surveillance, the interviews. Those who accepted and those who did not. She felt Remy's various impressions of those mutants as if they were her own. It was a good team. Tough. Mean. And with a wide variety of skills and experience that would make them versatile as well. They should be able to handle whatever Sinister had in mind for them.

Then the sense of overview went away and her attention coalesced on a single point in time as Remy led the Marauders into the tunnels. She felt his dread, like a hard knot in her stomach, as they moved deeper and deeper into the tunnels. A tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered that she shouldn't be here, shouldn't be doing this. She wanted to run, but she knew that the Marauders at her back had orders from Sinister. There was no way out except to go forward and hope that it wasn't going to be as bad as she feared.

They broke out into one of the main caverns where the Morlocks lived. She had only a moment to take in the sight of the colony of mutants going about their daily lives before the Marauders began their attack. She noted with horror that there were children in the crowd, and her mind immediately catalogued a number of details that all led to the same conclusion -- these people weren't looking for trouble. They weren't prepared for it. These were ordinary people -- families -- and she had just unleashed the Marauders on them.

"Nooooo!" Her scream was lost in the sudden madness. Desperate to stop them, she charged a handful of cards and threw, but her aim was wrecked at the last moment by a flash of agony. The multiple explosions outlined Sabretooth in fire as he stood over her. The claws of one hand dripped blood.

"Huh uh." He wagged one finger at her playfully as she pressed one hand across the gashes he'd torn in her chest. "The boss man said ta make sure ya behaved."

Mind dulled with shock and horror, Rogue rolled over onto her stomach. From there, she could see the massacre taking place all around her. The screams of the defenseless Morlocks echoed in her ears, mixed with the mocking jeers and even laughter of their killers. She vomited, sickened by what she had done.

Sabretooth made a disgusted noise. "Yer soft, LeBeau." He stepped over her and then leapt toward the nearest of the running Morlocks. He looked exactly like a lion angling in toward a fleeing wildebeest. And just like the lion, he reached out one clawed hand and snagged the fleeing prey, bringing it to the ground.

A small sound grabbed her attention. Rogue felt like she was frozen in place, unable to look away from the carnage, but the sound demanded recognition and she finally forced herself to turn away. Stunned, she saw a small child sitting on the rocks, not twenty feet from her. A little girl holding desperately tight to a stuffed animal, her eyes terrified and confused. The Marauders must have stepped right past her in their eagerness to kill.

Rogue flexed her fingers as the possibilities raced through her mind. She had her powers. She could feel the tingle, like a premonition, in her fingertips. More than enough to bring this entire cavern down on the Marauders' heads. Then they would all die together. The little girl turned in her direction, and Rogue closed her eyes in shame. Or she could take that one child and run. Save her, maybe, but leave the Marauders alive. Leave herself alive, too. That was perhaps the worst.

Dizzy and weak, she climbed to her feet and staggered toward the little girl. A shout from one of the Marauders behind her was like a galvanizing slap. Her mind sharpened as she turned her drunken stagger into a sprint. She grabbed up the girl, counting on her agility to get them both across the dangerously uneven ground and back into the main tunnels where she could lose them both in the maze.

The dark, curving passages faded as Rogue came back to herself. For a moment she was disoriented, unable to figure out where she was. But then she saw Remy in front of her, still locked in the ridiculously appropriate stocks, and she regained her identity in a rush along with her memories.

Pure fury swept through her, evoking an equal echo that was somehow deeply satisfying. "How... dare... you?" she grated as the power flared to glowing life in her hands. "How dare you violate me like that?" Everything looked a little different, and she vaguely recognized the effect of Remy's powers. She wasn't certain what caused the change, nor did she care. The force that had held her on her knees was almost tangible, like a smoky black hand on her mind. Her first instinct was to use her mutant strength to try to break away, but the psyche she had just absorbed gave her a different solution. She didn't understand how, but suddenly she was sliding around the black hand, avoiding its clutch, and then she was free.

Cards flared to life in her hands. She wasn't even sure where she got them from. "You mentally raped me!" she yelled at Erik as she drew back to throw. But it wasn't a wild gesture. The trajectories and angles flashed through her mind with amazing precision. "Your justice lef' me pregnant with a new personality -- an' the exact one ah wanted ta get ta know like a real, normal woman!"

That was the core of Rogue's pain. This complete melding of Remy's personality with her own was wrong. They'd done it by accident once, and Rogue had buried the memories she'd gotten from him as deeply as she could. In part because she didn't know how to deal with the truth, but even more than that, she couldn't stand the knowledge of every single thing that was in his mind and heart. It left nothing for them to discover about each other. Nothing to share that she didn't already know. Nothing in him that could be given as a gift, or as a symbol of trust. How could they have a relationship then, when relationships were all about growing closer and learning more and more about each other?

Without hesitation, she threw. One card skimmed just past Erik's ear, and she felt a stab of triumph as he began to chide her for her poor throw. Hank was far smarter than that, though. Rogue felt a burst of affection for the scientist as he raised a hand to shield his face long before it became obvious that the card she'd thrown would impact on his manacles. She didn't wait around to watch Hank or the others free themselves, though. She launched herself bodily at Erik and drove her fist directly into his face.

"You're gonna pay for what you've done!" Her mind flipped through the possibilities -- how to bring him down. How to hurt him. Her knowledge of such things was amplified by Remy's, and she found herself debating the cruelest punishment she could inflict on him. "Better yet, you're gonna suffer! Suffer like you've made me suffer! No matter who ya are!" Every hope she'd had was ground into dust. She would have waited for Remy to find a way to tell her -- for him to eventually come to trust her that much. And maybe, because of her love or even just because of the X-Men, he would have found the courage to confess all of this on his own. But Erik had offered him an easier way out and he'd taken it. Even though Erik was obviously using this to rip the X-Men apart, Remy had still gone along with it. Having just absorbed his psyche, she knew without a doubt that he understood what Erik was doing. He just didn't care. Rogue wasn't sure which of them she was more furious with.

Though her punch staggered him, Erik only laughed as he sent a bolt of pure energy into the ceiling. An ominous rumble of shifting stone answered, and all eyes momentarily lifted. The sudden threat sapped Rogue's anger before it turned into a rage. Getting squashed would certainly solve her personal problems, but she was still hoping for a better solution.

"Ah'll help Gambit," she told Hank grimly as the other started giving instructions. That was her first priority. Once they got away from Erik, they would have time to sort out the rest.

"No, Rogue! Save yourself!" Remy craned his head to look up at her. She was a little surprised that he was conscious since she still had his powers. She didn't have time to worry about it now, though. And she certainly wasn't going to just leave him.

May nevah speak to him again, though, she told herself. Not for a while at least. Not until she was certain he understood just how angry she was about being used.

Another step brought her to his side and she knelt to examine the stocks, trying not to panic as a chunk of stone crashed down only a few feet from them. But even using Remy's honed thieving skills, she had to search for a moment to find the mechanism.

Remy was staring at the newly fallen rock. "Let the walls come down on me, chere." His voice was utterly defeated. Rogue paused to stare at him, too stunned for words. He wanted to die -- it was written in his face. If she left him there, would he really just watch the ceiling fall in on him? She was terribly afraid that the answer was yes, and that realization rekindled her fury.

She shattered the stocks that held him as the echo in her mind intensified. "Ah won't jus' leave ya in here to die." This wasn't the Remy LeBeau she knew. This wasn't the man she'd fallen in love with. And now, suddenly, she had to wonder if the man she loved was just a facade. If this wasn't the real man, and she had just been an idealistic, deceived fool. In that single moment, she utterly despised him.

She was unprepared for the resonance that hit her. Until then, she'd been able to handle the feedback, but suddenly she was overwhelmed by a wave of loathing that seared her mind and heart. "And self-pity really doesn't suit you, Remy," she added coldly.

Psylocke was gesturing wildly to her as larger and larger sections of stone crashed to the floor between them. But she didn't need the shadow telepath to escape. She was quite capable of taking care of this herself. Rogue grabbed Remy's arm and powered into the air.

"Rogue! Psylocke's over -- "

"We ain't goin' Psylocke's way!" She told him as they climbed rapidly through the breach that the collapsing stone had created and sailed out into the clear Antarctic sky.

They cleared the area of collapse, and she could hear the wealth of relief in Remy's voice. "Rogue, I... thanks f' believin' in me. I promise what I was ain' what I am now."

Liar, she thought succinctly. Ya haven't changed as much as ya want ta think. If ya had, you'd a' found a way ta tell the truth before it came ta this.

She stared down at him in a mixture of anger and disgust. "Who said ah believe ya, Remy?" The emotions that vibrated inside her were beyond her control. She was furious that he had used her, and furious with herself for having fallen for him. She would never have admitted that she was capable of true hatred, but as her own feelings continued to be reflected back at her, amplified beyond reason by the shadow imprint of a man who hated himself far more than she ever would, she was forced to accept the truth. It made her feel as if her heart had frozen solid, but at least that was better than hurting. Rogue twisted free of the hand that gripped her wrist, and watched in satisfaction as his eyes went wide in stunned betrayal.

"Rogue--?!"

He fell hard and rolled down a snowy incline. "Ah jus' said ah wouldn't let ya die in there," she called down to him. "Out here, it's up to you whether you live or die. Ah don't care anymore."

"Rogue! I don't care if you leave me here, chere, but you have to understand -- "

"You think ah can understand you?" The question was scathing. She'd been trying to understand him for a long time. The only problem was, she'd wanted to use her heart, not her powers. "You think wrong, mistuh."

Remy's eyes narrowed angrily. "Fine," he spat. "I've earned your hatred. But at least get me somewhere dat'll give me a chance t' get back home."

"Home?" The word evoked a new flood of emotional feedback. Remy obviously had a bitter association with the concepts of home and family, which only served to fuel Rogue's anger further. She gave him a mocking stare. "You ain't got no home, sugah. Not with me... not with the X-Men."

"Fend for yourself," she told him. "You seem to have done a good job of that in the past." And maybe it's all ya've evah been good at.

Remy stared at her, his expression disbelieving. "But... I love you."

She couldn't help her cold smile. "You're honest with the people you love, Gambit." She flipped the card she'd been holding, imbedding it in the snow at his feet with practiced ease. "Otherwise... it's a gamble."

They stared at each other for a moment longer as the meaning of what she'd done sank in. Rogue could see it in his face as his eyes went dead and his face emptied of all expression. She felt extremely satisfied. He had expected to lose everything when the truth about his involvement with the Massacre was revealed. The only hope he'd held was that she might find a way to love him despite that. Now that hope was completely destroyed, just like hers had been.

Rogue rose on the frigid winds and, turning her back to him, flew away.

Chapter 11

"Let's see... Levy. Where is Levy?" Scott muttered to himself as he scanned the building index. They were in the heart of Washington D.C., on the main floor of a nondescript federal building that supposedly held the office they were looking for.

"Aha." He spied the entry for a Dr. M. Levy, who apparently was the director of Project Grayscape. "Fifth floor."

Beside him, Jean nodded. Her gaze was empty though, as she kept up a continuous scan of their immediate surroundings. Scott had no idea if it was necessary, but he believed in prudence.

"Ready?" he asked Jean, and was rewarded with a smile and another nod. He offered her his hand and she took it, and together they started up the wide banister staircase. This was just a scouting mission. He didn't expect to even go inside Dr. Levy's office today. They would take a quick look around and then, if things looked good, would probably try to make an appointment for sometime in the near future. Unfortunately, he had no idea what kind of people would want to see Dr. Levy, and that was one of the reasons they'd come today. A surface scan of those inside the office would hopefully give them enough information to create a reasonable cover story. If not, they would be left with no other option but to try breaking in as they had at Whiteman, which was a risk he didn't want to take.

Scott was breathing heavily by the time they reached the fifth floor, and Jean gave him a concerned glance.

"I'm all right," he reassured her. It had been three months since Dr. Reyes had removed the bomb Bastion planted in his abdomen, but the healing process still wasn't complete. It was frustrating to have so little stamina. He'd taken the stairs just to push himself a little bit. All of their recent traveling had left him little chance to cultivate a regular exercise schedule.

They found the right hallway after a moment of searching and started down it. The doors were all identical, with beveled glass windows and the title of the office stenciled on them in black. About halfway down the hall, Jean stopped short, then after a moment backed up several steps and paused again. Scott watched her curiously.

Eventually, she blinked and focused on her husband. There's a psi-damping field. She indicated the hall where Scott was standing. It's strong. I was blinded the moment I stepped into it.

Hmmm. Scott closed the distance between them. Care to take a guess as to where it's coming from?

Her eyebrows quirked at his sarcasm. We probably ought to go ahead and walk on by. Once I find the other side of the field, I should be able to tell you for sure.

They continued down the hall and passed by Dr. Levy's office without pausing. The door was identical to all of the others, the interior of the office blurred beyond recognition by the beveling in the glass. They emerged from the damping field just beyond a bend in the hallway, at a point approximately the same distance from Dr. Levy's door as where they'd first encountered the field.

That pretty much clinches it, I guess.

Scott nodded. Yep.

The interesting thing is that it's only a psi-damper. I was still able to use my telekinetic ability.

Scott met her vaguely troubled gaze. That is interesting. They're afraid of telepaths but not mutants in general?

I don't know. Jean shrugged uncomfortably. But now I'm doubly curious what this Grayscape is all about.

You and me both, he agreed.

Jean was uncommonly nervous as she manipulated the simple tumblers on the door to the Grayscape office. She was blinded by the psi-damper, and it felt like her head was full of black cotton. For all she knew, there could be a whole squad of soldiers waiting for them inside. Or there could be nothing. The fact that she couldn't tell the difference left her feeling intensely vulnerable.

The tumblers fell into place and Jean cautiously swung the door open. Federal crime number three, she thought grimly. Breaking and entering had become something of a commonplace event for the two of them recently. But it was either that or telepathically extract the information they needed, and Jean wasn't willing to use her powers that way.

The office of Project Grayscape was disappointingly normal. They found themselves in a standard waiting room, complete with out-of-date magazines and half-filled water cooler. The receptionist's desk was crowded into a small anteroom along with a desktop computer, fax machine and copier. A single door led out of the waiting room.

Scott shrugged and tried the door, which opened easily. Jean followed him into a short hall that had one closed door on either side and a third at the end. The first door opened on a tiny bathroom, and the smell of rose-scented air freshener enveloped them.

The second door held an office. The desk was of some dark wood, and the wall behind the desk was lined with medical texts along with a wide array of other subjects. Jean saw books on psychiatry, psychology, mutant physiology, astrology, unexplained phenomena, and home repair. She shook her head as she moved to examine the framed certificates that hung on the near wall. She was somewhat surprised to discover that Dr. Levy, apparently, was a Harvard trained psychologist as well as a medical doctor.

After a little more exploration, they left the office and moved to the third door. The room beyond looked like a cross between an examination room and a laboratory. A plain conference table sat in the middle of the room, one comfortable-looking chair on either side of it. A blank legal pad and two pencils lay in front of one of the chairs, as if they had been placed there in preparation for a meeting the next morning. The far wall of the plain room was filled with banks of electronic equipment. An empty cursor blinked on one of the monitors, the only sign that the equipment was working.

They stepped cautiously into the room. Jean swallowed a surprised exclamation as she moved through the doorway.

The psi-damper's gone!

They both whirled to look back through the doorway, but didn't see anything. Jean walked back to the door and the psi damping field struck her as soon as she stepped out into the hall.

It's a shell, she told Scott as she came back into the room.

He gave her a puzzled look. Any idea what it's for?

She shook her head. None. Why would they want to suppress telepathic abilities out there, she jerked her head toward the hallway, but not in here?

Scott didn't answer as he went to investigate the rack of equipment. Jean followed him.

This is a frequency analyzer, he said after a moment, tapping the front panel of one of the pieces of equipment. And that, he motioned to a confusing jumble of wires and plugs, looks an awful lot like some kind of hardware/software interface chassis. We use a similar setup for system testing on the Blackbirds.

This is some kind of electronics lab? Jean didn't have any responsibility for maintaining the Blackbirds, so she didn't know much about the system he was talking about. But she was willing to take his word for it.

Curious, she picked up a lightweight headset that was plugged into the chassis while Scott continued to examine the tangle of multicolored wires.

Do I dare turn it on? He rested one gloved finger beneath a switch.

Jean shot him an alarmed look. Just because we haven't seen any surveillance doesn't mean this system isn't monitored. And I can't see past that damping field to know if anyone is about to walk in on us. It was like being inside a bubble, really. Her telepathic powers worked, but were essentially useless because of the surrounding damper.

Scott considered for a moment, then flipped the switch upward with a mechanical click. This office is a front for something -- that much is obvious. But I don't think anyone's watching. This set up feels too... authentic for that.

Two rows of red lights came on when Scott flipped the switch and a host of commands began to scroll down the monitor screen. Jean didn't get a chance to read everything that went by, and probably wouldn't have understood the cryptic statements even if she could, but she got the distinct impression that it was running some kind of initialization routine. Eventually, the red lights began to wink out, to be replaced by green lights coming alive on the other side of the chassis. When everything had gone green, Scott turned to her.

Looks like it's up and running. I'm going to poke around a bit.

Jean suppressed her protest. The psi damping made her very nervous, but Scott was confident, and she trusted his danger sense almost as much as her own. She went back to examining the headset in her hands while he turned on the frequency analyzer and began fiddling with the knobs.

What she'd originally taken for tiny earphones were actually electrodes of some kind, she realized as she peered more closely at the headset. They were emitting an annoying buzz that suddenly turned into a shriek that stabbed directly into her brain. She dropped the headset with a cry and put her hands to her head. The pain disappeared almost instantly.

Jean! What is it?

Jean blinked the stars away. I'm all right.

She squeezed his arm in reassurance before crouching down to retrieve the headset. She held it gingerly, then after a moment, brought it slowly closer to her face. The buzz became perceptible as she brought the headset near, but she didn't experience the excruciating pain again.

A number of things began to click into place in her mind. She glanced at the frequency analyzer, which was currently displaying a scrolling sine wave.

Can you make the amplitude higher on that? She nodded toward the signal.

Sure. He turned one of the large dials and Jean watched the wave re-scale itself. How's that?

Cautiously, Jean brought the headset toward her head. The buzz was much worse, grating across her senses painfully. Ouch. She let the headset fall to dangle in her hands. O.k. You can turn it off now.

Scott did so, then turned back to her with the question obvious on his face.

It's generating telepathic... noise, for lack of a better term, she answered. I think this is some kind of testing facility for telepaths. That psi damper suppresses any interference from the outside world, which make it incredibly quiet in here. Even a minimal talent should be able to pick up on this. She waved the headset.

Scott frowned thoughtfully. So who's looking for telepaths? Their gazes met. And why?

"Rogue, ya'd better come see this." Logan caught a glimpse of the woman passing by the doorway to the rec room. She walked with shuffling steps, her head down, as if there was an invisible weight on her shoulders that she could barely support. Unfortunately, Logan thought, this new development was only going to make her day worse than it already seemed, but business was business.

She stopped, glanced up at him with red-rimmed eyes. "What is it?"

"Come look." He turned his attention back to the television, granting her a modicum of privacy.

Mercifully, the other X-Men pretended not to notice the evidence of her tears as she joined them. Joseph opened his mouth to say something to her, but then stopped as her expression darkened with outrage.

"Figured he'd have ta show up again sometime." Logan kept his attention focused on the television, where a frantic reporter was trying to face the camera while still keeping an eye on the destruction going on just across the street. The cameraman had given up on the reporter, and was instead centered on the mutant who stood in the center of the street, arms upraised. A mutant the X-Men knew only as Erik the Red.

"Where is this?" Rogue's voice was harsh.

Ororo stepped up beside the distraught woman, arms crossed. "It is the Federal building in Philadelphia."

"Our mysterious nemesis is apparently curious about certain government records." Hank squatted on the arm of the couch, his quaint spectacles perched precariously on his nose. "He has already absconded with a sizable number of filing cabinets and now seems intent on leveling the building."

"So what are y'all waitin' for?"

"Psylocke," Logan told her.

"Where is she?"

"Right behind you."

Several of the X-Men started at the sudden voice, but Logan just snorted. That girl was downright eerie these days. She spent more time on the astral plane searching for Warren than she did in the real world, and it was beginning to show.

Marrow appeared on Betsy's heels, ghosting into the den and approaching the television with obvious interest. Logan had smelled her out in the hall a while ago, but hadn't seen any reason to encourage her to join them. Now, she leaned around Sam to watch the newscast.

"So that's him." She glanced at Rogue. "The one who revealed the genetraitor." Rogue turned to glare at her, but Marrow only smiled merrily. "I'd like to meet him."

"Marrow." Logan stared at her until the other's smile disappeared. Then he looked the assembled X-Men over. "Everybody ready?" Nods answered him, and Logan turned to Betsy.

"Up ta you, darlin'."

She turned without answering and walked toward the far corner of the room, where the light from the window didn't quite reach. "The shadows are over here."

Chapter 12

Renee looked up as Apocalypse entered, wincing internally at his stormy expression. She could tell from the way he moved that he had nearly exhausted his meager energy reserves. He crossed to where Renee sat on a cushion beside the warm hearth and collapsed in his customary chair. Renee watched him obliquely, but he ignored her as he stared into the fire.

The sitting room was one of the few places where a fire almost always burned, but Renee would gladly have given up her warm seat if she could. Apocalypse would not allow her to leave his presence without express permission. It seemed like a matter of courtesy to him, though Renee found it nerve wracking. She could never simply slip away without him noticing, and given his present mood, she didn't want to draw his attention.

Apocalypse sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees. Every motion was sharp, forceful, and Renee had the distinct impression that he was frustrated by something. After a moment, he turned to look at her, and Renee held her breath. It was one of those unnerving flat stares, as if she were a piece of furniture that he was debating whether to move or not.

He stood abruptly. "Come with me."

Renee swallowed her surprise and scrambled to her feet. Apocalypse didn't wait for her. He turned on his heel and strode from the room. Renee grabbed up her cloak and trotted to catch up, her mind whirling curiously. Apocalypse always sent for her. He had never ordered her to accompany him. That wasn't surprising, considering the limited areas to which Renee had access, but the sudden change left her wondering, in a mixture of concern and anticipation, where Apocalypse might be taking her.

Out in the hall she fell in step beside him, his long strides forcing her to stretch a bit to keep up. Apocalypse glanced at her, his expression unreadable, and Renee was momentarily afraid that she had angered him by being so bold. But she disliked the idea of walking behind him. She knew her place in his household, as did he, and she would much rather be able to see where she was going.

She tried not to let her expression show as they walked past the guards who stood at the entrance to one of the areas Renee was not allowed to see. Her stomach tightened into a hard ball and her fingers instinctively sought out the collapsed staff nestled in a pocket inside her cloak. This way would take them to the stairs that led upward to the butte. Were they going back up there? Why? She couldn't help but look at Apocalypse, hoping to read something of his intentions, but he stared resolutely forward and did not acknowledge her.

They reached the stairs. Apocalypse immediately turned downward, but Renee paused. Down? The occasional rumblings she felt through the soles of her feet came from the depths of the mountain. Excitement mixed with fear as she started down after him on the narrow stairs.

They descended hundreds of feet into the mountain, passing the apertures of several passages along the way. Most were darkened and gaped like hungry mouths, but a few were lit with sterile white light from the familiar light tubes. Renee became aware of a low buzzing sound that grew louder as they descended. It eventually resolved itself into an ordinary mechanical hum that sounded to Renee like a fan or turbine. Perhaps a cooling system? But cooling for what? Or maybe it was the circulation system that kept the air inside the palace from becoming unbearably stale.

Finally, Apocalypse turned off the stairs into a lighted corridor. The stone walls and floor were sheathed in metal and looked surprisingly similar to the underground portions of the X-mansion. Bemused, Renee imagined walking around the next corner to encounter Uncle Hank with his white lab coat and antiquated spectacles. But instead of her uncle, Renee found only more of the featureless hallway, its smooth surfaces marred by the presence of a single door. The door had no handle, but slid aside as Apocalypse neared.

Renee followed him into a laboratory. She knew with instinctive certainty that it was a medical facility of some kind, despite the strange equipment that filled it. A large table took up the center of the room. A man lay on the table, his feet toward her. For a moment, she thought he was strapped down, but he sat up as they entered and Renee was unable to contain a gasp of dismay.

The blue eyes snapped to her face and she found herself staring into Warren Worthington's eyes with a sense of horror. Those eyes were the only thing that she recognized, though. They were still clear and blue, the color of the sky on a bright winter day. But his skin had shaded from the powder blue she was accustomed to, to a pale gray. His blond hair was now gray as well, a lustrous dark hue. He was strangely beautiful in the stormy colors, but the change was disturbing.

"Warren?" she asked hesitantly.

The gaze that bored into her did not change.

"That is not his name anymore," Apocalypse said. He sounded pleased, and Renee turned to stare at him as the realization sank in. This was what Apocalypse had been doing that so exhausted him. She knew precious little about his powers or his technology, but it hardly mattered what method he used to change Warren so radically.

"What have you done to him?" The question came out as a choked whisper.

Apocalypse's eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, Warren slid off the table and approached Renee. "He set me free," Warren said, smiling. His voice was low and scratchy, as if it had been worn raw and was only just beginning to heal.

Apocalypse laid a hand on Warren's shoulder and Renee blinked in surprise at the affectionate gesture. "This is the healer I told you of, my son. Show her your wing."

Obediently Warren unfurled his wings, which were feathered in the same dark color as his hair. They spread around him like a cloak as he brought them forward for her to see. His expression, however, was filled with distrust. "Healer? I thought LeBeaus were only capable of destruction."

Renee paused, taken aback by the bitter anger in his voice. She wanted to ask him what he meant, but he was so frighteningly alien that she couldn't bring herself to. Instead, she focused on the wing he presented to her. Close up, the damage was obvious. She'd seen the break when they were imprisoned together, and now, as she peered closely at the area, she could tell that the bone had healed imperfectly. Still, the break had been in the middle of the bones rather than at a joint. It wasn't pretty, but should be structurally sound. Then she noticed how limply the tip of that wing hung and frowned.

"Nerve damage?" she asked, her attention split between Apocalypse and Warren. She felt very strange standing there between them. Both Apocalypse and Warren watched her expectantly, and Apocalypse nodded in response to her question.

"The nerves have died and his body resists the implants." He cocked his head. "An unfortunate side effect of the biometallic materials in his system." His stare pierced Renee. "He will never fly again with wings of flesh and blood if you cannot help him."

Renee saw the poorly concealed flash of terror in Warren's eyes and bit her lip. If she healed his wing, he would be able to fly -- and able to do whatever Apocalypse commanded him. Renee knew from history a little of what that would entail, and that death and pain would be the result. In some ways, healing him would make her an accomplice. And yet, if she didn't heal him, wouldn't Apocalypse simply remove the living wings and replace them with a new set of biometallics? That was what he implied, and Warren seemed to believe it as well. Otherwise, why would he be so frightened? But would that be any better for anyone? Not for Warren, certainly, and probably not for anyone that the Angel of Death might encounter, she decided. Taking his wings again would probably make it that much harder for him to turn away from Apocalypse, and she had to believe that there was still a part of him that wanted to.

She realized that she had been staring at the floor while she thought, and slowly raised her eyes to Warren's. "I can heal you," she told him and was rewarded by a flood of pure relief that softened his gaze. She felt a small burst of hope. Some part of the Warren she knew was still alive inside him.

She reached up to take hold of his wing and looked a bit more closely, but then remembered that she didn't have gloves and pulled her hands back. Though the feathers were technically dead and would not trigger her powers, she didn't want to have to worry about accidental contact with his skin.

"What's wrong?" Warren asked her. The brief vulnerability she'd seen was gone, and his expression had turned skeptical.

Renee felt her gaze sliding toward Apocalypse and forced herself not to look at him. "My powers -- " She held up her hands. "I need to wear gloves."

She could see the details clicking together in his mind. His eyes went to her hair, and the white braids that hung beside her face, half-obscured by the scarves and ornaments she wore. It was the second time she had watched someone figure out who she was, simply from her appearance, and, unfortunately, she was so engrossed in what he might be thinking that she almost didn't react in time.

His fingers raked the air less than an inch from her face, and she noted in alarm that his nails had become short, dark talons. She dodged backward, reaching into her cloak for her staff as she did so. Warren lunged for her. He grabbed her cloak as she twisted to avoid him, and she found her breath cut off abruptly as the cloak tightened around her throat. Warren dragged her backward and Renee hit the button that caused the staff to telescope to its full length in her hand, while the other hand clawed at the clasp that held the cloak around her neck. Renee twisted the clasp and it snapped open just as his fingers closed on her braided hair. She drew a gasping breath as she drove the end of the staff backward into his stomach. He grunted in pain and she was able to tear herself out of his grasp.

Renee jumped clear of his reach and whirled, bringing her staff up in a ready stance. "Warren! What are you doing?"

Warren didn't answer as he circled toward her right, his wings trailing him like dark streamers. His face was a mask of rage, but he did not answer.

Renee looked toward Apocalypse in mute appeal, but he was simply standing there, arms crossed. He said nothing, and made no move to interfere. She focused on Warren. Apocalypse wasn't going to stop him, so she would have to defend herself. She tried to tell herself it was no different than training with him in the Danger Room, but the fury burning in his eyes made that hard to do.

Warren feinted toward her and she moved to block. He followed immediately with a kick, forcing her to jump back. Renee realized that she was quickly running out of room. Though the lab was fairly large, it was filled with equipment. Another few steps and she would be trapped against the strange machinery.

Regretfully, she spun the staff around, building momentum, and then lashed out at him. He ducked the blow and dove toward her, trying to close the distance between them and remove the advantage the bo staff gave her. Renee switched her grip and brought the end of the bo whistling toward his head, but he saw it coming. The blow landed on his shoulder rather than his skull. Then he plowed into her, driving them both backward into the banks of equipment.

Renee was unable to contain a small cry of pain as a sharp edge dug into her back. Instinct kept her arms up, warding off the hands that reached for her throat. She regained her balance and drove her knee upward, which unfortunately hit Warren's hip rather than anything more sensitive, but it was enough to make him flinch. She drove her fist toward his face, connected, and he staggered back

She wasn't paying enough attention to his wings, though. He had a seven foot reach and startling speed. The edge of one wing struck her in the side of the head with enough force to make stars explode in front of her eyes. Warren closed the distance again while she was stunned and she gasped at the sudden fiery pain as his claws raked across her collarbone. The pain snapped something inside her. This was her uncle who was for some unknown reason trying to kill her, and it made her angry. She was angry at Warren for selling out to Apocalypse. He was supposed to be an X-Man, not an enemy, and she was tired of meeting the people she loved and finding them to be strangers. She was angry at Apocalypse for allowing this to go on -- for making her fight a member of her family, no matter how different he was. And she was angry at Apocalypse for making her a prisoner when she'd begun to believe she might be able to go home, and for the painful punishment he'd inflicted on her for daring to defy him, even a little bit.

She lunged at Warren as all of the frustration she felt boiled over. She could see the change in his face as her eyes began to glow, tinting her vision with red. She darted forward, staff raised, but at the last moment, she ducked under his guard and hit him beneath the ribs. His breath whooshed out of his lungs, but he didn't slow. They traded blows in a flurry, and Renee found herself grateful for the high slit that allowed her so much movement in the long skirt she wore. She used her staff and her feet as much as she could to counter the longer reach of his wings as they danced around the tight confines of the lab. Apocalypse managed to stay out of their way without ever appearing to hurry, and Renee caught occasional glimpses of him as she spun and dodged.

Warren managed to land another blow to her head and Renee staggered, falling to her knees as nausea swept through her. She raised her staff instinctively as he followed with a savage kick, but was only partly able to block him. She ducked and took the brunt of it in the shoulder, paying that price to stick the end of her staff behind his leg. She swept the staff around, throwing him off balance. He fell backwards with a yell, landing hard on the metal floor. Renee forced herself to her feet, but her head was still spinning so fast that Warren had regained his own footing before she could muster a new attack. But now he was limping heavily.

Renee bit her lip as she forced her mind to focus. She wanted to believe that Apocalypse would not let Warren kill her, but she was afraid that was just wishful thinking. History recorded Apocalypse as a purist believer in survival of the strongest. She wasn't certain that he would save her if she could not defeat Warren on her own. After all, if she wasn't the strongest, then why would he let her live?

To save his own life, of course, she answered herself immediately. But was that true? With almost anyone else, she would have believed it, but Apocalypse was a fanatic.

Warren came after her again, and Renee dove to the side, trusting her reflexes to get her out of the way in time. She rolled to her feet, staff in motion, but Warren had anticipated the move. He was already inside her swing, talons stabbing toward her abdomen. She leapt backwards, hitting the edge of the table and falling back onto it. Using the table as a brace, she planted both feet in the center of Warren's chest and shoved him away, but the fresh burn across her stomach told her she hadn't gotten away unscathed. She touched the secondary switch on her staff, releasing the trident blades that were folded into one end. They snapped into place, and she changed her grip on the weapon to use it as a polearm.

"Enough." Apocalypse stepped between them. Renee slide to a stop, startled, but forced herself not to look at him. She didn't trust Warren not to try to continue his senseless attack on her despite Apocalypse, so she kept her attention focused and her staff held ready. Though it made her feel guilty, she was grimly pleased that Warren looked like he hurt as much as she did. At least she'd made a good accounting of herself.

Apocalypse, however, was watching Warren. "I see you have learned the full truth about the Massacre."

Warren's gaze snapped to Apocalypse's, full of anger and betrayal. "You knew?! Why didn't you tell me?"

Renee watched them both in confusion. Knew about what? she wanted to ask. What Massacre? Whatever they were talking about, she knew it was the reason Warren had attacked her.

Apocalypse frowned disapprovingly. "It was, and is, unimportant. You have greater tasks to accomplish than to track down one insignificant thief."

One insignificant... Renee felt a chill invade her as the full realization of where and when she was finally sank in. He had to be talking about Gambit. And in this time, her father was just a mutant thief. She felt a pang of sorrow. Gambit, not Remi. That meant Remi didn't exist any more. It also meant that the only person who knew the full potential powers of a certain insignificant thief was the prisoner of Apocalypse. She sucked in her breath at the thought. She was going to have to walk very, very carefully if Apocalypse decided to ask her more questions about her family.

Warren was still staring at Apocalypse, his expression hinting at stubborn defiance, but Apocalypse seemed willing to take his silence as an agreement. Apocalypse turned to Renee, apparently dismissing the topic entirely. He stared at her intently and Renee straightened her shoulders self-consciously, trying not to let the pain of her injuries show. From the blood she could feel trickling across her skin, she guessed that she would need a few stitches, but now didn't seem like the time to ask Apocalypse about it. Not with that frightening, impersonal gaze fastened on her.

"You will tend to my son's injuries."

Renee's eyes widened and she bit her lip against a protest. It hadn't been a request. So she nodded once in acquiescence and collapsed the staff she held back into its compact form. Apocalypse stepped obligingly out of the way as she approached Warren. Renee hardly noticed. Her attention was focused on the winged man. She was ready to jump if he decided to attack her again, but, though his eyes were still full of anger, she didn't see anything in his body language that suggested danger.

"Sit." She pointed to the table.

He registered surprise at the sharp syllable, but did as she directed. Gathering herself, Renee reached over to touch her fingertips to his forehead. Her powers surged outward, lunging against her control. The effort of keeping them reigned in magnified the pain of her wounds and turned the dull throbbing of her head into a sharp spike of agony. She forced herself to concentrate, seeking out the damage she had just done him. There was a gash just above his temple, the blood invisible in his hair. She knit that wound together, and the fractured bones in his ankle. There were two broken ribs as well, and a host of contusions. Then she turned her attention to the dead nerves in his wing. She could feel the demarcation where the living cells ended. Beyond that was only emptiness, but her powers gave her an innate knowledge of how the nerves should be. She wanted to scream at the pain in her head, but she was acutely aware of Apocalypse standing behind her, watching. She would rather endure this pain than give him another excuse to punish her, so she gritted her teeth and struggled to make her unruly powers obey her will.

Finally, the nerve paths were complete and Renee let her hand fall with a small gasp of relief. She watched dully as Warren twisted his wing tip. His smile was triumphant as he slid off of the table and stretched his wings to their full length before folding them behind him. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Apocalypse nodding in approval.

"Very well." Apocalypse gestured for Renee to follow him as he turned away. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Renee fell in behind him. She didn't care where they were going this time, so long as she would get to rest when they got there.

They reached the stairs, and Renee felt a brief bout of nausea sweep through her at the thought of the hundreds of stairs that she would have to climb before they reached the residential level. But Apocalypse started upward, his stride steady, and Renee had no choice but to follow. She fought the urge to cry as she climbed. Each step was a tremendous effort, and, at some point, she realized that she had fallen behind Apocalypse. He was well above her on the stairs, and seemed oblivious to her as he continued upward. Her vision swam momentarily and she put one hand down on the stairs to steady herself. But the dizziness didn't go away. Feeling faint, and afraid she might fall down the stairs, she sank onto the cold stone and leaned her forehead against the steps.

Just a short rest, she promised herself as she closed her eyes. The cold stone felt wonderful against her throbbing skull. For a moment, she thought she heard footsteps coming toward her, but she could not place the sound.

The last thing she felt as she drifted into darkness was a hand closing on her shoulder.

Remy's nerves were screaming by the time he reached the front door. Simply being there was bad enough for the memories the place evoked. But the silence that surrounded him set his senses on edge and his heart to pounding in his chest.

The Xavier Institute for Higher Learning was deserted. His kinesthetic sense picked up nothing but the gentle swaying of the trees. The defense grid that usually surrounded the house was deactivated, and, as he touched the doorknob, he discovered that the front door was unlocked.

Braced for an ambush, Remy slipped inside and silently shut the door behind him. He found himself staring dumbly at the empty foyer. It was completely empty. The furniture, the pictures on the walls, even the carpeting -- everything was gone. It was as if someone had stripped the mansion bare.

He walked cautiously through the foyer, stopping for a moment to study a stain in the wooden floor. It looked like blood. Someone had obviously made an attempt to clean it up, but had done only a half-hearted job.

Dismayed, Remy moved further into the house. He had finally forced himself to come here in the hopes that Professor Xavier had returned and could answer some of the questions that whirled around inside his head. Jean Luc had let that hint drop on purpose, he was certain, though he couldn't begin to guess why. But the face of the woman Token had carved and his father's words mingled in his thoughts, haunting him with the promise of knowledge. Knowledge of who he was, and perhaps someone to help him find the path he should take from here.

He paused as he entered the kitchen, his thief's eye automatically noting the dirty dishes in the sink. They were plastic plates, he noted, cheap picnic ware with matching glasses in a dazzling array of pastel colors. He checked the cupboards, finding them thinly stocked with easy-to-prepare foods. He sniffed the milk cautiously, confirming what he already suspected. The house had been stripped, but there were people living there. The food was fresh and the dirty dishes no more than a day or two old.

From there, he moved toward the bedrooms, noting more signs of recent occupation. The first door he came to had once been Bishop's, and, as he glanced inside, he saw that it was empty. Briefly, he wondered what had happened to Bishop, and if he was still out in space somewhere with the madwoman Deathbird. Remy pushed his concern away. Bishop could take care of himself. If it were even remotely possible, he knew Bishop would find his way home.

The next door was Bobby's. Bobby Drake, who had left the X-Men temporarily to be with his family. This room was occupied, with a mattress on the floor in one corner and a small pile of clothes apparently serving as the dresser. Remy didn't see anything that gave him an insight into who might be using the room now.

He moved on. The other rooms in the men's wing were the same. He couldn't find anything that proved to him that the X-Men were still there. Finally, he let his feet take him toward the women's wing. There was one room there he could check. No matter how little might be inside, he was certain he would know if the owner was still living there.

He paused at the entrance to Rogue's room, oddly nervous, then pushed the door open and walked in. He stopped in the center of the room and turned a circle, absorbing the interior. The door swung slowly shut behind him and as he completed his turn, he found himself staring into his reflection in the mirror mounted on the back of the door. But it wasn't the sight of his own face that made his blood run cold. It was the playing card taped to the center of the mirror. Creased, water stained and singed around the edges, the queen of hearts stared back at him.

He didn't know how long he stood there, until a flicker at the edge of his perception demanded his attention. Down in the depths of the underground complex, someone moved. Two someones, he corrected as they came more fully into his range. They were too far away for him to identify, but he didn't worry about that as he ran for the lifts.

Remy drew three cards but didn't charge them as the lift doors slid open. He'd been able to resolve the motion of the two people as the lift descended, enough to realize that they were familiar, but not people he had enough exposure to to identify exactly. So they couldn't be X-Men. Cautiously, he moved out into the hall, picking a course to intercept them.

As he moved through the complex, he was stunned to realize that it wasn't just the house above that had been emptied. Everything was gone. Hank's lab was barren. Cerebro was gone. The Blackbirds were no longer in the hangar, and even the tools and spares had been taken. He was so startled by the sheer quantity of what was missing that he didn't think about the path he was taking until he turned the corner and found himself standing before the door leading down into the Morlock tunnels. He felt the blood drain slowly from his face. The words, "This way to a dark ride" were scratched into the door's metal surface, and he wondered with a sinking sense of horror which X-Man might have written that.

Shuddering, he forced himself to go on down the hall. The two he tracked were just ahead, their movements consistent with a slow exploration of the area. He slowed, his footsteps becoming utterly silent as he crept around the last corner and stopped in the doorway of what had once been the War Room. Surprised by who he found, but still somewhat reassured, he cleared his throat.

Lilandra Neramani whirled, instinctively raising her staff of office. Beside her, Gladiator also spun and stepped protectively in front of his Empress. They both stared at Remy for a moment before slowly relaxing.

Lilandra set the butt of her staff back on the floor with a dull thunk. "Gambit." She glanced behind him, as if expecting to find others there. "Where are the X-Men?"

Chapter 13

Stepping out of Psylocke's shadow teleport was like climbing the last steps out of a deep hole in the ground. The cloying darkness was suddenly replaced by sunlight and noise, and Rogue found herself breathing a sigh of relief.

The sentiment lasted only as long as it took her to remember why she was there. Psylocke had brought them out in an alleyway that faced the demolished Federal building, and from the mouth, they had a clear view of Erik the Red. Rogue felt her hands clenching into fists at her sides. Everything in her wanted to hurt him, but she knew better than to let her emotions rule her actions and so give away the X-Men's position. It was hard to just stand there, though.

Erik the Red was still standing in the middle of the street. Rogue could see the faint telltale shimmer of some kind of field surrounding him. The Federal building continued to collapse in stages as Erik apparently snapped the various structural supports. Police and emergency vehicles stood off at a distance, giving her the impression that they had attempted to stop him -- unsuccessfully-- and had wisely retreated to a safe distance.

"Does anyone have a sense for what kind of power he is using?" Ororo kept her attention focused on the scene across the street.

"I can feel a resonance," Joseph said in a hoarse whisper, and Rogue turned to look at him in alarm. He was leaning against the side of the alley, arms wrapped around himself. His skin had gone pale and she could see the sweat that beaded his forehead.

"You were ill the last time you were exposed to Erik as well, if I remember correctly." Hank was studying Joseph intently.

"Are his powers magnetic, then?" Ororo's face was calm, but Rogue could feel how carefully she was skirting Hank's unintentional reference to Antarctica. She had never said anything, as far as Rogue knew, but the anger that simmered in the depths of her eyes hadn't been there before that.

Joseph shook his head cautiously. "I don't... think so. Not purely, at least." His brow creased in concentration. "He... is... manipulating the Earth's electromagnetic field, though." He glanced up at Storm, who nodded.

"Do you think you can neutralize his power?"

"Not... from here. Further away, maybe." Rogue couldn't help a small smile for his show of courage. It was obvious that being so close to Erik caused him terrible pain, but he was gamely doing his best for the team. He was so different from Magneto in that respect, she thought as she watched him.

Storm considered for a moment. "Beast, Maggot, go with him. I do not want him to be unprotected."

Hank nodded and offered Joseph his arm for support while Storm turned to Elizabeth. "On the chance that it is not obvious, please let us know when Joseph has done what he can."

"Ya got a plan brewin' in there?" Wolverine cocked his head to look up at Ororo, his expression set in the grim lines Rogue recognized as the precursor to mayhem.

Ororo stared out at the figure of Erik the Red, her gaze flat. "Other than doing whatever is necessary to stop him, no, I do not."

Wolverine's bushy eyebrows arched in surprise at the anger in her clipped speech, and Rogue's stomach knotted. His lips twitched. "I'm beginning ta think the Cajun's gonna be in a world o' hurt if ya ever catch up with him."

Rogue sucked in her breath as Storm's eyes snapped to Logan's. "That is none of your business," she said coldly.

He was unaffected by her stare. "It is if you're operatin' on feelin's instead o' reason, darlin'."

They stared at each other until Ororo drew a deep breath, her expression acknowledging the gentle reprimand. "I am angry with Remy for refusing to return to the X-Men," she explained slowly. "I will not let that impair my judgment."

Rogue turned away, fighting tears. When people had begun to demand an explanation from her for what had happened in Antarctica, she'd told them that Remy wouldn't be coming back to the mansion. Wouldn't, not couldn't. One little word that made a world of difference in the interpretation. She couldn't even blame Remy for the lie. His persona was long gone by the time she'd been faced with that question.

Out in the street, Erik stiffened and then whirled, his eyes scanning the area.

"I think that's our cue," Bobby commented as his form rippled, becoming ice.

Psylocke nodded. "Joseph is interfering with his powers."

Storm stepped out of the alley with the rest of the X-Men falling in behind her. Logan stayed a step behind her, though he was the unacknowledged co-leader of the team. Rogue didn't think it was out of respect, particularly, but simply for the tactical advantage of consolidating the X-Men behind a single leader. Rogue found herself standing with Cecilia and Cannonball as they spread out. She knew the X-Men made an imposing sight, though Erik the Red gave no sign of being impressed.

Instead, he gave them an ingratiating smile. "X-Men. To what do I owe the honor?"

Rogue glared at him, wishing desperately that Storm would give them permission to assault the man who had destroyed so many of her dreams.

Storm stared at Erik without expression. "There is no honor in meeting you." His grin didn't falter as she continued, "You will cease this destruction and surrender yourself."

Be careful, Storm, Psylocke's warning echoed in Rogue's mind. Joseph says he can only partly nullify his powers. He may still be able to attack us.

Rogue tensed, and saw a flicker of fear on Cecilia's face. In another situation, she would have tried to reassure the new X-Man, but Erik the Red claimed her attention completely.

Erik crossed his arms, his posture casually defiant. "You're short a few members, I see," he drawled.

Cold fury enveloped Rogue. In a recessed corner of her mind, she knew that he was baiting them, but she didn't care. His smarmy grin was more than she could bear. He was at least as responsible for Remy's death as she was, and probably a good deal more. Everything he'd done to them had been aimed at driving a wedge between the X-Men. He'd used her like he'd used Remy, and shattered her heart into a million pieces simply because it would weaken the team.

With a scream to rival Wolverine's, she launched herself at Erik.

"Rogue, no!" Storm's cry echoed in her ears, but she ignored it. The entirety of her mutant strength was packed into the blow as she plowed into Erik, fists first.

It was like slamming into the side of a mountain. The punch staggered him, but it was as if there was more to him than just a human body. She had the strangest sensation of a shadow overlaying him, like invisible armor that existed just beneath his skin. She didn't think it was something physical. It was more like a force field, but even that description didn't fit. Slightly dazed, she hovered in front of him while she regrouped.

Erik rubbed his jaw. His eyes had gone cold, and Rogue saw their color for the first time. They were a pale blue, flecked with gold. She tensed as he raised his other hand, fingers spread.

A door opened up in the space between them. Rogue back away cautiously from the gaping darkness, pressing her lips together as she spied a glowing pair of eyes within the doorway. They were yellow, and moved toward her as if they were attached to a body she couldn't yet see. Then the creature emerged, stepping into existence as it passed through the doorway. It was nearly as large as a horse, but built much lower to the ground. The furless body was vaguely feline, though more heavily muscled. It's skin was the color of dried blood, thick and roughly textured. The color darkened to black around the muzzle and legs. Its feet seemed overly large for the body, like a lynx's, with the tips of heavy claws emerging from each toe. Its footfalls were silent on the pavement.

The creature stepped completely out of the doorway, then lowered its head and dropped its jaw as if scenting. Rogue shifted her weight onto the balls of her feet as it spied her.

Without warning, it lunged. Instinctively, Rogue threw her arms up in front of her body, crying out in pain and surprise as its teeth sank into the flesh of her forearm.

Logan saw Rogue go down under the weight of the demonic creature with a sense of foreboding. But he didn't have time to sort out the meaning of the premonition as a bolt of lightning speared down at Erik from the cloudless sky.

The field surrounding Erik absorbed the blast, flaring brilliantly. Logan shielded his eyes as he dove forward. He'd heard pain in Rogue's voice, and even from here he could smell her fear. He would concentrate on the creature attacking her and let Storm and the rest concentrate on Erik.

Rogue heaved the creature away from her while Logan was still approaching. It landed on its side about twenty yards away and skidded across the asphalt. It came to a halt and slowly climbed to its feet, shaking its head. Rogue was on her feet, her expression curious and wary as she examined her arms.

"Ya all right, darlin'?" Logan asked as he came up beside her. He kept his eyes on the demon creature as it walked slowly back up the street.

Rogue nodded. "Ah'd swear that thing bit me, sugah." She stretched her arms out in front of her. "Ah felt its teeth. But there ain't even a rip in mah uniform."

A short ways away, Erik chuckled as the creature padded up to him and settled on its haunches at his side. He appeared unfazed by the lightning bolt. "Surely you can do better than that, X-Men." He reached up to stroke the creature's neck absently, his gaze fastened on Storm.

In response, the wind picked up, howling around the street corners and blowing dust from the destroyed building in billowing clouds. The bright sunlight dimmed noticeably as clouds formed over head, their bellies gray with impending rain.

That creature came from the astral plane. Psylocke's voice echoed in his head, filled with warning. I can't read anything from him but if we're dealing with a telepath, we need to proceed carefully.

Logan stared narrowly at Erik. That explained why he couldn't smell the creature, at least. But it didn't do anything to tell them who they were dealing with.

Marrow ducked around Storm and walked toward Erik, one hand resting casually on a ready bone spike growing out of her shoulder.

"Marrow, what are you doing?" Storm asked sharply.

Logan shifted slightly as Marrow glanced back over her shoulder, her smile innocent. "I told you, Wind Rider, I just want to meet him."

Erik's eyebrows rose at that, and Logan found himself wondering just what was brewing in Marrow's highly twisted mind. This was entirely unlike her. He watched carefully as she stopped in front of the unknown mutant and extended her right hand.

"My name is Marrow," she told him. "I'm a Morlock."

Erik's expression cleared as he took her hand. "A pleasure, my child." His smile was bizarrely civil, even affectionate.

Logan suppressed a low growl. He didn't want to draw attention to himself as he moved closer, but something in Erik's attitude set off all of his warning bells. Unfortunately, he couldn't identify what it was about Erik that made him seem like such a threat. He was powerful, true, but that generally wasn't enough to give a man like Logan the cold shivers. There was just something familiar about him, as if he'd met this evil before but no matter how hard he racked his brain, the memory refused to surface.

"Marrow, step away from him," Storm commanded in a stern voice.

Logan thought that was the wrong tack to take with the violent, wild girl. Storm didn't seem to understand that Marrow would disobey any instruction she gave her, simply as a statement of her hatred for the older woman. Of course, asking nicely didn't work either, and a show of strength along the lines of beating the girl to a pulp was only marginally effective, at best. Logan thought it might simply be best to knock Marrow out cold with a lightning bolt and then cart her unconscious body back to the mansion when they were done with Erik.

He allowed himself a small smile as he noticed Psylocke. Of course Storm, being the woman that she was, was probably aware of all that, and was simply using the opportunity to create a distraction.

Marrow turned her head to look at Storm from the corner of her eye, her expression defiant. Erik, too, focused on Storm for a moment, and Psylocke picked that instant to strike. She had been slowly maneuvering herself closer to Erik, taking a wide, arcing path that put her behind him. Logan had been tracking her progress and trying to pace her as he approached the demon creature. He launched himself at the creature's throat, claws extended, at the same time that Psylocke leapt toward Erik with her psychic knife aimed directly at his skull.

Logan heard Psylocke's scream as his claws sank into the creature's chest. He sliced downward, his claws passing through its body like cutting through butter. He didn't encounter any bone, and his claws emerged, bloodless, from the base of the creature's chest, just above the leg junction. While he watched, the deep slice marks seemed to reseal themselves, leaving the creature whole. It stared at Logan with feline disinterest, the yellow eyes unblinking.

Behind Erik, Psylocke was lying on the ground, her hands pressed to her head. A low moan escaped her. Erik still held Marrow's hand in his, though whether Marrow could have pulled away from him or not, Logan wasn't sure. Her free hand now held the bone spike from her shoulder, and her face was set in grim lines.

A short distance away, Storm held her arm out, restraining the other X-Men. Logan thought that was probably wise. Whoever this Erik was, he was a significant threat and should be treated with caution. He didn't seem interested in prolonging a conflict with the X-Men. So far, he had done nothing but defend himself, except, perhaps, in Psylocke's case. That, in Logan's opinion, made him even more dangerous than he appeared.

"Let ‘er go," Logan growled, nodding toward Marrow. He didn't share Ororo's hatred for the girl, and didn't want to see Erik use her for a shield. She'd been used enough, which was the only reason he tolerated her behavior, as well as the only reason he disagreed with Storm's desire to evict her from the mansion.

Erik released Marrow with a flourish. "Of course." He looked between Marrow and Logan. "So, how has the traitor faired? I'm afraid I missed his final... judgment." His smile was a snake's and Logan felt his jaw tighten angrily.

"NO!"

Rogue's shriek was warning enough. Logan ducked as she flew past him. Erik didn't bother to try to deflect her as she pummeled him with her fists. The blows were ineffective, but Logan didn't think the distraught young woman cared.

"You killed him! You killed him!" she sobbed. The words were like a chant, accompanying each blow. A cold pit began to form in the pit of Logan's stomach.

"Killed who, darlin'?" he asked softly, dreading the answer.

Rogue stopped her assault abruptly, her arms falling to hang limp at her sides. "Remy." The name was a strangled whisper.

Erik's face split in a wide grin. "Then justice has truly been served. I underestimated you, Rogue. I thought your years with the X-Men had softened you too much to take the traitor's life."

The violent winds suddenly died, leaving an unearthly silence in their wake. "Dear Goddess... Rogue, what have you done?" Storm's voice was hardly above a whisper.

Logan felt cold all over. He was no stranger to death, both of enemies and those he held most dear. Gambit had always fallen in the middle of those somewhere. Logan had chosen not to judge him in the wake of the recent revelations, simply because he felt he had no right.

Rogue clapped both hands to her mouth as if that was the only way she could keep from screaming, and sank slowly to the ground.

Watching her, Erik began to chuckle.

Jean paused outside the door of the Grayscape office to wipe her palms on her skirt, then reached up and opened the door. The receptionist looked up as she entered, a pleasant smile on her face.

Jean nodded briefly in greeting, but then took a moment to look around the room. A middle aged woman sat in one of the waiting area chairs, reading a copy of People Magazine. The water cooler was still half full, and emitted a burble and a stream of bubbles as her eyes swept over it. The office was just as ordinary-looking now as it had been when they'd broken in. Nowhere did Jean see anything that might shed some light on the purpose of the place.

Finally, she went over to the receptionist, catching a glimpse of herself in the decorative mirror that lined the back wall as she did so. Jean had done her best to disguise herself. Her hair was pulled up in a conservative bun, and she had chosen an equally conservative suit of gray wool to wear with it. The suit had come from a thrift store near their hotel, and the style was very firmly eighties, though still in good condition. A visit to a one-hour eye glasses place had provided her with a pair of clear-glass spectacles. Looking at herself, Jean had to suppress a silent prayer of gratitude that her life had never taken her down the road of American suburbia. As much as she sometimes craved some normalcy for her life, she could never complain that she was in any danger of becoming the woman she saw in the mirror.

"Do you have an appointment?" the receptionist asked politely. Inside the psi-damping field, Jean could read nothing from her, but plain intuition told her that the woman was exactly what she appeared to be. She could sense nothing hidden or secretive about her.

Jean nodded. "At two o'clock. I'm a little early." In fact, she was almost thirty minutes early, but that fit with the character she was trying to play. She was taking a huge risk in doing this. Anyone who was searching for telepaths might very well recognize the X-Man Phoenix on sight. But neither she nor Scott could think of a better way to find out what Grayscape was all about.

"Your name?" The receptionist had pulled out an appointment book rather than going to her computer. Jean had no idea if that was significant.

"Ellie Watson," Jean answered. She'd wanted to use a name that was completely different from her own, again to avoid giving anyone a hint of her true identity. Now she just hoped she wouldn't forget it.

The receptionist looked through her book for a moment, then nodded. "This is your first visit, correct?"

Jean nodded and the other woman began to gather up a handful of papers. She clipped them to a clipboard, which she handed across the counter to Jean. "I'll need you to fill out these forms. There's a medical history that you need to fill out and sign, and this other one," she indicated a blue page, "is a survey that will help the doctor determine how best to evaluate your gift."

Jean kept her expression still as she took the paperwork. My "gift", huh? There was definitely some salesmanship going on here. The advertisement they'd used to find the phone number for Grayscape had used the same kind of language. It hadn't said anything about mutants or powers, but had stuck to the more mystical contexts. Jean had been thoroughly surprised when Scott had come back from his evening run with a copy of every single rag and tabloid he could find, but his idea was, in her biased opinion, near genius. They'd gone through each of the magazines, particularly the want ads and personals at the end, and had come up with a gold mine. Doctor Levy's mysterious office was advertising free psychic testing.

Jean went to work on the papers while the receptionist called the other woman into the back to see the doctor. She had prepared some bogus information to use on the forms for address and date of birth, etc. There actually was an Ellie Watson who lived in the D.C. area, which was how Jean had chosen the name. But, rather than cause the woman too much trouble, she was using a random social security number and date of birth. The deception wouldn't hold up beyond a cursory search, but that was all Jean was planning to need.

She finished the paperwork and returned them to the receptionist, then returned to her seat. She picked up one of the magazines and leafed idly through it, trying not to let her nervousness show. She had had her powers stripped away in far worse circumstances than this, but for some reason the psi-damper operating in such an otherwise normal and friendly atmosphere was disturbing. She was reassured by the knowledge that Scott was outside somewhere, waiting, and would come looking for her if something happened. But still, she felt highly vulnerable, as if any moment the receptionist would point to her and say "I know who you are".

"Ms. Watson?"

Jean looked up. The other woman she had seen going into the back was now leaving, which Jean took as a good sign.

"The doctor will see you now."

Jean rose and followed the receptionist through the door into the hallway behind the waiting area. They went directly to the end of the hall and walked into the laboratory area. Jean paused at the door to look around since it would be expected of her, and to give herself a moment to adjust as her powers came back.

Dr. Levy approached and offered his hand, which Jean accepted. He was a surprisingly friendly-looking man, with unruly black hair and a pair of black rimmed glasses. He was wearing a standard white lab coat and a Marvin the Martian tie. He didn't fit Jean's image of a mad scientist at all.

"Hello, Ms. Watson. I'm Matthew Levy."

Jean shook his hand, and then he gestured toward the table in the center of the room. "Please, sit down. We'll be ready to begin in just a few minutes." He took the papers that Jean had filled out from the receptionist and began to read through them.

Jean studied the rack of test equipment while she extended a fine tendril of telepathy toward the doctor. She was a little surprised that she found no shields around his mind, and no indication of psi sensitivity. Wary, she pushed a little deeper and was engulfed by his fascination for the physical science of psionics, both mutant and non-mutant. Jean forced her expression to be still. Doctor Levy was of the school of thought that believed that telepathy was not just a mutant phenomenon. She did not find anything immediately suspicious in his mind, which left her more curious than ever. This man was, at least in name, the Director of a government project that had ties to Zero Tolerance.

Jean withdrew her gentle probe as Dr. Levy sat down across the table from her. He was still reading the survey she'd filled out. He glanced up and met her gaze.

"You say here that you always seem to know what people are going to say before they say it." He indicated the blue page. "Can you tell me some more about that?"

Jean nodded and launched into the story that she and Scott had prepared. Hopefully, it would be enough to convince the doctor that she had some ability, without giving him reason to think she might have significant ability. When she finished, Dr. Levy nodded.

"It does sound like you may have some psionic ability. Do you know anything about Project Grayscape?"

Jean shook her head. "I just saw the ad in the Daily News."

Dr. Levy leaned back in his chair. "Well, we're a government program sponsored by a number of sources, including the National Science Foundation. Our purpose is to study the existence of psionics in our country."

"Psionics?" Jean asked.

"Telepathy."

"Oh." She made a show of understanding. "Isn't that a mutant thing though?"

He nodded. "Often, it is. One of the things I'd like to do today is to take a blood sample to check you for the X-factor. Don't worry, it's a confidential test. Your name will never be attached to the test results. You'll be given a code number to give when you call the lab for the results. After you find out, you'll have the option to disclose that information to me, or not, as you choose."

Jean digested the information in silent surprise. She hadn't realized that mutancy testing had become so commonplace. "All right," she finally agreed.

Dr. Levy smiled. "Good. Then we'll go ahead and do that, and check you blood pressure and such, and then we can get on with the test."

He left briefly, returning with a cart filled with the expected paraphernalia. Jean endured the pinprick of the needle, using the opportunity to touch Levy's mind again. This time, she tried to follow the associations he had mentioned when he talked about Grayscape's sponsors. She was staying in the outer areas of his mind, unwilling to intrude very far, but she did find the National Science Foundation in his mind. It was actually a very small partner in Project Grayscape. Much of the funding came from deeper in the government -- Defense Department, National Security Agency and the like. Jean suppressed a concerned frown. She had expected to find such ties, but Levy seemed completely trusting of the government. She found no suspicions on his part that the government might be searching out telepaths for anything but the most benign reasons.

Then she hit the wall in his mind and recoiled in surprise. Just beneath the surface activity, there was a solid wall that protected everything else. Jean backed off, not wanting to be noticed. Without testing the wall against her own powers, she had no way of knowing if she could penetrate it or not, but she had her doubts. It struck her as being a manufactured psi block, and those things were notoriously strong.

Levy was oblivious to her probe. He finished his mini-exam and turned to the rack of test equipment, handing Jean the headset with the pair of electrodes. As she put the headset on, she shut down her powers as far as she was able. She knew from her past experience that the psionic noise the test set generated was loud enough to be painful if she didn't take steps to protect herself.

"What do I do?" she asked Levy.

He continued to fiddle with the settings. "Just sit there." He glanced at her with a reassuring smile. "And let me know if you hear anything."

She had her powers damped down far enough that she actually didn't hear the first setting. The second hovered just on the edge of her perception, a low, irritating buzz. She ignored it, and the third setting. On the fourth, she allowed herself a puzzled frown.

"Do you hear something?" Levy asked with interest.

"I'm... not sure." If it weren't for the possible danger of the situation, Jean would have enjoyed the roleplaying immensely. "I don't hear anybody saying anything, but... it's like the inside of my head itches." In truth, the sensation was downright uncomfortable at this point, but she wasn't going to tell Levy that.

Looking pleased, Dr. Levy made some notes on his pad and then moved up to the next setting. "How about that?"

Jean nodded. "I can definitely feel that."

"Does it still feel like your brain itches?"

"Yes."

"All right." He reached over to adjust a different knob. "What do you hear now?"

Jean couldn't quite mask her surprised reaction. "Music." In fact, it was a new song they were playing on the radio that she absolutely detested. It was almost as if the headset was broadcasting a radio feed into her mind instead of her ears. It was an odd sensation. A mind touch was entirely different.

"Do you recognize the song?" Levy was writing more notes.

"No." The woman Jean was pretending to be would not be listening to popular music of this variety.

"Can you understand the lyrics?"

"Not really."

Dr. Levy smiled at her again. "All right. Let's try this, then." He turned the knob again and suddenly there was a loud voice speaking in her mind. The words were a little slurred, like the effect of dying batteries on a tape player, but still understandable. It was a man's voice, and he was apparently reading "The Cat In The Hat" by Dr. Seuss.

Jean decided to hedge a little more. "I can hear someone talking," she told Levy, "but I can't really make out what he's saying. Something about cats, I think." She paused just a moment. "Am I really hearing this in my mind?"

Levy nodded. "Yes, you are. You definitely have psionic ability. Here, let me show you where you're registering." He turned off the equipment and then laid down one of the pieces of paper he had with him and turned it around for Jean to see. The picture was a kind of spectrum, with a zero on one end and a twenty on the other. The area between zero and twenty was broken up into uneven intervals, with the largest between zero and one and the smallest between nineteen and twenty. It wasn't logarithmic, but it definitely indicated a weighting toward the smaller numbers.

Dr. Levy drew a line just above the four. "You're right about here." The line was just shy of half the distance between zero and twenty.

"Is that good?"

"Very good, actually. This scale represents all known telepathic ability, both mutant and humans. The zero represents those with absolutely no psionic ability whatsoever. About ninety-nine point eight percent of the population is in that category."

Jean watched him with interest. He was claiming to know how many telepaths there were? Even with Cerebro, Charles had never been willing to make that kind of estimate.

"Of the remaining point two percent," Levy went on, "the level of psi ability is broken down in the ratios you see here. We've simply labeled them Level 1, Level 2 and so on. Now, each level of ability is a factor ten greater than the next lowest, with Level 1 representing the baseline."

At Jean's puzzled look, he continued, "That would mean that a Level 2 is ten times more perceptive than a Level 1 and a Level 3 is ten times more perceptive than a Level 2. That would make the Level 3 one hundred time more perceptive than the Level 1. Does that make sense?"

She nodded, and his expression became solemn, almost regretful. "The truth is, your score makes it very likely that you're a mutant."

Jean stared at him, completely at a loss for how she should react. He appeared to take it as an expression of shock, and continued gently, "We've never seen a human psi above a Level 2."

"So... what happens now?" Jean finally asked when she thought she'd waited an appropriate amount of time.

Levy's expression cleared. "Well, a number of things could happen now. You could simply leave here, never to return, and go on with your life. Or, you might choose to take part in one of our research studies. We have several test facilities across the country. Your expenses would be paid, and you would have the chance to develop your ability more fully."

Jean considered that. It sounded too good to be true, especially since the X-Men had never heard of such a program.

"I think I'd like to think about that for a while," she told Levy.

He nodded sympathetically. "Of course. I'll have my receptionist give you an information packet to take with you."

Jean went back to looking at the psi spectrum, her thoughts churning. She had the feeling she and Scott had stumbled onto something far more important than they could have guessed. She didn't have anything concrete to go on yet, but her instincts were rarely wrong when they were this strong.

"Is there something else?" Levy asked.

Jean glanced up at him. "Have you ever found a Level 20?"

His expression became guarded. "That's an estimate, actually, based on some readings taken a few years ago during a conflict between two unknown mutants."

"Really? Where was that?" She tried to sound only mildly curious.

Levy shrugged the question away. "I don't know. Most of that information is privileged." But very quietly, his mind whispered the name Muir Island.

Chapter 14

Lilandra was surprised by the wary undertones in Gambit's body language as he came into the room. He almost seemed to prowl as he crossed the distance between them. Lilandra's avian ancestry interpreted the motion as a threat, but she quelled that instinct impatiently. Though she could not claim to know Gambit well, she had been given more than enough reason to trust him.

Gambit gave Lilandra a brief nod as he came to a stop before her, though whether it was respect or merely acknowledgment, she wasn't certain. "Sorry, chere. I don' know where de X-Men are," he said, his eyes not quite meeting hers. "We ain' exactly on speakin' terms dese days."

Lilandra's eyebrows arched speculatively. It hadn't been that long since the X-Men, Gambit included, had been battling the Phalanx in Shi'ar space. From his tone, it seemed that there must have been a very sharp conflict in the meantime that had caused such a rift.

"What happened?" she asked.

Gambit's eyes snapped to hers, irises suddenly alight with eerie fire. Then, just as quickly, his gaze slid away from hers. "Call it 'philosophical differences'."

Lilandra pursed her lips as she considered him. Gambit possessed a surprising amount of political savvy. He had on several occasions surprised her with his ability to analyze the social and political ramifications of the X-Men's actions on behalf of the Shi'ar Empire. A sarcastic comment here or there had given her a glimpse of the mind at work behind his disinterested facade. In light of that, she found it interesting that he chose not to criticize the X-Men publicly.

"Very well," she agreed after a moment. "But if that is so, why are you here? Do you know what happened to the mansion?" She indicated the barren room around them with the sweep of a hand.

He shook his head. "Onslaught caused de structural damage, but de rest..." He shrugged. "I don' know. I wasn' here." He regarded Lilandra through the long bangs that habitually fell in front of his eyes. "So what brought y' all de way out here?" He sounded like he was trying to change the subject.

Lilandra decided to oblige him. "I couldn't establish communication with the X-Men. I was concerned, and I wanted to see if they had heard more of Charles' situation." She looked around. "Now I can see that all of the equipment is gone, which explains why I was unable to raise any response."

Gambit nodded absently. "Whoever did dis sure cleaned de place out, dat's f' sure." He pivoted on his heel. "Dis place's like a tomb, chere. T'ink we might head upstairs where t'ings're at least a little more normal?" His tone was light and slightly cajoling, completely at odds with his guarded stance.

Lilandra frowned, but nodded. The abrupt shift was disquieting, and she counseled herself to caution. There was a great deal going on here that she did not yet understand. However, she had no wish to alienate him, and the echoing emptiness of the lower levels was wearing on her as well.

They emerged near the kitchen, and Lilandra found herself drawn to what was now the most inviting room in the house. The signs of life, though sparse, were reassuring. Gambit opened several of the cabinets, examined their contents, and finally removed a box of cereal which he began eating from the top.

"Is this better?" she asked when he seemed to have settled. His acute discomfort was beginning to affect her. With a nod in Gladiator's direction, she sent the Praetor to patrol the mansion.

"It's fine, chere."

Lilandra leaned back against the edge of the counter and crossed her arms. "What are you doing here, Gambit?" She tried to keep the question casual, but his eyes narrowed a fraction in response.

Then the expression disappeared and he shrugged. "Like you, I was lookin' f' de Professor. Don' look like he's here t'ough."

His answer reassured her somewhat and Lilandra voiced a sigh. "No, it doesn't. Have you heard anything at all?"

Gambit shook his head. "I haven' been back here since before de last time I saw you. I was hopin' he'd come back in de meantime."

"So now what are you going to do? Wait for the X-Men to return?"

She wasn't sure if what flashed through his eyes was pain or terror, but then the expression was gone, replaced by a wall of indifference. He smiled thinly. "No t'anks. I'd rather go lookin' f'r him on m' own."

She considered him for a long moment. The angular features were still, giving nothing away, but she sensed an underlying urgency that matched her own growing concern. Charles had given himself over into government authority of his own volition, but the lack of news of his wellbeing, even his location, were disquieting. In short, though she knew Charles was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, she was worried about him, and in a small corner of her mind, she secretly feared that she might never see him again. It was the urging of that small fear that decided her.

"My cruiser is in orbit," she suggested. "The scanners may be able to locate him."

Gambit cocked his head thoughtfully. "What about de X-Men?"

Lilandra pursed her lips. "Their help would be appreciated, but they aren't here, and I am not inclined to wait around for them to return."

Gambit flashed her a shadow of his usual smile. "Den I guess I'm ready when you are."

Logan stared down at Rogue with a sense of overwhelming loss. Not because of Remy, really. He'd been a friend, true, but Logan had lost enough of those over the years to have learned to accept it. No, the pain in his heart was because of Rogue. None of the X-Men were perfect, but they had always been family. To discover that one X-Man had killed another was like hearing a death knell for the dream that had once held them all together. If Xavier had been there, he thought, he would have broken down in tears to see what had become of them.

Logan turned to look at Ororo. Her eyes were still glazed with shock, and Logan chalked up another tear in the fabric that held the X-Men together. Without Cyclops or the Professor, Storm was the only team leader they had. She and Gambit had been close, though. Close enough that his death might very well debilitate her, and that was the last thing the X-Men could afford.

The others were all wearing similar expressions of surprise, save for Cecilia, who only had a puzzled frown on her face. Marrow was smiling, the tap-tap-tap as she rapped her fingertips on the bone spike in her hand the only sound in the unearthly stillness.

A moment's premonition was all the warning Logan had. He dove forward, grabbing Rogue around the waist and dragging her out of the way as lightning speared down out of the sky. The jagged branch of energy struck Erik's shield, flaring as before, and Logan felt a wave of consternation. He'd reacted as if he expected Storm to attack Rogue rather than their enemy.

A second lightning bolt followed the first, then a third and a fourth, raining down on Erik the Red with all of the fury Mother Earth possessed. Erik was driven to his knees by the assault, his shield glowing and crackling. Inside the glowing sphere, Erik raised one hand toward Storm. Immediately, walls of ice rose between them as Iceman reacted to protect Storm, but were shattered as a spear of crackling energy arced toward her from the sphere around Erik. Storm leapt away, buoyed by a sudden gust, and the bolt of energy passed her harmlessly.

Cannonball was already in the air, his contrail burning as he banked sharply and dove toward Erik. Logan moved back a few paces to give the younger man some room. Rogue moved quietly with him, and he spared her a concerned glance.

"Ah never wanted ta hurt him," she said softly. "Ya have ta believe that."

"We'll sort it out later, darlin'," he answered gruffly and began to move away from her. He was hoping for a chance at Erik once Cannonball had knocked him around enough to bring that shield down.

True to his name, Cannonball plowed into Erik at full speed, driving both of them into the ground with explosive force. Hot dirt rained down around them, burning where it touched exposed skin. Logan ignored the minor pain as darted forward. Before he could reach the newly formed crater, Cannonball was thrown bodily away as Erik surged to his feet. Anger darkened the partially obscured features, and the glowing field that surrounded him burned undimmed.

"Enough of this!" Erik's voice crackled with an authority that took Logan by surprise. It was the tone of a man accustomed to being obeyed instantly and completely. "I do not have time for your foolishness, X-Men."

Erik made a gesture, and another door opened in the air, this time behind him. A blinding white bolt of lightning struck his shield with enough force to stagger him, but it only served to shove him backwards into his portal. The demon creature leapt after him, disappearing into the dark rectangle, which collapsed as soon as the tip of its tail had cleared the doorway.

Silence descended as the howling wind died to a whisper. The low-bellied storm clouds gave off a few fitful bursts of cold rain, but did not release the anger pent within their roiling depths.

Logan surveyed the X-Men with concern. Psylocke was on her feet, supported by Cecilia Reyes. Cannonball was up as well, looking a bit battered but essentially undamaged as he dusted himself off. Marrow prowled the area where Erik has so recently stood, her sidelong gaze at the others full of contempt. The rest of them, himself included, Logan thought, looked like they were in shock. He had that nightmare feeling, as if this were only a dream from which he would wake if he waited long enough.

Storm's face was set in hard, regal lines. Logan recognized the expression and watched warily as she slowly crossed to where Rogue waited, eyes downcast. Storm stopped in front of the younger woman, her blue eyes filled with ice as she studied her.

"You have much to explain," Storm stated in a tone that brooked no argument.

En Sabah Nur stared at the man he had adopted as a son, his surprise and anger hidden behind an impassive mask. Angel returned his stare, defiant but wary, which, En Sabah thought, was appropriate for a prince of the empire that would one day encompass the planet and all of mutantkind.

"The Healer is a guest in my house," he told his son firmly. "It was inappropriate for you to attack her in such a manner."

Angel nodded sharply, the expression in his pale eyes undimmed. His wings rustled softly, echoing his sentiments.

En Sabah watched him for a few moments, uncertain how much defiance lingered on in Angel's mind. Nightengale would not be able to defend herself for a while yet. He decided that he would be prudent to push the issue a little farther, just to make certain Angel would not be tempted to do something rash.

"By the law of my people, it is appropriate for a child to make restitution for the acts of the father." He watched Angel closely for his reaction, and received nothing but an unchanging stare. "However, if that is your choice, you will find a means to satisfy the requirement without killing her."

Angel cocked his head, the motion swift and reminiscent of a bird. "She deserves to die."

"Perhaps."

Angel's jaw tightened. "She is an abomination."

En Sabah raised an eyebrow at that assessment. It was not what he had expected.

"How so?" He found the label oddly distressing. In his own mind, the name Abomination was reserved for those who went against the natural order of evolution. For humans who sought to make mutants into a race of slaves, and for those mutants who aided them.

Angel turned, pacing a short track in front of En Sabah. He was obviously trying to put his thoughts into a coherent order, so En Sabah waited patiently until he finally came to a stop and turned to face him.

"You should have told me about Gambit," he said, his voice calm in contrast to the expression in his eyes. "When you gave me my biometallic wings-you should have told me."

"So that you could kill him?"

"Yes."

En Sabah shifted his weight slightly, searching for a more comfortable stance. He hated the disease that left him weak and in constant, though minimal, pain. "That would have been a waste of a powerful mutation."

"At least it would have kept him out of the X-Men." Angel flicked his wings, resettling them around himself with a rustling sigh. The dark feathers glinted in the bright lights of the laboratory, their sheen denoting their renewed health.

"Why does that matter to you?"

Angel's eyes jumped to his, filled with reproach. "They may be soft and misguided, Father, but I still care about them."

En Sabah nodded in acknowledgment. He was often surprised how deep the ties of loyalty and affection ran within the X-Men. Overcoming those had been the last step in reclaiming the son of his heart, his Angel of Death.

Angel's expression turned accusing. "You should never have let him live. He helped to murder his own kind-at Sinister's request. And then, with mutant blood on his hands... with my blood on his hands, he had the gall to call himself an X-Man." Angel began to pace again in agitation. "He lived with us, he ate with us, he fought with us-- He insinuated himself into the team, seduced us into believing he was a friend. And to think that Rogue allowed him to-!" He bit off the remainder of his sentence and paused, regaining his composure, then continued in a more normal voice. "Just by his presence Gambit has defiled the X-Men and she," he pointed toward the room where Nightengale lay, "is the consequence. You should never have allowed it to happen."

En Sabah frowned as his thoughts were cast involuntarily back in time-five thousand years-to the one person who had filled him with the same passionate mix of anger and betrayal that he saw reflected in Angel's eyes. Her name was Nephri, and as a young man unaware of his mutant heritage, En Sabah had once loved her.

Angel's hatred, he realized, was not about revenge so much as denial of his own culpability. En Sabah sympathized with his anger and disgust for the blind weakness the X-Men fostered, but the target of his hatred was a matter of extreme inconvenience.

He met Angel's eyes. "Revenge is your right, my son. Kill Gambit if you wish, but Nightengale is valuable to me."

Angel nodded again, and this time En Sabah was confident that they had reached an understanding. The Healer might very well suffer for her unfortunate lineage, but that would only serve to make her stronger.

The thought was oddly appealing, and En Sabah mulled on it long after Angel had gone.

Chapter 15

Jean drew her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms around her shins as she stared at the brochures spread out before her on the bed. The brochures she had gotten from Dr. Levy's receptionist were full of the glowing propaganda she had expected, but the more she stared at them, the more her skin began to crawl. She was dead certain that there was something dark hidden beneath the friendly facade.

"Jean? You've got that look on your face again." Scott was seated in one of the hotel chairs, his feet propped up on the bed beside her. Although his expression was mildly concerned, there was also a hint of teasing in his voice.

She glanced up at him with as much innocence as she could muster. "What look is that?"

Scott gave her a lopsided smile. "The ‘There's something very wrong in the world and I'm about to suggest we go do something about it' look."

Jean was startled into a laugh. That was almost exactly what she had been thinking. "I think you know me too well."

"That's my job." Scott glanced down at the sprawl of brochures. "So, do you see anything in these?"

Jean sobered as her thoughts returned to their earlier line. She reached out to finger one of the slick, brightly colored pages. "Maybe," she admitted. "It's mostly intuition... a bunch of little things that might be unconnected, and yet they all seem to point in the same direction."

"And that direction is...?"

Jean picked up the brochure and handed it to her husband. "New Mexico."

He glanced at the brochure, and then returned his attention to Jean. "Why there?"

Jean sighed and began ticking things off on the fingers of one hand. "Well, number one, this is the center the receptionist recommended to me. I don't know if Dr. Levy told her to do so, but she said it was the largest of their facilities and the place where they tried to direct the more powerful telepaths. Two, it's an uninhabited desert for the most part. We already know there's a lot of government activity out in that area because the population is so sparse." She indicated the brochures spread around her. "Most of these others are in fairly dense population areas. They wouldn't be doing anything too big around that many potential witnesses." She paused. "And three, I sensed something in that region while we were flying to Alaska. Something on the astral plane that I can't identify or even describe."

Scott frowned, considering. "I'm beginning to wonder if we shouldn't call the X-Men in on this," he said after a moment. "We originally left to get some time to recuperate, but what we're doing here is really the kind of thing the X-Men were created for."

"It could still be a wild goose chase," she reminded him.

He nodded. "True. But if we find something out there, I think we should give the mansion a call."

Jean nodded in cautious agreement. She wasn't sure how they would tell the X-Men what they now believed to be true about Charles-- that he had lied to them, though she had no way of knowing if his deception had anything to do with them personally-- and that he had willingly given Onslaught at least one weapon to use against them in order to distract him from discovering whatever it was Charles was hiding. In her heart, she desperately wanted to trust that Charles had a good reason for what he had done, but she was frightened of what might happen if that wasn't true. On the heels of what they'd learned about Gambit, she was terribly afraid of what another betrayal might do to the X-Men.

Remy leaned back in his chair with a sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. He was stiff from sitting so long, his vision blurry from staring at the continuously scrolling display on the console in front of him. Scanning for the Professor had turned into a much more difficult process than they'd expected. Lilandra's crew had run every kind of advanced scanning algorithm the ship's equipment was programmed for and turned up nothing. So now they were trying the brute force method. Remy had offered to take a shift monitoring the results along with the other members of Lilandra's crew, and they had happily obliged him by configuring one of the bridge consoles with an English interface.

The process of scanning the population by individual was an incredibly tedious one, but since it was a direct comparison of bio-energy signatures it was close to infallible, unless the person happened to be shielded. Remy had argued the point that the Professor was likely to be in a shielded facility, but Lilandra wanted to run the scan anyway. He had the feeling she wouldn't give up until she'd exhausted even the most remote possibilities. He'd also pondered the idea of offering to use some of his own resources to put out feelers for the Professor's location, but was waiting to see if this last scan turned up anything before mentioning it.

Lilandra stepped down from the central dais on which her command chair rested and walked over to where Remy sat. She had come over to check on the scan several times in the past hours, so Remy ignored her as she leaned over his shoulder to examine the display.

"It would seem there must be an easier way to do this than to scan every human on the planet," she said quietly, and Remy could sense her carefully controlled frustration.

"Dere is," he answered dryly. Lilandra moved around to look at him, her expression both surprised and expectant as he added "It's called Cerebro."

Lilandra narrowed her eyes slightly. "Cerebro is gone."

Remy grinned, uncertain why he was teasing the Shi'ar Empress. "Dat would be a problem den."

She gave him an annoyed look, but Remy caught a slight flicker at the corner of her mouth that might have meant she was hiding a smile. After a moment, she turned so that she could lean against the edge of the console and crossed her arms, her expression growing thoughtful.

"Now that you mention it, Gambit, perhaps it would be prudent of me to discover what has become of Cerebro. The Shi'ar technology incorporated into that device was intended as a gift to the X-Men. I did not mean to share it with the rest of your race."

Remy was momentarily taken aback by her statement, but then decided that she wasn't being intentionally derogatory. By Shi'ar standards, Earth was pretty backwards, and there were a number of people he could think of that he wouldn't want to get hold of Shi'ar technology.

"Dat's probably a good t'ing," he agreed.

Lilandra frowned slightly as she regarded him, and Remy found himself oddly uncomfortable under her scrutiny. The silence stretched until he began to feel like the aborted conversation was turning into a staring contest, except that Lilandra's gaze was evaluating rather than challenging. But it made him wonder what she thought she saw in him.

"I never had a chance to thank you," she said suddenly, her gaze unwavering.

Remy blinked at her, mystified. "T'ank me f' what?"

She glanced down at her booted feet, clad in quicksilver armor like the rest of her, and then returned her gaze to his face. "I have heard reports of what you did for my people."

Remy remained puzzled. Hank had been primarily responsible for their recent victory over the Phalanx on Chandilar.

Lilandra was not paying much attention to his reaction, however. She seemed intent on her own train of thought, though her eyes on him were both keen and calculating.

"I am curious, " she finally said. "What motivates a human to exert such effort to bury the dead of an alien race who died in a battle that took place before he even arrived?"

Remy felt a cold hand clench his stomach as he remembered the dead, scattered as far as he could see in any direction. The image of Chandilar was overlaid almost immediately by another image -- that of a huge cavern where the dead bodies of innocent mutants had covered the floor, and their blood had seeped into the stone until the entire floor of the cavern was black with death.

For one instant, he was tempted to tell her the truth. He was so tired of lying, of never being whom or what he pretended to be. But the pure loathing in Rogue's eyes, just before she'd turned away from him, was a raw wound in his heart. And the fact that not a single X-Man ever came looking for him confirmed that they must all share the same feelings.

And so he throttled the desire to tell Lilandra the real reason and simply shrugged. "It ain' important."

Lilandra cocked her head, as if debating whether to contradict him. But after a moment, she shrugged. "I suppose not. But I am grateful nonetheless for the honoring of my people."

Remy stared at her as a flush of shame crept up his cheeks. It seemed incomprehensible to him that she would be grateful for what he had done that night, but he didn't know how to explain that to her. He didn't know how to tell her that he couldn't have left that place if he wanted to until he'd done everything he could to see that the dead there were properly laid to rest. Something about the broken and still bodies of the Shi'ar citizens had struck him so deeply that even now the memory filled him with a sense of horror and loss... and of responsibility. Throughout that entire night he'd kept telling himself that burying the Shi'ar would do nothing to atone for the deaths of the Morlocks, and yet he was still compelled to do it.

Remy shook his head slowly. "Don' t'ank me, Empress. I don' deserve it. It was jus' somet'ing I had t' do."

Lilandra considered him gravely. "Perhaps. But I will not forget."

Remy couldn't think of a response, and after a moment of silence, Lilandra pushed herself away from the console. "Tell me if you find anything." She nodded toward the still-scrolling display, then turned and walked back to her command chair.

Remy watched her retreating form reflected in the dark glass of his displays, his thoughts churning. Part of him wanted to bolt-- to get off that ship and away from Lilandra as quickly as he possibly could. The note of warmth in her voice-- the mix of gratitude and respect-- was almost like a drug to him. It felt so good to have done something meaningful for her, and yet, it terrified him as well. The more he tried to do what was right, the more it mattered to him, and the more the people he did those things for mattered to him. But in the end, he knew he would lose everything and the warmth he felt from her would freeze, just as it had with the X-Men, leaving nothing but an empty hole behind it. Remy wasn't certain how much more of that he could stand before there was nothing left of him but a collection of emptiness.

The interior of the Blackbird's cabin was eerily silent as Rogue finished her description of the events that had occurred in Antarctica. Logan was dismayed by what he heard, but not particularly surprised. Gambit's powers had always been something of an unknown, especially on the question of whether they ranged into the psi arena or not, and Logan found it easily believable that there might have been some kind of unexpected interaction when mixed with Rogue's. That didn't absolve her of responsibility for his death, in his opinion, but did make the events of that day all the more tragic.

Logan swept his gaze around the gathered X-Men. Rogue was seated mid-cabin, her head bowed and her hair falling forward to obscure her face. He could smell the salt of her tears, but she was utterly silent. Ororo stood with her head turned away and her eyes closed. Her posture reflected her feelings with perfect clarity, and Logan felt a stab of sympathy for her pain. Hank returned his gaze with uncommon solemnity, and Logan noted echoes of both anger and frustration in his scent. Bobby's expression reflected anger as well, but Logan thought it was most likely for Gambit rather than Rogue. Psylocke stared at the floor, for which Logan couldn't blame her. The wild mix of her emotions was strong enough to be overpowering in the tight confines of the aircraft. She might, conceivably, have reason to hate Gambit for the sake of her lover, but Elizabeth Braddock was not the kind of woman to easily condone murder, even if she thought it justified.

The others on the Blackbird were all too new to have much of a reaction. Joseph was staring at Rogue as if she'd suddenly become a monster, and Logan counseled himself to pay close attention to him in the future. Magneto had had a strong self-righteous streak which Joseph so far seemed to lack. But if it were going to emerge, this would be a likely time and he could do Rogue a great deal of damage emotionally. Cecilia Reyes was understandably appalled given her background as a doctor, and Maggot simply shrugged when Logan's gaze touched on his. Sam was in the pilot's seat, well out of earshot of Rogue's strained whisper, and Logan had banished Marrow to the cockpit as well. Sam was the only one of the newer X-Men that Logan would trust to fly the Blackbird and he figured that he should be able to keep Marrow in line for a while at least.

Ororo opened her eyes and turned to look at the gathered X-Men. There was a kind of determination in her face that Logan had seen before.

"Remy is a... resourceful man. Despite the odds against him, it is possible that he survived." Her gaze dared them to contradict her.

To Logan's surprise, Rogue looked up and slowly shook her head. Her face was blotchy and stained from her tears, but her expression was clear. "Ah don't think so, Ororo." Her gaze fastened on something distant and her voice grew faint. "Ah did go back after him."

Expectant silence followed her words until Logan felt obliged to prompt her out of whatever memory she was watching. "What d' ya mean, darlin'?"

Rogue blinked and shook herself out of the past. "Ah don't know why--" She glanced at Logan briefly. "--but somethin' about bootin' Juggernaut out a the mansion brought me back ta mahself. An' ah stood there, realizin' what ah'd done and how long it'd been since ah'd left Antarctica..."

She bit her lip and shook her head impatiently, fighting off a new round of tears. "Ah went back. Ah didn't pay much attention when ah was leavin', so ah had ta search fo' a bit ta find the Citadel... " Logan could hear the echoes of panic in her voice, and he could easily imagine her flying back and forth across the ice in frenzied terror. Her gaze grew distant as she spoke.

"Everythin' was white. Ah kept tellin' mahself ta look for color-- for red, because Remy's hair--" She took a shaky breath and continued, "Ah found the Citadel, what was left of it, anyway, but there was a storm comin'. Ah didn' even get a chance ta figure out where ah'd... left him... before it hit me." She looked up then, her green eyes filled with horror. "It like ta tear me apart. Ah couldn' see mah hands in front of me, ah couldn't hear anything over the howlin' of the wind, and the air was full of ice crystals that felt like they were gonna scour mah skin off. If it weren't for mah powers..."

Logan felt a twinge of her horror. He'd been trapped in an ice storm before and only his healing factor had saved him. Gambit wouldn't have stood a chance.

Across from him, Ororo's brows were drawn together in an expression of deep distress, as if she could hardly force herself to continue to stand there and listen.

Rogue looked down at her hands again. "Ah kept searchin' anyways-- ah don't know how long."

"But you didn't find him?" Hank hazarded a guess. His expression remained taut with restrained anger.

Rogue shook her head. "No. The only thing ah found was... one of his cards. The queen of hearts that ah gave him... before." She looked up again, meeting Hank's gaze with a openness that surprised Logan greatly. "It was just tumblin' through the air -- smacked me right in the forehead." She pressed her lips together briefly. "Ah think God wanted ta make sure ah never forgot." Her voice broke on the last word and she fell silent.

There was no greater punishment than that, Logan mused silently. His heart ached for Rogue, for the pain that he knew from experience would never go away. A part of him also wanted to rail at her for allowing something like this to happen. He remembered so clearly standing on the mansion's front porch with her, listening to her admit for the first time that she loved Remy. That evening, Logan had felt the first stirrings of hope that she had found someone who had what it took to love her in return, and he'd told her as plainly as he could to do whatever it took to stay with him and make it work. Now, he felt like demanding an explanation for why she hadn't done it, though he was pretty sure he knew the reasons.

He was distracted as Ororo slowly turned away and walked to the back of the aircraft. She sat down in the last chair, her eyes fixed straight ahead, and then did not move again. Logan watched her in concern, his senses focused on the feel of the airplane around him. It Ororo were to lose control here and now, his first indication might very well be from the airplane as it responded to the changing atmosphere. After a moment, though, he turned toward the cockpit. As much as he wanted to go to Ororo, it made more sense for him to be in the cockpit if things got crazy. He didn't think there was anything he could do to soften the emotional blow for Ororo, or to help her maintain control. She would have to work that out on her own, and all he could do was be ready for the worst.

Rogue looked up at him as he turned. "Wolverine?" There was a timid hope in her eyes.

He found himself shaking his head. "I don't know what ta tell ya, Rogue." He felt cold inside. How was it that all of this had happened and they were only just learning of it some three months later? What did that say about the X-Men? As long as he'd been with the team, they had claimed to be family for everyone who wore the blue and gold. He'd said the same thing himself on countless occasions, but now he was forced to re-evaluate that statement.

He reached over and put a hand on Rogue's shoulder, but couldn't find any words to offer her.

Chapter 16

Renee crouched in the midst of an ornate garden, her form hidden in the shade of the forsythia bushes that flanked her. The black leather of her Hound's gear itched in the mid-summer heat, and she scratched at it idly as she studied her prey. Somewhere deep inside her, the core of Renee LeBeau was curled up in a fetal knot, terrified by what the rest of her was doing.

Across the wide lawn, a family was at play in the inground pool. There were two children splashing and shouting in the water, and a woman who sat in one of the lawn chairs, her face shaded by a wide-brimmed straw hat. The woman was Renee's target, and the only reason she had not yet moved forward was the knowledge that she would be killing the children's mother right in front of their eyes.

The Shadow King tightened his grip, and Renee's burgeoning horror subsided. She crept closer to the edge of the lawn, preparing for the dash across to the pool side. The skimpy bathing suit the woman wore would make Renee's powers all the more effective.

She launched herself across the open space, her attack fast and brutal. The woman did not even have time for a yell that would have summoned help from within the house.

The Shadow King was pleased, his approval washing through Renee with shuddering intensity. But she would never forget the faces of the two children who watched her from the pool...

Renee LeBeau woke screaming, instinctively throwing herself away from the empty horror in two small children's eyes. She surged to her knees on the narrow bed, unaware of her surroundings, as a spike of white-hot pain stabbed through her head. Grabbing her temples, she lost her precarious balance and tumbled off the edge of the bed, landing hard on her side on the metal floor.

Momentarily stunned, she could only lay there on the cold surface. Her breath came in short gasps as she struggled to breathe through her panic and the throbbing pain in her head. Then a hand closed on her shoulder, the sensation of bare skin against her own filling her with a rush of nauseated horror. She twisted with a cry and tried desperately to crawl away from the grip that held her, but without success. The hands that held her shoulders were heavy and strong and forced her onto her back, pinning her to the floor.

"Nightengale!"

The sharp word cut through Renee's panic and she blinked against the bright lights that framed her captor. After a moment, Apocalypse's gray face swam into focus, his expression sharp as he leaned over her. Events clicked into place in her mind in that instant and she felt a wave of pure relief. The Shadow King was dead. It wasn't real anymore, just nightmares. She closed her eyes, her body becoming limp and unresponsive as her terror drained away.

The pressure on her shoulders eased and then disappeared entirely as Apocalypse withdrew. Renee opened her eyes to find him gone, but he returned momentarily and knelt beside her. In one hand he carried some kind of device that she guessed might be a scanner, which he held out over her forehead.

"Be still."

Renee obeyed, but watched with interest as he moved the scanner over her. The coldness of the floor felt good against her throbbing head, though it had become a painful ache on the bare skin of her arms and legs. Only then did she realize that there were bandages on both her collar and abdomen where Warren's claws had raked her, and that her torn and bloodied dress had been replaced by a simple white shift.

Apocalypse sat back and studied the readings without expression. Renee was fairly certain both from how she had passed out on the stairs and her current headache that she had a concussion. What she didn't know was the seriousness of it, or what damage she had done herself in the process of falling out of bed.

Apparently satisfied, Apocalypse touched one of the scanner's controls and set the device down on the floor beside him. Then, to her immense surprise, he bent down and picked her up in his arms. The motion caused a fresh blossom of agony in her head that subsided slowly once he laid her down on the bed. She gingerly curled her body into a comfortable ball and wrapped her fingers around the corner of the pillow, trying to move as little as possible. As far as she could tell, she was in the same laboratory where Warren had attacked her, but the table had been dressed in white linen that was deliciously smooth against her skin.

Renee was content simply to lay there. She kept her sensitive eyes closed against the harsh white lights and followed Apocalypse with her ears as he moved around the room. She was oddly unafraid, but that didn't prevent the flutter in her stomach as his shadow fell over her once again. Slowly she opened her eyes to find him watching her, arms crossed. His face had lost its expression of clinical interest and was now colored with something akin to curiosity.

"What is it you fear so desperately, child?"

Renee looked away, focusing on the edge of the table in front of her. Apocalypse gripped the corner in one hand, and she found herself studying the surprisingly elegant lines of his hand as her thoughts churned. She did not want to tell him about the Shadow King. In part because she was terrified of what he might do if he found out that her powers could kill as easily as heal, but also because the things the Shadow King had done to her were her most intimate wounds. Apocalypse was not the kind of person she wanted to share such things with.

"It was just a nightmare," she finally answered in a small voice and closed her eyes for fear of his reaction to her evasion.

He was silent for several moments. "Only nightmares that reflect the truth can be so terrifying."

Renee looked up involuntarily, stunned by the reflective quality of his words. Did Apocalypse have nightmares of his own? Their gazes met and locked, but Apocalypse's gray eyes were shrouded and gave nothing away. Still, his gaze demanded an answer from her and, after a moment's hesitation, she gave it.

"The Shadow King made me one of his Hounds." She looked away. "That's what I dream about."

Apocalypse shifted his weight slightly and Renee realized that he was leaning far more heavily on the edge of the table than he appeared. She looked back up at his face, searching for the signs of exhaustion she was certain she would find now that she had been alerted to his weakness. She had no desire to dwell on her life as a Hound, and so was eager to turn her thoughts to a new topic, regardless of what it was. She found herself categorizing her observations about Apocalypse's health, and wondering if she possessed the temerity to tell him that he needed to rest.

Apocalypse returned her evaluating gaze with one of his own. "You shed your fear quickly. That is good."

Renee paused, uncertain how to respond. "There isn't anything ... real to be afraid of anymore," she finally answered. "The Shadow King is dead."

"Indeed." Apocalypse stepped away from the bed, abruptly ending the conversation. Renee wasn't certain whether to be grateful for or disturbed by his reaction. The Shadow King was dead. She'd felt his presence shatter through the link he maintained with each of his Hounds, and after that she'd been free. Renee closed her eyes. Free. The Shadow King's death had left her adrift in Moscow without money or contacts or even the telepathic boost that had allowed her to understand the Russian language, but she would gladly go back to that if it meant that she could have her freedom once again.

Logan paused at the entrance to Storm's loft as he instinctively searched for her form amongst the tangled shadows cast by the lush growth that filled the atrium. The nighttime sky was visible through the glass, the low bellied clouds smeared by the splatter of raindrops on the panes. The steady patter made a melancholy kind of music that spoke eloquently of the feelings of its mistress.

He spied her near the center of the atrium, invisible in the dark save for the pale blur of her hair.

She turned as if feeling his gaze but remained silent.

"Mind if I come in?" Logan asked.

Ororo turned away. "Of course not," she answered softly.

Logan came forward into the room, slipping silently through the greenery. He settled on the floor beside Ororo and reached over to take her hand in his. As eager as he was to tell her what he'd discovered, he knew better than to rush. The entire house was blanketed in hurt and anger, and even good news needed to be handled carefully.

They sat together for a while. Logan didn't bother to keep track of how long. Ororo kept her face turned away from him, though her fingers were twined tightly with his.

"Y' want ta talk about it, darlin'?" he finally offered.

"There is nothing to say." Ororo looked down at their hands, her gaze unfocused.

"What if I told ya he ain't dead."

Ororo's head jerked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

Logan was unfazed by the sharp question and the blue eyes that bored into him. "Gambit was here while the rest of us were gone. His scent's all over the mansion." It'd been something of a shock to step out of Psylocke's teleport. His nose had immediately picked up the familiar scent, and he'd almost rounded on Rogue for perpetrating such a tasteless practical joke on them. Only instinct had kept him silent, and as his enhanced senses began to pick up traces of the others who'd been in the house while they were gone, he was glad that it had.

"You are certain?" Ororo looked as if she might be holding her breath, a glimmer of hope alight in her eyes.

Logan allowed himself a smile. "I never forget a scent."

He was rewarded by a flicker of a smile as relief flooded her features. "Dear Goddess... thank you, Logan." She squeezed his hand.

"Yer welcome. That's not the whole story, though."

Her eyebrows dipped in sudden concern. "Tell me."

Logan shrugged. He didn't have any idea what to make of it. "Lilandra and Gladiator were here, too. Looks like Gambit met ‘em here an' they all teleported out together."

Ororo digested that, her expression lightening. "I wonder why they did not wait for us to return... but hopefully they will contact us." She paused. "Have you told the others?"

"Nope. Don't plan to, either." Logan was a little surprised at himself for the sharpness of his response.

Ororo raised a questioning eyebrow as if her thoughts were echoing his.

Logan frowned. "If Gumbo'd wanted ta see us, he would've waited ‘til we got back, or at least left a note fer ya," he nodded to Ororo. "I can't even begin ta guess why he came here ta meet Lilandra, but m' gut tells me he don't want ta see the X-Men. You an' me both know that if Rogue found out he's still alive, she'd go screamin' outta here in search of him, an' I have my doubts ‘bout how good that would be fer either of them."

Ororo watched him for a moment, then looked down at her hands. "I am so angry with her," she admitted slowly, her voice no more than a whisper.

Logan kept his sigh to himself. He understood that sentiment perfectly. Part of him was absolutely furious with the both of them. "Rogue messed up royally, no doubt about it, but she ain't the only one."

Ororo nodded slowly. "I know Remy is not innocent in all of this," she agreed in the same low voice, which grew more ragged as she spoke. "Did you know that I asked him about the Morlocks once? He lied directly to my face." In profile, Logan could see her ashen expression. "I knew it, but there was such pain in his eyes that I could not bring myself to pursue the truth."

She looked up at Logan, her eyes glimmering. "Surely there is room for forgiveness." In that instant, the stern weather goddess melted away to be replaced with a young child whose heart shone from her tear-filled eyes.

Impulsively, Logan reached over and hugged her. "Darlin', we're gonna have ta make room." He paused as her fingers knotted in the fabric of his shirt. "An' it has ta be enough room fer everyone," he concluded more softly. That was the only way they would ever be able to rebuild the X-Men -- and the only way they would ever see Professor X's dream become real.

"Y' found him?" Remy asked as he joined Lilandra on the bridge. He was still a bit groggy from having been awakened in the middle of what his body was telling him was the night, but his sleepiness disappeared when he saw the readouts on Lilandra's console display. There was a bright indicator flashing on a map of the earth, its location somewhere in the New Mexico desert. Two smaller dots flashed in counterpoint to the big one, and Remy looked at Lilandra curiously.

Lilandra shook her head. "Not Charles." She glanced at Remy. "I found Cerebro."

Remy raised an eyebrow and she tapped one of the screens that flanked the map display. "Spectral analysis picked out the more exotic materials used in some of Cerebro's components -- things that don't exist naturally on this planet or any other." She shot Remy a covert look as she tapped the two smaller dots. "And these are Cyclops and Phoenix. The rest of the X-Men appear to have returned to the mansion."

Remy kept his expression flat with an effort of will. Pure dread filled him, even as the more logical portion of his brain began to wonder what Scott and Jean were doing tracking down Cerebro by themselves.

He met Lilandra's gaze more to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else. "Are y' plannin' t' drop in on de happy couple?"

Lilandra cocked her head, her expression appraising. Remy had the feeling that she knew all too well how uncomfortable he was, and that she was debating how far to push him.

Finally, she straightened. "I am. It would be foolish not to work with our allies the X-Men." Her stare was even, not accusing but definitely challenging. "Would you like to accompany me?"

Remy's mind raced through his options. To be honest, he didn't have the faintest idea what either Cyclops or Phoenix would think of him, or how they would react. He had to assume that they knew about the Massacre. He couldn't imagine Beast or Psylocke not telling the rest of the X-Men what had happened in Antarctica. But Scott and Jean weren't the real issue. The real question was, did he really want to be trapped on the Shi'ar cruiser when Lilandra found out what he'd done? He doubted she would have much tolerance for the slaughter of innocents.

He forced a smile. "O' course, chere."

Lilandra nodded, the challenge fading from her eyes as she looked him over. Curious, Remy followed her gaze. He was dressed in black jeans and plain T-shirt, which he'd worn to the mansion. He hadn't been able to bring himself to wear his colors since Antarctica, despite the fact that it had been his thief's gear long before he'd become an X-Man.

Lilandra pivoted smartly. "Come with me."

Warily, Remy followed her off the bridge. "Where're we goin'?" he asked as they walked.

"The Cerebro components we have located are being stored inside what appears to be a highly guarded facility. With Gladiator's help and the firepower of this ship if necessary, I intend to retrieve them." She turned a corner and stopped before a featureless door that opened when she placed her palm over the lock pad.

"We will scout the area first, of course, and hopefully Cyclops and Phoenix will have information that will be of use in that." She glanced at Remy as she led the way into the room. "The chance that we will encounter resistance on this foray is small, but it would be prudent to be prepared for the worst."

Remy looked around him at the indecipherable tangle of machinery whose focus appeared to be a circular pad on the floor near the center of the room. "Looks like de replicator," he commented.

"It's a more advanced version of the replicator at the mansion, yes." She moved to a control panel and began working with the controls. "Since you don't have your armor, I was going to offer you a temporary replacement." She waved at the replicator pad.

Remy raised an eyebrow, tempted despite himself. He'd seen the Shi'ar suits in action and knew they could take a lot more punishment than his kevlar, which he didn't have with him anyway. But, there was an inherent problem with the quicksilver suits.

"Much as I'd like to, chere, I'm gon' have t' say no."

Lilandra turned to look at him curiously and he shrugged. "At heart I'm still a t'ief, chere. Camouflage protects me ‘bout as much as de armor does." He nodded toward her. "Dat stuff o' yours reflects light. It'd be like paintin' a great big target on m' forehead."

Lilandra frowned thoughtfully. "The reflective quality gives the best protection against beam weapons, but I take your point." She gestured toward the pad once again. "If you don't mind the degradation, changing the color isn't a problem."

Remy studied her for a moment, and then gave in. Grinning, he stepped onto the replicator pad. "All right, let's see what y' have in mind."

The armor that Lilandra created for him was jet black with a matte finish, and yet the light running across it still produced an effect similar to that of the quicksilver, causing shadows of gray to chase over the contours of the form-fitting suit. Remy looked himself over with pleasure. The constantly changing tones of black and gray would provide him with fantastic camouflage -- far better than the static colors he was used to.

"Satisfactory?" Lilandra asked him once he'd finished examining the armor.

Remy felt a pang of guilt, knowing that he would most likely be making a quick exit once they got back on Earth. He doubted he'd have much chance to use the suit to aid Lilandra.

"Oui," he answered quietly. "T'ank you."

Chapter 17

As the visual effects of the Shi'ar teleport faded, Remy found himself standing in the middle of the New Mexico desert. The first thing he noticed was the oppressive heat. The hot, dry air seemed to suck all of the moisture out of his face the moment it hit him. All around, the ground was nothing but bare, hard earth with a few scraggly bushes that were brown from the sun. He felt an almost overwhelming sense of anticipation -- Token had said he would be looking for someone in the desert, and now here he was.

His thoughts were so consumed with Token's predictions that he didn't immediately register the two people who stood beside an unremarkable white sedan parked next to the dirt track that passed as a road through this section of desert. But then Lilandra stepped forward and greeted Cyclops and Phoenix, and Remy found himself the object of sudden scrutiny.

Lilandra seemed to understand the situation. She stepped obliquely out of the way after her initial greeting, allowing the Remy and the two X-Men to stare at each other without interruption. Remy didn't see anything in Scott and Jean that he didn't expect to -- hurt, anger and disappointment were the most visible of their reactions. Jean's body language would have told him that her psi shields were at full force even if he hadn't felt the prickly wash of her telepathy. Scott, as always, was inscrutable behind his opaque glasses, but the set of his jaw hinted at a great mass of restrained anger.

"Gambit." Scott acknowledged him sharply. "What are you doing here?"

Remy glanced over at Lilandra who was watching them all with patent interest while Gladiator stood impassively behind her. Then he returned his attention to Scott and shrugged. "I ran into Lil here, an' discovered we were bot' lookin' f' de same t'ing, so we figured it made de most sense t' work together."

Scott turned to Lilandra, his expression questioning.

"I went to the mansion to see if the X-Men had heard news of Charles," Lilandra answered. "I encountered Gambit there."

One eyebrow arched above the top of Scott's glasses as his gaze moved to Remy. "I didn't know you'd gone back. Jean and I have been out of touch lately." His words were clipped, and Remy had the distinct feeling that Scott didn't like the idea of him returning to the X-Men.

The realization made him angry. "I'm not back," Remy retorted sharply. "I went t' de mansion t' see if de Professor was dere. Dat's all."

Scott frowned. "As far as we know, Professor Xavier is still in government custody."

"Why were you looking for him?" Jean seemed reluctant to break her silence, but the question was filled with wary curiosity.

Remy stared at them both, debating what to say. The things he wanted from the Professor were personal. Even if he were still an X-Man, he wouldn't have wanted to give them specifics. He lifted his chin slightly and met Jean's gaze with as much defiance as he could muster. "Let's jus' say dat I got reason t' t'ink de Professor knows a lot more dan he's been lettin' on, an' I got some questions dat I wan' answers to."

He was unprepared for the looks of amazement that passed between Scott and Jean. Then they both turned to him, their combined interest so intense it was intimidating.

"Looks like I pushed de magic button," he commented before either of them could speak.

"You could say that." Scott agreed tersely. He glanced back at his wife, his expression softening briefly. "This thing just keeps getting bigger and stranger."

Jean gave him a helpless shrug. "Charles has the answers. I'm certain of it."

"Answers to what?" Lilandra looked back and forth between them, her expression troubled.

Scott and Jean traded glances, and then Scott made a gesture indicating that Jean should proceed. She nodded in response, and focused her attention on Remy. There was a bitterness in her expression that Remy hadn't seen before.

"Scott and I are looking for the Professor as well." She paused. "Because we have reason to believe that he has been hiding something. Something he was so desperate to protect that he was willing to give Onslaught a very potent weapon to use against me rather than reveal it."

"Onslaught?" Remy frowned, confused, as bits and pieces of information collided in his mind. The dismay that had filled Jean-Luc's face when Remy had told him about Onslaught and Xavier came back to him in a rush. He had no idea why it was significant, but now he was certain that it was. He also realized that he was going to have to tell them a lot more than he wanted to about the woman Token had seen and the reasons he was searching for the Professor.

He looked up into three pairs of eyes that watched him expectantly.

Remy sighed. "De short version goes like dis: Apparently, somewhere out dere," he nodded toward the desert to indicate the world at large, "dere's a woman wit' my face who calls herself LeBeau."

Scott cocked his head. "Who is she?"

"I don' have a clue. So I went t' talk t' m' father -- Jean-Luc -- about it." Remy was finding it increasingly difficult to think of the man who had raised him as "Father", despite the fact that he had done so for the last thirteen years. There was some other man out there who held that title now. A man that Jean-Luc knew, and had never said a single thing to Remy about. He was surprised by how cheated he felt by that.

"He admitted t' knowin' who she was, but wouldn' tell me. An' den he hinted dat Xavier knew somet'ing about it, too."

Scott digested the information. "What does this have to do with Onslaught?"

Remy shrugged. "When Jean-Luc mentioned de Professor, I had t' explain about Onslaught an' dat he wasn' around anymore. He went white as a sheet when I told him dat Xavier became Onslaught." He shook his head in frustration. "I don' have any idea why it was important, or why dat would make him so upset. Far as I know, he's never even met de Professor. Why would he care about him bein' Onslaught?"

Both Scott and Jean were thoughtful. "Your father's not a telepath, is he?" Jean asked suddenly.

Remy blinked at the odd question. "No. Why?"

She sighed and brushed away the errant hair that had escaped her ponytail. "Scott and I got here by chasing a government program that is recruiting telepaths for some unknown reason. We were trying to track down the remains of Zero Tolerance in the hopes of finding Charles, but this program has kind of distracted us." She looked up sharply, her gaze taking in both Remy and Lilandra. "Is Charles in that complex over there?" She jerked her head in the direction of the government installation that lay several miles further down the road.

"That I don't know," Lilandra answered. "But at least part of Cerebro is there."

Scott looked up in surprise. "Cerebro and everything else in the mansion was confiscated by Bastion."

A dull roar cut off anything else he might have said and Remy looked up to see a ball of fire rolling into the sky above the place where the government complex was supposed to be. Instinctively, he turned to Scott for instructions.

"Jean! Get us there!" Cyclops' expression firmed into one that Remy recognized from a hundred missions or more as he felt Phoenix's telekinetic grip lift him off the ground. In that instant everything else was forgotten as habit took over and the three X-Men were forged into a team with one objective. For a moment, Remy forgot about Antarctica, forgot about the Morlocks, forgot about Rogue. He was an X-Man again, if only briefly, and as Cyclops flashed him a series of hand signs in the abbreviated language of combat, Remy was certain that the other man realized it as well.

The government installation was in chaos. The visible buildings were all single story, except for the hangar located beside an unmarked airstrip, and Remy concluded that the vast majority of the complex was underground. Two of the buildings were burning out of control, and one of those had a large chunk ripped out of the southwest quadrant so that the flames seemed to be pouring out of the interior through the hole. Soldiers surrounded the buildings and ran between them in a combination organized defense and blind panic. They appeared to be under attack by a mixture of . . . things. Large red cat-like creatures prowled through the visible grounds, apparently impervious to the soldiers' gunfire. Here and there, one of the large laser cannons that flanked the runway managed to target a cat, which burst into hundreds of pieces that evaporated into the air before they could hit the ground. Other creatures attacking the base looked more human than the cat-things, except for the ride of long spines growing down their backs and the oversized hands sporting wickedly curved claws in the place of fingers. They were more susceptible to the soldiers' fire, but they also seemed more intelligent than the cats.

A single figure floated above the complex and Remy's stomach clenched with cold fear as he recognized him. Erik the Red appeared to be impervious within the hazy glow of the shield that surrounded him. One of the gun emplacements took several shots at him, but the wide red beam was simply deflected away, its trace curving oddly.

By unspoken accord, the three X-Men set down in the midst of a group of creatures that were trying to force their way inside one of the still-intact buildings. Gladiator dropped Lilandra down beside them, and, at her command, turned and rocketed toward Erik.

The soldiers' shouts of surprise and alarm became ragged cheers as Cyclops speared the nearest cat-creature with his optic blast, shattering it. Remy pushed thoughts of Erik out of his mind and turned his attention to the situation at hand. He knew what he needed to do -- what Cyclops expected of him and what would be most effective for protecting both his teammates and the soldiers. He charged a handful of cards and let fly, then dove out of the way of the creature that lunged at him, rolling to his feet with a new set of cards charged and ready. Around him, the staccato of gunfire was tremendously loud as the soldiers continued their defense, and the continuous spray of bullets made it seem to Remy's spatial sense like the entire world was moving.

Jean stood still inside a telekinetic shield, her head tilted upward and her attention very obviously focused on Erik. Remy saw Erik flinch and then spin around as something Jean did got to him, and he felt a surge of satisfaction. But then he had no more time to watch the conflict as more of the creatures turned on him. He brought his bo staff around, clipping one of the bipedal creatures under the chin with enough force to break its neck as a massive weight hit him from behind. He went down with one of the cats on top of him. Its jaws closed around his shoulder, but all he felt through his armor was the pressure of its grip and he sent a silent prayer of thanks to Lilandra for her gift. Charging a card, he shoved it behind him. The cat's scream was lost in the sound of the explosion that left Remy feeling like someone had punched him in the kidney, but the weight disappeared.

He scrambled to his feet and observed something a bit unnerving. The cat he'd just hit was several feet away. It lay on its side, looking very much like it had been hit by an explosion at close range, except that there was no blood. And as Remy watched, the gaping wounds in its chest resealed and it rolled fluidly to its feet. Smiling grimly, he charged a set of three cards and sent them all toward the restored creature. This time, it disintegrated, leaving nothing behind but a small crater from the blast.

Quickly, Remy scanned the area for the others. Phoenix was still safe within her telekinetic shield, and the creatures appeared to have given up attacking her. She held both hands to her head, her face contorted with either pain or intense concentration, but she seemed to be holding her own. Cyclops was a ways beyond her, his optic blasts firing off in all directions as he moved and spun. He was causing a tremendous amount of damage to the strange army that was attacking, and Remy noted that the bodies of the bipedal creatures didn't disappear like the cats' did.

Gladiator had managed to get at least partially inside Erik's shield, and the two were grappling about fifty feet above the ground. Remy was both frightened and impressed by Erik. There weren't very many people of any species that could take on Gladiator, and he had to wonder why such a powerful mutant had bothered with something like that horrendous trial he had conducted for Remy.

For a moment, he couldn't find Lilandra, but then he spied her silvered form near one of the burning buildings. She was crouched beside a doorway that had tongues of flame licking outward from its upper edge, and Remy could see the swirl of fire that lined the ceiling inside. To his surprise and horror, she looked around once and then dove into the burning building.

"Lilandra!"

Cyclops looked up at Remy's shout, and Remy flashed him a sign as he sprinted for the burning doorway. He didn't have a clue what Lilandra was doing, but he had no intention of letting her get herself killed if he could help it.

One arm up to shield his face from the heat, Remy leapt through the door through which Lilandra had disappeared. There were flames everywhere and the air was filled with thick smoke that felt like sandpaper on his eyes and throat. He immediately felt like his lungs were trying to close down as the fire consumed the oxygen he needed to breathe, but he forced himself to keep moving. In places, the ceiling had collapsed, leaving burning pieces of wood and plaster dangling midair. He spied Lilandra across the room and ran after her. He caught up to her just as another portion of the ceiling collapsed with a roar, sending a new burst of flames shooting outward in all directions. He flinched and instinctively pulled Lilandra away from the hungry flames.

"What are y' doin' in here?!" he yelled at her over the noise of the fire.

She held up her arm, which had a small display screen strapped to it. "The fire has taken out the shielding equipment!" Her black eyes were almost frantic. "Charles is here! Beneath this structure." She pointed to the floor.

Remy looked around, well aware that they were perilously close to being buried alive in the collapsing building. But if the Professor was really there, he couldn't leave. Too many innocent people had already died because of his lack of action. He had no intention of letting that happen again. Lilandra had been making a straight track toward the elevator doors located in a central column of the building, and the path was still fairly clear. Nodding, he grabbed her hand and together they ran for the elevator.

Charles Xavier paused and looked up as a distant rumble shook his tiny cell. The fluorescent lights flickered in response, distorting the shadows on the bare metal wall. His pulse quickened. Something was happening up above. He turned and swung his legs over the edge of the bed so that he could face the door.

He had no sooner turned around than the earth beneath him gave a mighty heave, tossing him bodily off of the bed. He landed on his stomach on the floor with the overturned bed falling across his lower legs. A huge crack ran down one of the cell walls as the metal buckled, showing bare rock behind it. The lights flickered once again and then went out, plunging Charles into darkness as the floor beneath him continued to rock. The sickening motion quickly damped out as secondary lights came on, illuminating the interior of his cell with a pale amber glow.

Charles struggled to unlock his lungs after having the breath knocked out of him. Looking around, he tried to take stock of the situation. In the distance he could hear some kind of alarm wailing and the sound of shouting, but nothing seemed to come any closer.

An earthquake? he wondered dazedly. It had to be something on that magnitude. Though he didn't know the specifics, he was fairly certain he was deep underground. It would take something like a nuclear blast on the surface to be felt with such force down there.

He wished momentarily for his powers. The quake or whatever it was might very well have disabled the psi-dampers that surrounded his cell. He might have been able to call for help. Bitterly, he shoved the thoughts away. There were many reasons for him to want his powers back, but they were gone forever. Onslaught had stripped them away with brutal efficiency. The horrible irony was that he had been trying to protect his son from Onslaught when he'd unwittingly given that monster control of his powers, and he had managed to keep Onslaught from discovering the truth. But in taking Charles' powers, Onslaught also condemned Remi to die, and that was the part that Charles didn't know how to live with.

Footsteps pounded by outside the door and Charles forced himself to look up. He couldn't give up hope. Even if everything else was gone, he couldn't give up that. He'd seen too many impossible things happen to simply discard the chance of a miracle.

Something thumped against his door, followed by the sound of muffled voices, and then an explosion sent tongues of flame shooting through the space between the door and the frame. Charles ducked, covering his head with his arms, and when he looked up he thought for a moment that he might just be seeing that miracle.

The door to his cell hung haphazardly from a single hinge and framed in the opening were two of the people that Charles most wanted to see. His heart climbed into his throat as a dozen conflicting emotions filled him. Lilandra was even more beautiful than he remembered, despite the smudges of soot on her face and the wild disarray of her feathered crest. Her face reflected both triumph and joy at seeing him. But it was the man beside her that made Charles' heart skip a beat.

He stood beside his mother, clad in Imperial armor that, though black, only heightened the resemblance between them. His roving gaze was intent, and Charles could only think that he was staring at a Prince of the Empire.

He looked up into the face that had filled his dreams for more nights than he could remember. "Remi?"

The familiar face split into a grin. "Hope y' don' mind us droppin' in unannounced like dis, Professor."

Charles closed his eyes and let his head fall, unable to contain the flood of disappointment that threatened to drown him. "Gambit." He bit his lip, forcing himself through sheer effort of will to maintain his composure. "Not at all."

He didn't look up until he felt the weight lifting from his legs as Gambit and Lilandra took the ends of the steel frame and moved it away. Then there were hands on his back and shoulders, lifting him, as Lilandra dropped to her knees and threw her arms around his neck.

"My love..." Her lips sought his and Charles returned her kiss with a passion born of equal parts joy and pain.

After a moment, Gambit cleared his throat. "I hate t' interrupt de reunion an all, but we left Cyke an' Phoenix an' Gladiator up dere all by demselves, non?" His gaze rested on Lilandra.

"Of course." Lilandra stiffened as she withdrew from Charles' arms. Her demeanor immediately became that of the Empress Shi'ar, a mix of determination and professionalism that still impressed Charles no matter how often he saw it.

"Do you know what caused that quake?" Charles asked, splitting his attention between them as Gambit picked him up and ducked back out into the hall.

"No," Lilandra answered, shaking her head as she followed Gambit. "I can't contact my ship this far beneath the planet's surface."

"Ain't too likely it was an earthquake, t'ough," Remy added. "Considerin' de mess we left t' come lookin' f' you."

They walked down the deserted hallway until it ended in a T-intersection with a second hall. Both Remy and Lilandra were moving quickly and warily, and in the Shi'ar armor Charles found he could see the resemblance between them much more easily. Remy paused at the intersection, studying the choices.

"Y' know anyt'ing ‘bout how dis place is laid out, Professor?" he asked.

"Not much," Charles admitted. "I take it we can't retrace the route in?"

Remy and Lilandra traded glances that made Charles think they'd come a lot closer to getting themselves killed than he'd like to imagine.

"That way is blocked," Lilandra said after a moment, and Remy snorted at her obvious understatement.

Remy looked at the two hallways once again. "Eenie, meanie, minie, mo." He shrugged and turned left.

They kept moving, and Charles found himself discovering a new appreciation for Remy's thieving skills. Charles had never really considered the ancillary abilities that being trained as a thief would give him, but now he was coming to appreciate what was obviously a tremendous ability to guess building layouts and the most likely locations for elevators and stairs. He was forced to admit to himself that he had always resisted allowing Gambit to use those skills except under the greatest duress because that was not the man Charles wanted to see him become. In retrospect, the utter arrogance of his actions was appallingly clear, and he wondered once again if losing his son permanently wasn't a fitting punishment. If only Remy didn't have to suffer for those choices as well.

They climbed upward, carefully skirting areas where the underground structure had collapsed or had simply been crushed as if in the grip of a giant hand. The damage spoke volumes about the force of the explosion that must have caused the earth to move so violently, and the higher they climbed, the more frightened Charles became for Scott and Jean.

At one point, Lilandra shook her head and frowned as she studied the communications unit on her wrist. "I still cannot raise my cruiser."

"Y' t'ink we still too deep?" Remy didn't look at her. He was busy studying the pile of rock and twisted metal that blocked their way and trying to decide whether to backtrack or to use his powers to blast them a path through the debris.

Lilandra shook her head again. "No. We should be well within range." By Charles' count, they had climbed eight stories from the level of his cell, but he wasn't certain how close that would put them to the surface.

Remy stepped back away from the blockage. "Well, if I calculated right, we should be comin' up under de building closest t' de hangar. We're shallow enough I t'ink I c'n blast t'rough de ceiling here wit'out collapsin' de rest t' get us up t' de next level."

"How deep are we still?" Charles asked.

"Maybe forty or fifty feet." Remy moved back and set Charles down well away from the spot he planned to destroy. Lilandra came and knelt next to Charles, ready to shield them both should something go awry, and together they watched as Remy climbed the edge of the pile of debris until he could reach up and place his fingertips against the rock face that was visible through the fallen ceiling tiles. The lurid pink glow that was the hallmark of his kinetic power surrounded his hands and began to soak into the stone.

When an area the size of a tire was glowing with charge, Remy let go of the ceiling and leapt neatly to the floor. Charles watched apprehensively as Remy walked toward them, instinct urging him to shout to the young man to hurry lest the waiting explosion go off before he reached a safe distance. Remy didn't seem worried, though. Charles studied his expression, taking in his calm demeanor as well as the slight narrowing of his eyes and the crease of concentration between his brows.

What are you doing, Remy? he thought suddenly. Controlling the blast telepathically? That was for all the world what it looked like. Charles knew that he had access only to the minimal leakage of his telepathic powers around the edges of the block Charles had established, but he was both surprised and pleased to see the use Remy had put it to.

Remy joined them and Charles saw his eyebrows relax just a moment before the glowing circle of rock exploded. The blast was deafening in the confined space, and showered them with a multitude of small, sharp fragments of rock. When he felt it was safe to look back, Charles was surprised to see a dim circle of light falling on the floor. And through the gap in the ceiling he could see the sky, filled with roiling gray-brown clouds.

Charles turned to Remy. "I thought you said we were still forty or fifty feet underground?"

Remy had not moved as he stared up at the visible patch of sky. "I got a bad feelin' ‘bout dis."

As if on cue, a head and shoulders appeared over the edge of the hole. Charles recognized the red horned mask, though he could not have said who might be masquerading as Erik the Red these days. On either side of him, Remy and Lilandra wore twin expressions of alarm as Erik grinned down at them.

"Do come up. We've been waiting for you."

Charles felt an invisible hand take hold of him and lift him off the ground. The same force grabbed both Remy and Lilandra and brought them up, one after the other, through the gap Remy had opened. The sight that greeted them was one that Charles would not soon forget.

"My ship..." Lilandra breathed.

The Shi'ar cruiser was half buried in a lake of molten rock and dirt caused by the force of its impact. Charles knew immediately that that was the earthquake he'd felt. All around the ship, the earth had been blasted away, creating a giant crater. The only interruption to the destruction was a wedge shaped area off to Charles' right. It looked as if someone had stuck an obstacle in the path of the blast, forcing it to divert to either side and leaving an area of shelter behind it. Charles could see the smoking remains of several buildings atop a fifty foot cliff of rock that was the same shape as the rest of the protected area, and he knew instinctively that he was seeing Jean's handiwork. He felt a fluttering of hope that she and Scott might still be alive.

Erik was watching him with a tiny smile playing about his lips. "Ah, Charles, we meet again."

Charles' gaze snapped to the eyes hidden in the shadowed mask. "Who are you?"

Erik's smile turned sly. "You wouldn't believe me even if I told you."

Charles opened his mouth to reply, but something heavy and black seemed to descend inside his mind, smothering him. The blackness filled his head and then reached out and took the rest of the world away as well.

Chapter 18

"What's wrong with her?" Marrow crossed her arms as she stared out the window, her disdainful posture at odds with the myriad conflicting emotions that assaulted Logan's nose.

Logan took the question to be an invitation and stepped up beside the young mutant. From there, he had a good view of the grounds behind the mansion and the two women who sat in the middle of the lawn. The one that had drawn Marrow's comment was cradled in Ororo's lap, sobbing.

Logan considered the many different replies he could make, but then shrugged. "There's nothin' wrong with her. She just hurts."

He felt a small stab of satisfaction as Marrow stiffened. The Morlock was very vocal in her opinion that tears or any other display of humanity was a sign of weakness.

Marrow snorted in disgust. "Over the Genetraitor. She should be happy she rid the world of him." Her blue eyes were hard and lined with pain as she stared out into the afternoon.

Logan watched her reaction with interest. "The man did save yer life," he offered softly. He had the strangest feeling that there was a great deal more buried inside those eyes than hatred over the deaths of her family.

Marrow came back to herself with a small start and turned toward Logan, her gaze narrowing. "I would rather have died with my people."

Logan frowned. Her people. There was that wording again. She displayed a tremendous loyalty to the Morlocks as a group, but other than Callisto, he had never heard her utter a single name of someone she cared about on a personal level.

"What about yer parents? Did they die that night?"

Marrow's eyes jerked away from his. "No." She flexed her fingers against her biceps in reflection of an internal argument. "My mother... didn't want me. Callisto told me so."

For a moment, Logan had a glimpse of the lost and lonely teenager inside her. "What about yer father?"

Everything about Marrow went still. "I don't remember," she said so flatly that Logan was certain she was lying.

He arched an eyebrow. "That's too bad, darlin'," he answered. "I'd ‘ve like ta hear about him."

Marrow stared out the window and didn't answer, deliberately ignoring him with such fierceness that Logan began to suspect she was fighting tears. He watched her for a while, looking for some hint that she might give in and say something, but he knew better than to push her. She was liable to react with both anger and violence in an attempt to hide her "weakness", and that would only make it harder to reach out to her in the future.

Finally, he gave up and turned away. He was almost to the door when her pale whisper reached him.

"We lived in the sun."

Rogue slowly sat up and wiped away the last of the tears from her face. For the moment, she kept her eyes turned away, embarrassed by her outburst. She had only meant to apologize to the older woman, to say she was sorry for taking away a dear friend, but the moment she'd opened her mouth, everything that she'd held inside for the last three months came boiling out in a torrent of words and emotions.

"How do you feel now, Rogue?" Ororo's question was soft but searching, and in response Rogue heaved a sigh. She hated crying, especially with an audience, but she couldn't deny that she'd needed the release.

"Ah don't know, sugah. A lil' better, ah guess." She picked at her dampened gloves. "They say there ain't no good in grievin' ‘til someone's there ta share it with ya." She paused, then forced herself to look up into Ororo's calm blue eyes.

"Why don't ya hate me, ‘Ro?"

A wistful smile flickered across Ororo's face. "Because I do not believe Remy is dead."

Rogue's breath caught in her throat as Ororo shrugged. "But even if that were true, I would not hate you."

Rogue fought the sudden flicker of hope that threatened to burst into fiery life inside her. She didn't want to go through the pain of having that hope dashed again. Everything that she had seen and done said that Remy LeBeau could not possibly still be alive, and she didn't think she would ever be able to get on with her life unless she accepted that fact.

So instead of asking Ororo why she believed that, Rogue simply nodded. "Thank you."

Ororo watched her with obvious curiosity. "You are welcome."

Rogue ignored the question in the other woman's eyes. It was time to put the past to rest, if such a thing was possible. She had finally admitted the truth to the X-Men and they hadn't banished her for it, so maybe now it was time to start looking for a way to come to terms with what she had done and somehow find a way to start living again. If only she knew how.

Rogue made a helpless gesture. "Ah don't know what to do now."

"What do you mean?"

Rogue looked up into the sky, wishing desperately she could read the answers in the scattered clouds. "Ah know ah can't make up f' what ah did. It's always gonna be with me. Ah just wish ah could..." She trailed off, unable to find words to complete the thought.

Ororo plucked a wildflower from amid the badly overgrown lawn and twirled it between her fingers.

"What would Remy want you to do?"

Rogue bit her lip against a fresh stab of pain. She would trade her soul for the chance to ask him. The question turned over and over in her mind, demanding an answer.

Finally, a tremulous smile touched her lips. "Ah think... Ah think he'd tell me not ta make the same mistakes the next time ah... meet someone." She could almost hear his gentle teasing, challenging and encouraging her to surrender her heart. Even in the end, she'd given him only her body and her passion -- not her love. The walls of her fear were too thick for that, and she had been unwilling to give up the last layer of protection around her heart. Now, knowing what would happen when her rejection was mixed with his own self-loathing, she wished desperately that she could have the chance to go back and live that night over again.

She knew that was impossible, though, no matter how much she wanted it. The only chance she had was in the future, with someone else. The thought of another relationship was enough to turn her stomach, but perhaps in time... in time she could find a way to bring good from the bad, and give meaning to the death of someone she would always love.

She sighed resolutely. Remy would expect no less from her.

Charles gave Lilandra's hand a small squeeze as she reached over to twine her fingers with his. Her expression lightened minutely, but then returned to the solemn, composed mask she had worn since she had awakened. Charles sighed silently and swept his gaze once more around the confines of the small cell. His relief at seeing Scott and Jean alive was mingled with regret for seeing them collared and chained, and the underlying wariness he sensed from them left a knot of pain in his heart. Remy, too, was watching him with that same mistrust, but his attention was split between Charles and the Summers, as if he wasn't certain which of them might be the greater danger. Charles was horrified by the thought that he and his X-Men seemed to be united only by the common threat of Erik the Red.

Each of them was manacled at hand and foot, with a power suppression collar around their necks. But there was other evidence that Erik knew quite a bit about them. Scott's glasses were gone so that even were he to have his powers returned, he wouldn't be able to make effective use of them, and Remy's hands were encased in solid spheres of metal as if to prevent him from picking the locks on their chains. Gladiator was the only one of them that was not chained. Instead, he appeared to be encased in a stasis field of some kind. Charles could see the muscles in his neck flexing as he strained against the force field that held him, but to no avail. Whatever technology was incorporated into the base on which Gladiator stood, it was sufficient even to overcome his tremendous strength.

Charles looked up sharply as footsteps approached the door to their cell and then stopped. Some of the hostility in the little room evaporated as they focused on the man who stepped through the door, his gloating grin unchanged from the last time Charles had seen him.

"How fortunate that you're all awake." Erik's gaze swept the room, resting briefly on each of them. Charles was a little surprised to see that he was alone, but perhaps he felt confident enough of their imprisonment that he didn't feel the need to have any of his pets with him.

Finally, Erik's gaze settled on Charles, full of cruel amusement, but his words were directed toward the others. "This should be a most... enlightening day. Don't you agree, Charles?"

Charles felt a rush of fear and did his best to throttle it. He needed to have a clear head and keep his wits if he wanted to have any hope of protecting the many secrets he held. Charles could think of a number of things that Erik might want to know, beginning with information about the mutant underground and ending with the deliberate manipulation of the timeline that Charles had been involved in for the past thirteen years. The price for exposing any of that information would, at the very least, be the lives of those involved. His only consolation was the fact that Erik would have little luck trying to extract the information from him telepathically. The mental walls that Charles had built over the years, layer upon layer of protection and misdirection, were still in place. They would eventually erode with the passage of time since he no longer possessed the power to reinforce them, but for now they were just as solid as when he had been the foremost telepath on the planet.

Fortified by that knowledge he met Erik's gaze, letting his silence be his answer.

Erik only chuckled. "Such bravery!"

He stepped forward, coming to a stop beside Remy, who was closest to the door. "Don't worry, Charles, I have no intention of trying to penetrate those mighty telepathic shields of yours. However, I am curious about a number of things, so I suppose I will have to find some other way to convince you to reveal what you know."

The almost friendly tone made Erik's words seem even more menacing. Scott and Jean were both staring at Charles with barely concealed dismay, as if Erik had confirmed a suspicion in their minds and they were now waiting with dread to hear Charles admit to it. Gambit, too, seemed to share their suspicion, though he didn't give off the same sense of hurt that the other two did.

Erik had no trouble reading their expressions. He looked over at Cyclops and Phoenix for a moment, then turned back to Charles.

"It seems I'm not the only one, am I?"

Charles took a steadying breath, his gaze on Erik, but his attention focused on the three X-Men. "I have been in government custody for a long time. There is no way for me to know what rumors, and perhaps even lies, have been spread about me in my absence."

Gambit's eyes narrowed fractionally. "Don' t'ink dis got much t' do wit' government disinformation, Professor."

"Silence!" Erik roared and backhanded Gambit with enough force to knock him to the ground.

In the stunned silence that followed, Remy slowly raised himself onto his elbows, shaking his head to clear it. Then he looked up at Erik, the expression in his eyes hard with anger.

"Somehow I doubt y' really care all dat much about de Morlocks, so jus' what did I do t' tick y' off?"

Charles' heart sank in horror at his words. They know about the Morlocks, was the first thing that swam dazedly across his mind. He could see it in Scott and Jean's faces. The knowledge. The anger. The betrayal.

Erik didn't give him any more time to consider the ramifications, however. He turned on Gambit with an angry sneer, and Charles sucked in his breath for fear of what he might do, but he seemed to have gained control of his temper.

"Consider this payback for what you stole from me in the past."

Gambit's expression flickered with curiosity, and from somewhere he summoned a flip smile. "Gon' have t' give me more clues dan dat, mon ami. I've stolen a number o' t'ings over de years." There was a note of taunting in his voice, and even more in the open admission to being a thief.

Erik's lips thinned, but he cocked his head as if realizing that he was being baited. "No, I think not," he answered. "You are a pernicious and troublesome little insect -- I will be quite happy to let you die wondering."

Charles forced his expression to remain still as Gambit's smile faded. Erik turned away, apparently dismissing the matter entirely, and focused once again on Charles.

"Now to the matter at hand, Charles. I have a question or two for you." Erik paused, considering, as a smile appeared on his face. "Or perhaps I should let one of your faithful students ask them instead." He gestured toward Scott and Jean, who both looked up at him in wary surprise.

"Come, come," he urged when they both remained silent. "Phoenix, I know you've uncovered Charles' duplicity -- how he betrayed you to Onslaught. Certainly you're wondering why?"

Jean's gaze jumped guiltily to Charles, and his heart clenched painfully tight in his chest. He hated himself for what he had done that day, and yet there had been no other choice for him to make. It would have been even more terrible had he allowed Onslaught to find out about Remi. He shuddered to think what that creature might have done had he possessed not only Remi's telepathic powers, but the ability to travel through time as well. Charles had made the choice with the full knowledge that he might be condemning Jean to death, and, staring into her eyes now, he knew that she could read that knowledge in him. Her bewildered hurt was like a knife wound in his heart, and after a moment, he looked away.

"Why?" Cyclops demanded angrily.

Charles forced himself to meet the other man's eyes and to see the anguish hidden there behind the anger. "I'm sorry," was all he could find to say.

Erik gave a disgusted snort. "An apology is hardly sufficient, Charles! You betrayed your own X-Men. Explain yourself!"

Charles realized in that moment that for all of Erik's grandstanding, he was intensely interested in the subject of their discussion. It was as if he knew that Charles was protecting something specific, and was convinced that it was of sufficient value to go through all of this to obtain it. How he could know that, Charles wasn't sure, though there was something about him that was maddeningly, frighteningly familiar. More than ever he wished he could see the face inside the mask, to give him some inkling of who this enemy was and how he could know Charles so intimately.

He looked up at Erik. "I will never tell you." In the end, though, it didn't matter. The price was simply too high. There was nothing Erik could do to him to make him reveal the truth.

Erik's gaze narrowed in response to the silent challenge. "Really? I don't believe you. Or are you truly so cold that you would not tell me the answer to save the life of someone you love?"

Charles felt his insides freeze with terror as Erik grinned. "We already know you're willing to sacrifice Jean... though perhaps that was a different situation since she was able to defend herself against Onslaught. What about now, when she is helpless? Or perhaps Cyclops would be a better choice. He is the son you never had, is he not? Or perhaps I should look to your dear lady love?"

Charles began to shake under the implications. Erik's grin deepened and turned taunting, almost as if he could hear Charles' frightened thoughts. "Choices, choices. Would anyone care to place a bet on how many I'll have to kill before you give me what I want?"

Something in Erik's expression tripped a memory, and Charles bit his lip until he tasted blood as the horror of the situation came down on him with the power of a thunderclap. He had a terrible suspicion in the back of his mind that he knew who Erik really was, even if it was impossible. And if he was right, then there was more reason than ever the keep Remi away from him. The Shadow King had more than enough power to penetrate the defenses that hid Remi's powers, and armed with the knowledge of what he had accomplished in that other timeline and Remi's powers at his disposal, there would be no way to stop him. The entire world would be plunged into darkness. But that meant that somehow he would have to find the strength to watch silently while Erik killed the people he loved.

Tears traced their way down his cheeks as he stared at Erik. The almost gleeful smile on the other's face faded, as if he realized the strength of Charles' resolve.

Erik frowned thoughtfully. "Well, perhaps I should start small and work my way up." Before Charles could utter a protest, he reached down and grabbed a handful of Gambit's hair, yanking his head back cruelly. His other hand suddenly held a long dagger made of energy, whose edge he laid across Gambit's throat. Without waiting for a response, he drew the blade back and brought it forward again with a heavy slashing motion.

In that moment, Charles' heart snapped. "Stop!" he cried desperately. Remi might be gone, but Gambit was very much alive, and he was all that Charles had left.

Erik paused, a trickle of blood escaping around the edge of the blade that was pressed against Gambit's throat, and looked up at him curiously.

Charles hung his head, defeated. "I'll tell you what you want to know," he whispered. The truth was the only guarantee that Remy would live. He could still try to be smart about what he told Erik, but he knew that if the other asked a question, he would give the answer rather than risk Remy's life again.

While the realization of how easily he had been broken painfully fresh in his mind, Charles noticed something. Had he not been looking down, he would never have seen it, but now his eyes were in line with the large metal spheres that encased Gambit's hands. He had only an instant to observe, but that was enough. Each of the spheres had a hairline crack running around their circumference, and he felt a flickering of renewed hope.

"And here I thought you were going to make this difficult." Erik's voice was full of contempt.

Charles didn't look up for fear of what might be visible in his face. "Let him go." His voice held no force.

Erik shrugged and did so, then crossed his arms, the glowing energy knife still held in one hand. "You surprise me, Charles. You are willing to sacrifice Phoenix to Onslaught, and yet you will give over everything to protect this trash?" With one booted toe, he nudged Gambit, who glared at him but said nothing.

Charles slowly raised his head, catching Gambit's eye for the barest moment. He wasn't sure if the other understood, but he knew Gambit would make the best of any opportunity Charles could give him. And the information that Charles would have given Erik in broken despair could also be forged into a powerful weapon when combined with a little faith.

"Yes," he answered Erik simply, knowing that the other would press the point and give him the opportunity he needed.

Erik's face reflected curiosity. "Why?"

Charles braced himself. "Because he is my son."

For Charles, time seemed to slow. The next seconds passed with excruciating deliberation, and he found himself acutely aware of a multitude of details that tumbled over and around each other in his mind. Scott and Jean wore twin expressions of stunned disbelief, as if the concept was unfathomable, and Lilandra simply looked puzzled. It was Erik whose response was most important. Charles watched intently as his eyes, barely visible within the shadows cast by his helm, widened in almost comic surprise.

He was still staring at Charles as the now charged and glowing metal spheres slipped from Remy's hands to dangle at the ends of their chains. Charles had a single moment in which to wonder how Remy had managed to pick the lock on his collar without being noticed. He could now clearly see that the single red indicator light on the latch was dull, inactive. Then Gambit swung the spheres around once, building momentum and aimed them directly at Erik's face. At the same time, he snapped two cards in the opposite direction. One was directed at the force field equipment beneath Gladiator's feet and the other seemed like it would fly directly into Jean's face. She turned her head at the last moment, and the glowing card struck her on the side of the neck, at the latch of the suppression collar. Her grunt of pain was lost in the multiple explosions, the largest of which tossed Erik backwards and knocked Gambit away in the opposite direction with equal force.

Charles ducked and covered his face instinctively as the wave of heat and force struck him, and when he looked back, he was just in time to see Gladiator grab the seemingly stunned Erik around the chest and leap straight through the ceiling of the cell. Jean was on her feet, her bonds shattered and her posture indicating intense concentration. Charles guessed that she was using her powers to try to keep Erik off balance for as long as possible while Gladiator grappled with him. Dirt and rock rained down from the hole in the ceiling as Gladiator powered upward, until a pale shaft of sunlight indicated that he had broken through into open air.

"We don't have much time," Jean told them, her attention still focused on the astral plane. "I don't know how long Gladiator is going to be able to hold him."

Behind her, Gambit had climbed to his feet. He seemed somewhat dazed from the explosion, his face reflecting shock, doubt, suspicion... and a momentary yearning that disappeared almost before Charles could recognize it. But then the unguarded emotions were gone, to be replaced by a fierce grin. He shook his head ruefully as he crossed to where Charles was seated.

"Don' ever let it be said dat y' don' have any imagination, Professor. Dat was inspired." He knelt beside him and broke his manacles with a touch of glowing fingertips. "I t'ink Erik was so shocked he dropped all his defenses f' a second dere."

Remy refused to meet his eyes while he worked on the manacles, and Charles could only stare at him. He felt nauseous, a feeling that was intensified by anger as he noticed the expression of relief that crossed Scott's face and was quickly hidden. Remy appeared to be oblivious as he freed Lilandra and then went over to do the same for the X-Man.

Scott closed his eyes just before Remy blew the suppression collar's latch apart, and Charles' anger dimmed as the blinded Cyclops accepted the hand Remy offered him and let the other help him to his feet. The tension between the two men was unmistakable, but somehow the solidarity of the X-Men held. Charles felt a swell of pride as he watched them.

Jean's telekinetic hand swept them all up once they were free and carried them up through the roof of the building in which they'd been imprisoned and out into the crisp evening air. Gladiator and Erik were no where in sight, and Charles entertained brief hopes that the Imperial Guardsman had found a way to rip Erik the Red into tiny pieces.

"Gladiator is breaking off while he still can," Jean informed them a moment later. "He managed to take Erik out past the moon's orbit and thinks it will take him a little while at least to get back from there. He doesn't seem to be having any trouble with the lack of atmosphere." Her last words were laced with sarcasm.

Scott nodded. "We need to alert the X-Men." He turned toward Charles, his expression closed. "Everything else will have to wait until then."

Sadly, Charles nodded in acknowledgment. Jean's telekinetic embrace wrapped around him like an impenetrable cocoon as she lifted them further into the air and carried them eastward.

Chapter 19

Jean had chosen a small rest area by the highway in which to wait for the X-Men to arrive. The small public building was the only structure visible in any direction across the flat expanse of desert. A warped and sun-bleached picnic table provided Xavier with a seat, though no protection from the merciless sun. Lilandra stood quietly beside the Professor, their conversation hushed, while Gladiator loomed protectively behind her. Scott and Jean stood together a short ways away. They were just far enough away from the Professor to make it obvious that they were both short on trust, but not so far away that it would be impossible for them to converse with him. Remy had taken advantage of his thieves skills and had wandered as far away in the other direction as he could without someone taking note of it and calling him back.

"That sounds like a Blackbird," Scott said as the rumble of an aircraft's engines reached their ears. He sounded surprised, and his expression as he cocked his head to listen more closely was puzzled.

"Ororo didn't say," Jean answered as she, too, turned toward the sound. "I thought the Blackbirds were gone also."

Considering what he had seen on his short trip through the mansion, Remy also was surprised to hear an aircraft approaching. It tightened the band around his chest one more notch and made it that much harder to breathe through the stark terror in his heart.

Remy wasn't certain if he was more surprised or less when the airplane appeared above the tree line. It slowed as it approached, converting to vertical mode to touch down on the grass a short ways away from them. It was, indeed, a Blackbird, but it looked like it had been hauled out of a junkyard. The paint was pitted and peeled, leaving long streaks of rust down the sides of the fuselage, and it creaked on its landing gear so badly that Remy was afraid the nose gear might break before the airplane settled completely.

The gear held, however, and Remy watched with trepidation as those inside it emerged. His heart twisted savagely as Ororo approached, followed by Hank and Bobby. He was grateful that he had stayed back as the three focused immediately on Professor Xavier. There was a round of enthusiastic welcomes, both for him and for the Summers, and friendly greetings for Lilandra as well. The distance between Cyclops, Phoenix and the Professor was momentarily lost amid the others' exuberance, and Remy felt a bitter pang. He had no place in their celebration.

After a few minutes, Ororo separated herself from the others and walked slowly toward Remy. Behind her the conversation stilled as the others turned to watch, and Remy found himself at the focus of far more attention than he felt capable of handling.

He took a deep breath to still his trembling as Ororo halted before him. Her blue eyes were the color of the sky on a clear winter day and stared into his with searching intensity. Remy desperately wanted to bolt, but he knew the time for running away was well past. Ororo had once been his friend and she deserved at least this much from him. He would wait, and accept from her whatever reprisal she deemed fit. If nothing else, perhaps it would be enough to show her that he still respected her, still loved her, despite everything that now stood between them.

Ororo pressed her lips together in a thin, crooked line. It wasn't exactly the expression Remy was expecting. She seemed almost... exasperated.

"I am very angry with you, Remy."

Involuntarily, he glanced at the sky. It was unchanged, cheerfully blue and filled with fluffy white clouds. He was somewhat reassured to think that she wasn't set to smite him with a lightning bolt.

He forced himself to meet her eyes once more. "Oui, chere," he agreed softly. "Y' got reason enough t' be."

She cocked her head, her face stern. "Friends do not simply disappear off the face of the Earth for months at a time, Remy. I had no idea what had become of you, or if you were well." She made a frustrated gesture. "Dear Goddess -- for a short while I believed you dead!"

Remy reeled beneath her glare, his thoughts whirling chaotically. "But -- "

Ororo pressed the fingers of one hand against his lips, silencing him. "But nothing. Do not ever frighten me like that again, do you hear?" Her stern expression collapsed then, giving way to something far gentler. "My heart could not stand it."

Remy was amazed to see a glimmer of tears in her eyes. With a wordless cry, he swept her up in a fierce hug, burying his face in her hair as her arms encircled his neck. The pressure of her embrace was enough to leave him dizzy with relief, and the release in his heart was so sweet it was almost painful. He felt like a drowning man who had suddenly been thrown a life line. No matter what else happened, there was one person who still cared, and who was willing to forgive. Dear, beautiful, wonderful Ororo who was a friend like no other.

After a while he forced himself to release her, but only to the point of twining his fingers with hers before turning to face the rest of the X-Men. He was surprised to see a light of approval on the Professor's face, but the others were as solemn as he expected. Strengthened by Ororo's presence beside him, Remy crossed the distance to where they stood waiting.

Lilandra turned as he passed, her aristocratic brows drawn in a troubled frown. Remy could not begin to guess what she was thinking and for the moment did not want to try. He stopped in front of Hank and Bobby. Iceman stood with his arms crossed, but Hank slowly extended a hand.

"I, too, am glad to see that you remain among the living."

Remy accepted the handshake. "'Lo, Hank."

Hank's expression remained somber for a moment more, then quirked with his irrepressible good humor. "And... setting the past aside for the moment, do you think I could bother you for some assistance with the Blackbird? We lost most of our instruments, including engine controls, when we switched into landing mode and with the gravity of the situation as Jean described it, I believe it would behoove us to repair our modus transporti as quickly as possible."

Remy blinked at him, both surprised and gratified by the request. But with Scott temporarily blinded, there was no one else with the necessary systems knowledge.

"Uh... sure." He looked up at the decrepit airplane. "Where'd y' get dis t'ing anyway?"

"We salvaged it off the bottom of the school's lake."

Scott turned sharply toward Hank. "The original Blackbird?"

Hank started to nod, then corrected himself. "Yes." He shrugged lightly. "Such as it is." He turned back to Remy. "Well, shall we?"

Bemused, Remy let go of Ororo's hand and followed Hank toward the Blackbird. For the moment, he could almost pretend that the impossible had happened and the X-Men had accepted him again. If he ignored Bobby's angry glare, which didn't matter much to him anyway, and the stiff distance of both Scott and Jean, which did bother him but was something he could live with... he could almost believe. At least for the short time until they got back to the mansion and the illusion was shattered once again.

As the whine of the Blackbird's engines died away, Remy leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck to ease the tension there. They had arrived safely and in one piece at the mansion which, from Remy's viewpoint at the Engineering station, was nigh unto a miracle. The good thing was that the demands of keeping the plane in the air had occupied his mind completely throughout the flight and had given him something to do other than dwell on what would happen once they arrived.

Unfortunately, all the things he had managed not to think about then were filling his mind now, but the others seemed equally consumed by their own thoughts. Ororo and Hank sat in the cockpit with Jean standing between the two chairs in case her telekinetic powers were needed. Scott sat just behind them, his head back and eyes closed. He looked for all the world like he was asleep, though Remy doubted that sincerely. Charles and Lilandra sat mid-cabin, but didn't appear to be talking. The Professor had become more and more withdrawn as the flight progressed. Strangely enough, he looked like he dreaded returning to the mansion almost as much as Remy. Gladiator had flown escort and was now in the process of settling to the ground beside the Blackbird.

Remy sighed and climbed to his feet as the others began to stir. His kinesthetic sense picked out the people who were converging on the airplane from the outskirts of the hangar and he felt a new lump of terror in his stomach. Ororo had promised him that Logan would warn the X-Men of his presence beforehand, though he wasn't certain now if that had been a good idea. Most of them, at least, would be far more interested in the Professor than himself, but that was small consolation. He still had to face that one exception.

Remy hung back as the others deplaned. Ororo waited with him, her hand a reassuring warmth on his arm. Finally, she pulled him gently forward.

"Come, Remy. It is time to go home."

Remy could offer only a token resistance as she led him down the steep ramp and down onto the hangar floor. Remy was vaguely aware of the conversations dying down around him, but all of his attention was taken by the woman who stood a little to the side, her hands clasped together in front of her.

Rogue would not quite meet his gaze, though he wasn't entirely certain he wanted her to. His last memory of her came back to him full force then -- the coldly vindictive smile as she turned away, and the raw agony in his heart as he realized that every single thing he cared about was gone. That pain was still there, undimmed inside him. Usually he pushed it away, ignoring it until it subsided into a dull ache, but seeing Rogue brought it flaring to life and for a moment he thought his knees might buckle.

Ororo's hand under his elbow steadied him as Rogue slowly approached. If he hadn't been terrified to the point of feeling sick, he might have been amused by the unconsciously protective stance Ororo adopted as she stepped in front of him.

Rogue paused and looked up at the taller woman, her expression wounded. "Ya know ah won't hurt him, ‘Ro." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Ororo's solemn expression didn't change, but she released Remy with a small nod and stepped away, allowing he and Rogue to face each other directly. For a moment, Remy desperately wished she would come back, but then he pushed the thought away. This moment was inevitable. The best thing he could do was to try to get through it.

He tried to find something to say. Some kind of neutral greeting or acknowledgment that would at least break the horrible silence between them. But when he opened his mouth, what came out was, "You tried to kill me."

Rogue jerked as if he'd slapped her, her eyes darting to his and then away before he could read the expression in them. She pressed her lips together briefly, then drew a trembling breath. "Until today, ah thought ah had."

Strangely, the admission eased something inside Remy. He kept his gaze on Rogue, but his question was intended for the rest of the X-Men as well.

"Is dat why nobody ever came lookin' t' see if I was o.k.? Dey all t'ought I was dead?"

A ripple of reaction ran through the onlookers, but Rogue shook her head before anyone else could answer. "No, sugah." Her kept her face turned away from him. "The others all thought ya safe an' sound, with no interest in comin' back here." She turned her head slowly to look at him, and he was stunned by the depth of regret he saw in her green eyes. "Ah lied."

Remy felt like he was frozen in place, unable to run from the hurricane of emotions that swept through him. Rogue's expression was perhaps the most honest he had ever seen, and for the first time since that day in Antarctica, he wondered if it might be possible to love her still. Just wondering it hurt. So much of him wanted to hate her for abandoning him without the slightest hint of remorse or even pity, but he knew that he shared the blame with her for that.

His hands balled into fists as she swayed a step closer, her gaze falling away from his. He wanted desperately to reach for her, but fought the urge with all of his strength because he didn't know if he would hug her or hit her if he allowed himself to move.

Perhaps emboldened by his stillness, Rogue closed the remaining distance between them. Remy could smell the heady perfume of her hair as she leaned forward to rest her forehead against his chest. She made no move to put her arms around him, as if she had done as much as she was capable of by making that single contact.

"Ah'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice muffled against his armor.

Feeling as if he might faint at any moment, Remy let his head fall forward until he could nestle his face against her neck with the heavy cascade of her hair for protection from an unintentional touch. At their sides, fingers brushed against each other and twined involuntarily.

"Oui, chere. Me, too."

Rogue sighed softly and they remained like that, unmoving, for several long moments until the intimacy became uncomfortable. Rogue straightened slowly and stepped away from him, and Remy let her go without resistance. They had both needed to say the words and hear them accepted, but neither was ready to move beyond that point. It was somewhat better than a truce, and Remy was surprised to find that it suited him just fine for the moment.

Adroitly, Ororo stepped between them and gestured toward the other X-Men. "Perhaps we should all go upstairs. There will be plenty of time later to resolve whatever needs to be addressed between us." Her gaze swept across the assembled X-Men. "Today is a day to celebrate the return of those we had thought lost."

A surprising number of nods accompanied her words, and the mood lightened as they began to make their way as a group toward the lifts. Remy was certain it would not last because of the many, many questions that remained unanswered. Not just about himself, but about the Professor and Onslaught as well. Still, this was a far better reception than he had imagined and he found himself thinking wryly that despite his best efforts he had, indeed, come home.

Gathering her courage, Renee reached out to gently touch the controls on the laboratory door. They slid aside with a soft hiss that made her jump and confirmed that she truly had not expected the doors to open for her. Outside, one of the tall cat men turned to look at her, his ears swiveling with a musical jangle of earrings. He made no move to lower the heavy sword he carried, and after a moment, Renee walked forward.

She passed the guard unmolested and found herself out in a long featureless hallway. Unfortunately, she had no recollection of coming down that hall, though she knew she had done it. The blow to the head had thoroughly muddled her memories of the time immediately surrounding her fight with Warren, though she remembered enough for the memories to leave her both angry and frightened.

At the moment, she didn't know what to think. It was plain hunger that had finally driven her out of the lab. She had slept and awakened several times since her brief encounter with Apocalypse, but had not seen anyone. Whatever medical technology Apocalypse had applied to her seemed to have worked because she felt almost healthy now, except for the hunger that gnawed at her stomach and the dull ache of the wounds across her collar and abdomen. She was beginning to think that, were it not for the slaves, even Apocalypse might starve to death in this place. He certainly didn't seem to have any concept of the daily physical needs of those around him. She had fetched her own water from the small washroom that adjoined the lab once she was strong enough to walk, but had found nothing else edible.

Cautiously, she picked a direction and started down the hallway. The cat guard seemed content to follow her, his presence looming reassuringly behind her. At least she wasn't alone. She wasn't certain why the guard hadn't restricted her to the lab, but she suspected that that, too, was something that hadn't occurred to Apocalypse.

Curiosity joined with hunger to draw her further and further into the complex. The air was chill and somewhat moist, making Renee shiver in the modest white shift. Her feet were already freezing on the metal floors and she wished momentarily for her cloak. She had grown used to the lack of shoes which, apparently, was appropriate for an Egyptian woman. At least, for the kind of woman Apocalypse insisted that she be. The only time her feet were truly warm while she was awake was when she had the opportunity to curl up on one of the big cushions beside Apocalypse's chair and tuck her toes under her skirt.

Many of the doors along the winding hallways opened as she approached, but few held anything of interest. Defunct laboratories and storehouses for piles of unidentifiable technologies, none of which appeared to be in working order. She was surprised at the endless clutter until it occurred to her that Apocalypse had probably been accumulating junk for the past five thousand years. She thought of the attic of the X-Men's mansion and tried to extrapolate that over five millennia, and the resulting image made her smile. Apocalypse wasn't doing too badly.

One door opened with a rush of bright light and warm, organic-smelling air. Renee paused on the threshold, taken aback by the sudden change. She could see little from where she stood -- the room appeared to be huge, but the walls were ringed with such a thick tangle of tubes, wires and technological things that she could hardly see through the forest they created. A slim passage was preserved, leading from the doorway out into the room, but Renee could not see anything else.

Shivering now with trepidation rather than cold, she crept forward, the cat man her faithful shadow. After a few dozen feet, the narrow passage opened abruptly onto a truly giant chamber. Renee stopped short, amazed by her surroundings. The full dimensions of the room she could hardly guess, but the open area was a rough cylinder, perhaps two hundred feet in diameter and a good ten stories tall. The far side of the room was taken up by a set of large screens displaying an array of data and diagrams. Renee thought she identified a gene sequencing diagram, but the hieroglyphics made it hard to be certain. A horseshoe-shaped console occupied the floor beneath the screens. Apocalypse was seated with his back to her, his attention occupied by the information flowing across his field of vision. Warren stood beside Apocalypse's chair, one hand resting comfortably across the back.

Off to one side stood a set of fluid-filled cylinders, and beyond those were a set of large box-like constructions that reminded Renee of barn stalls except that they were made of metal and clear plastic. The bottom half of each box was opaque, but in one she caught occasional glimpses of the top of something white that moved inside.

Renee was tempted for one moment just to walk away before she was noticed. She could probably make her way back to the inhabited section of the palace where she would find Shala and a warm meal and at least better clothing than what she had now. But the thought of going back there was simply more than she could stand. The endless days that flowed into each other, blurring in her memory, with nothing to challenge her mind or occupy her time unless Apocalypse decided to call for her, and then even that was only for her to use her powers. And so she found herself walking slowly across the wide room, alternately terrified and fascinated by the choice she was making.

She was no more than ten feet away when Apocalypse stiffened and turned, his expression filling with a mixture of surprise and outrage when he spied her. Angel spun as well, his wings snapping open with a hiss as he sank into a ready crouch.

Renee stopped short at their combined menace, her heart pounding. She felt intensely vulnerable standing there, weaponless and shivering despite the humid warmth of the room.

Apocalypse's expression continued to darken as he slowly rose to his feet. "How dare you enter this place! It is forbidden!"

Renee shrank back, fighting the urge to flee. Although he had not yet recovered his strength, Apocalypse was still an imposing figure and his rage made him seem all the larger. Belatedly, she remembered the bolt of power, like lightening, that had killed the two guards up on the plateau and real terror filled her. But she couldn't run. The idea of being cut down from behind was unbearable, so she bit her lip to keep herself from babbling excuses and forced herself to raise her chin and look Apocalypse in the face. If he was angry enough to kill her, at least she would not give him any justification for it.

She gasped involuntarily as Apocalypse lashed out, the fingers of one large hand closing around her throat. Apocalypse did not lift her -- her weight remained solidly planted on her feet -- but his grip was tight enough to constrict her breathing. Renee fought her panic. She could breathe. Not easily, but she could.

"Explain yourself, Healer," he demanded harshly.

Renee felt like a rag doll in his grip, and in terror gave him an honest answer. "I was... curious," she whispered through the pressure on her throat.

Apocalypse's fury was momentarily interrupted and his grip on her eased minutely. "Curious?"

Renee surprised herself by raising a hand toward the cylinders and pens that were off to her left. "I've studied cloning... a little bit. I wanted to see what you were doing."

Apocalypse stared at her as if a number of unexpected thoughts were chasing each other through his mind. But in those moments, his grip relaxed and Renee drew in a shaky, grateful breath. She was acutely aware of the pressure of his thumb where it rested in the hollow of her throat, and she realized with a start that it was the same as the way she laid her own hands against his throat when she used her powers on him.

Apocalypse turned suddenly, steering Renee toward the console by the pressure of his fingers on the back of her neck.

"Tell me what you know about cloning, Healer."

Renee stared at the multiple displays with their incomprehensible hieroglyphics, her mind racing as fast as her heart. She felt like she was being offered a test and one that she couldn't afford to fail, though she had no idea what the consequences might be. She stared at the tremendous jumble of information before her, displayed in a language she did not understand, searching desperately for something she could identify. The largest monitor drew her eye upward, to the diagram she had originally thought was a gene sequence. Now, she was certain of it, though she had no idea which protein was represented by each of the colored lines.

She started there, and in a soft, hesitant voice, told Apocalypse everything she could remember learning about the science of cloning.

Chapter 20

Remy stared unseeing into the refrigerator, his thoughts momentarily consumed by all of the things he desperately did not want to think about. The Professor's bluff for Erik was an unintentional cruelty, he was certain. How could Xavier possibly have known that Remy had gone in search of him specifically because of the questions he now had about his real father's identity? But that brought up the disturbing question of why Xavier had picked that particular topic in the first place, effective though it was. If Jean Luc's intimation was correct, and the Professor did know something about it, why would he claim--?

"You want to hurry it up? Some of the rest of us would like to eat something today, too."

Remy's unhappy introspection was shattered by a female voice, filled with annoyance. He shoved his thoughts away and glanced back to see the Puerto Rican doctor... what was her name?... standing behind him, arms crossed. Her scowl deepened as he watched, but rather than pick a fight on his first day in the house he stepped back and gestured for her to go ahead.

"Please, chere, be m' guest." He couldn't keep the sarcasm completely out of his voice, however, and she watched him warily as she passed.

"Do you practice that accent?" she asked as she grabbed things out of the refrigerator and piled them up on the counter beside her.

"Sure, chere. 'Bout as often as you practice y' please an' t'ank you," he answered sharply.

She paused in what she was doing and straightened slowly. Her lips were pressed together in a thin line of frustration. "All right, I guess that wasn't very fair since we don't even know each other. I apologize." She stuck out her hand, the motion as abrupt as her words. "I'm Cecilia Reyes."

"Remy LeBeau." He shook her hand, resisting the temptation to kiss it just to see what her reaction would be.

"You're French?" She was quick to withdraw her hand and crossed her arms again as she regarded him.

Remy couldn't help a small smile. "Non, chere. Aut'entic Cajun."

Cecilia raised an eyebrow as she reached over to gather up her breakfast. "I didn't realize there was such a thing. In the Bronx, cajun is a flavor of chicken wings."

Remy stared at her and tried to decide if he should be insulted. He had absolutely no idea if the comment had been intended as a joke.

Cecilia turned away without further comment and walked out of the kitchen, stepping adroitly to the side to avoid Wolverine. The two made perfunctory "hellos" as they passed, and Remy shook his head.

"She's friendly."

Logan glanced back at the doorway through which Cecilia had exited. "She resents bein' a mutant and thinks we coerced her inta the X-Men." He turned back to Remy, who raised an eyebrow.

"What? Y' get so short on crew y' had t' start draftin' new members?" he asked skeptically.

Logan gave him a dirty look. "Girl's got no place else ta go. She just doesn't want ta admit it."

Remy found he couldn't hold the other man's gaze and looked away. "Guess I c'n identify wit' dat."

Logan's expression softened slightly. "Yeah, well, speakin' o' new X-Men, there's somebody else I should tell ya about."

Remy's gaze snapped back to Logan and he frowned at the slightly ominous ring to his words. "Who?"

Logan gave him an evaluating stare. "Do ya remember the second-gen Morlocks a few o' us ran into a while back? GeneNation? Their leader was a girl called Marrow."

A chill scrabbled up Remy's spine. "Oui, I remember," he answered faintly. "Storm killed her."

Logan shook his head. "That's what we thought, only she didn't die." His gaze on Remy became intent. "She's here, tryin' ta mend her ways."

"Here?" Remy knew his feelings were visible on his face, but didn't care. The violent terrorist Marrow had once been a very sweet little girl named Sarah, and because of the lies he'd told the X-Men, Remy had been unable even to grieve for her death for fear that he might accidentally give away his secret shame. The fact that she was alive brought up a powerful tangle of emotions that he couldn't begin to sort out.

Logan was nodding slowly. "At the moment, she's skulkin' around in the basement, but she knows who ya are, so watch yer back. She ain't exactly bought inta the no-killing rule yet."

Remy drew a shaky breath. He couldn't blame Sarah for hating him. After all, he'd ruined her life twice. But if nothing else, at least she was alive and in a place where she stood a chance of finding people who would care about her.

He nodded slowly. "T'anks, mon ami."

Charles looked up from his musings at the gentle knock on his door.

"Come in."

The door opened and Jean stepped into the room. Her expression was wary and her body language betrayed her discomfort. "Ororo said you wanted to see me?"

Charles took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes." The X-Men had found a wheelchair for him, for which he was grateful. He folded his hands carefully in his lap, wishing that he could also have had a desk to sit behind. The barrenness of his office left him feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Jean walked up to him and stood with her arms held almost rigid at her sides. Charles noted her stiffness and raised his gaze to meet hers.

"I thought I owed you at least the beginning of an explanation," he said quietly.

The hurt that had been hidden behind her flat expression flared to life in her eyes. She shifted back a step and crossed her arms. "You owe me at least that much, Charles." Her voice was full of reproach.

He nodded in acquiescence and forced himself to continue. "I know you feel that I have betrayed you-you and the X-Men both." Charles pressed his lips together for a moment, fighting to maintain his composure. "And, in essence, that is true." Just admitting it left him feeling cold, though he still didn't know what else he could have done. Jean's gaze narrowed in response, but she didn't comment.

"What I want you to know is that there were reasons for what I did-- good reasons, I hope, despite the hurt it caused you." He desperately wanted to reach out and take her hand, to plead with her to believe that he had never wanted any harm to come to her.

Jean's hard exterior cracked for a moment and she drew a shaky breath. "I want to believe that, Charles-- I can't begin to tell you how much I want to believe that, but--"

Charles nodded sadly. "But my word isn't enough."

She shook her head. "No. You've been hiding things from us for years." She waved one hand in a gesture of frustration. "I've been to the bottom of that pit and I've seen the barrier hidden there."

Charles sighed. Telling the X-Men the truth seemed like the only way to keep them from being completely torn apart, but he was desperately afraid of how much damage the truth might do. After all, he no longer had the power to give Remi his life back and for

Gambit, knowing what he had lost might be worse than total ignorance. So, as he always had, Charles was turning to Jean in the hopes that her sensitivity and compassion would help him to find a way to do what he needed to do.

"I've done far worse than simply hide things, Jean," he admitted slowly and Jean's brows dipped in wary expectation. Charles braced himself. "I have lied to you all for many years... perhaps in some sense, I have manipulated you. I have even tampered with the memories of several of the X-Men."

Jean's expression glazed with shock at his candid admission. She swayed slightly as if she were fighting to keep her balance and after a moment, she shook her head in a gesture of pure denial.

"...with my memories?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Charles nodded slowly. "Once." Her head jerked up and she stared at him, her face pale but her emerald eyes darkening with anger.

Charles forced himself to hold her gaze. "I hid approximately one week of memory from you. I could not bear to actually erase something from your mind, so the memory strand is folded over rather than cut... You should be able to recover what's there."

"When?" The single syllable was harsh.

"Late August, 1985."

Jean's gaze unfocused immediately as she went in search of the memories. Charles watched her face as her expression went from angry to surprised to bewildered in a matter of moments and knew that she had found the week he had removed so long ago.

She looked back up at him. "I... don't understand."

Charles sighed softly. "It's a very long and complicated story."

Jean stared at him for several long minutes, her expression guarded. "Is it true, then?" she finally asked. "Gambit is your son?"

Surprised, Charles gave her a jerky nod. She had made the connection faster than he expected. "Yes, he is."

Jean was silent for another stretch of minutes, her gaze focused on the toes of her boots. Finally she looked up, and this time her expression was intent. "He doesn't know, does he?"

Charles shook his head.

"But he did--" she waved a hand, "back when we were kids. And you erased it." There was something both demanding and accusing in her tone. "Why?"

Charles closed his eyes briefly as the memory returned, undimmed by the passage of time. "Because it was the only way to protect him... and all of us," he replied, his voice pale with the remembered pain of that day.

After a moment, he forced himself to meet Jean's gaze. "Please, Jean. Be patient with me. After all this time, you and the other X-Men deserve to know the truth... I just don't want to hurt Remy any more than I have to in the process. Can you understand that?"

She blinked, then nodded shakily. "I-- yes." Her expression was a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. "But I can't keep this to myself, Charles. Not for very long."

Scott slid his glasses on and, with a sigh of relief, opened his eyes. "Let's hear it for next-day delivery." His grandparents had been happy to send him the spare glasses he'd left in Alaska.

Beside him, Hank chuckled lightly. The two men sat in silence for a while with the almost-warm midday breeze wafting across them. Ororo had arranged a picnic lunch but the two appeared to be the first to arrive.

Hank leaned back in his chair and stretched until his fur quivered. "I must admit," he said as he resettled himself, "that I am very glad to have you back, Scott. This team has sorely needed an anchor."

Scott looked over at his long-time friend in surprise. There was an underlying melancholy to Hank's features that he couldn't remember seeing before. "Have things been that bad?"

Hank's eyebrows quirked. "Where should I start?" He smiled, but the expression faded quickly. "Things have not been... easy since you left." He shrugged uncomfortably. "Certainly, Gambit has had a great deal to do with it. Rogue has been lost in her grief for the past three months... hardly speaking to anyone, and yet none of us bothered to try to help her." Hank met Scott's gaze briefly, and Scott could see just how much that analysis disturbed him. "Warren has been kidnapped and we have not one clue as to by whom or why or where he might be now... or even if he's still alive. Elisabeth disappears onto the astral plane for days as she searches for him, until I fear for her health. And we have added three new X-Men, of which one is a homicidal terrorist whose heart Storm literally ripped from her chest, another has incomplete control over a pair of predatory slugs, and the third-- though I respect her abilities-- is as likely to bite your head off as say hello." He paused to draw a deep breath and flashed Scott an apologetic smile.

"Like I said... things have not been easy." He turned to look toward the house. "Unfortunately, I sense that the Professor's return is not going to be the rejuvenating miracle I had hoped for." He glanced at Scott.

Scott frowned and crossed his arms. "I wish I knew, Hank. There are so many questions..." He trailed off with a sigh of frustration. "I wish we could have made this a happier homecoming."

Hank favored him with a lopsided grin. "If wishes were fishes... we wouldn't have to have the lake restocked."

Scott chuckled despite himself. "Well, here's one more," he added ruefully. "I wish I knew what to do about Gambit."

"What do you mean?" Hank's expression was intent.

Scott shrugged. "Part of me wants to take the easy way out and simply condemn him as a murderer, a liar and a traitor."

Hank's expression shaded toward alarm. "That's a bit... extreme, don't you think?"

Scott nodded, his smile sardonic. "Yes, but it would be so much simpler than trying to learn how to trust him again."

Hank considered him for several moments, his head cocked to one side in an attitude of thoughtfulness. "This does not have as much to do with Gambit as you're making it sound, though, does it?"

Scott blinked in surprise. Always insightful, Hank still sometimes surprised him with the depth of his intuition. He sighed resignedly. "No, not really."

Hank said nothing, his expression patiently expectant. After a moment, Scott stood and began pacing, disturbed by both his thoughts and feelings.

"No, Gambit is just the easier target," he admitted softly. "For all that he lied to us-- even though the X-Men are supposed to be family-- I can understand why. I don't agree, and it doesn't make it hurt less, but I can understand."

Scott clasped his hands together. "I never really expected Gambit to be completely honest with us," he admitted, his gaze fastened on the ground. "He's a thief after all, and from what little I know about his life, it doesn't seem like people have given him much reason to trust. But still, to find out that what he didn't tell us was that he was involved in the Morlock Massacre..." He straightened slowly in his seat. "I guess I would have expected him to have to tell us, somehow... just because it had such a critical impact on so many of the X-Men."

Hank watched him somberly. "So the real problem is...?"

Scott's feet brought him to an abrupt halt in front of Hank. They stared at each other in silence for several moments as Scott struggled to say the words that hovered in his mouth. Why was it so hard to admit his fears?

Finally, he closed his eyes. "The Professor." When he looked up, Hank was watching him with unconcealed concern.

Scott let out his breath in a resigned sigh. "The Professor has lied to us from the beginning, Hank. I don't know why, or what about, or even if there were good reasons for him to do so." Scott wondered if he looked as betrayed as he felt. "And whatever this secret is that he's hiding, he was willing to abandon Jean to Onslaught rather than reveal it."

Both of Hank's eyebrows rose at his pronouncement. "Are you certain?"

Scott nodded unhappily. "He pretty much admitted it. Jean's... Jean's heartbroken, I think." He sighed and sat back down in his chair, propping his elbows on his knees.

Hank cocked his head slightly and scratched the bridge of his nose as he regarded Scott. "So, if Gambit-- who you never expected to be completely truthful-- could hide something as painful as the Massacre, how terrible must be the secret of a man you have trusted implicitly, correct?"

Scott looked over at his friend, compelled by the frank question that defined so perfectly how he was feeling. "Yes."

Lilandra Neramani was, in a word... upset. Though she was Empress of the largest known interstellar empire, having at her command an armada of warships capable of taking on any existing military force, and having in her very being more authority than perhaps any other sentient creature, still she was subject to the reality that life often did the unexpected... and the unimaginable.

The focus of her distress was seated in a lawn chair about ten feet away, his attention split between Storm, who was seated on the ground beside him, and the remainder of the X-Men, most of whom were obviously uncomfortable with his presence. Lilandra didn't really know the individual X-Men well enough to understand the complex undercurrents swirling around the mutant she had known simply as Gambit, and the truth was that she didn't honestly care. Her attention was riveted to the man himself and she watched his every motion with carefully veiled intensity.

She had spent the entire night wandering the halls of the mansion as she turned the thoughts around in her head, trying to make them fit together into some kind of comprehensible whole. Memories came back to her in fits and starts of late night conversations she and Charles had had, when the whole palace was asleep and it was that still, quiet time in the early morning when lovers were most honest with each other. Charles loved to tell her about his X-Men-their lives, their loves, their adventures, and the many things they did that made him so proud of them. But it was only in that one silent time of the morning that he would talk about Gambit beyond the most casual of references, as if it were a deep, dark secret that he cared for the young man at all.

The reason had always puzzled her-until now. Perhaps she alone had heard the dreadful certainty in his words and knew that he was speaking the truth. How it could be true she could not begin to guess, but as her thoughts churned throughout the night, she had become more and more convinced. All she had to do was look at Gambit. Really look. She had noted the resemblance in the past, of course, but had dismissed it as coincidence. But once she had set aside her preconceptions, she was both amazed and frightened by what she saw: The angle of the high cheekbones and the set of the dark eyes-neither one quite right for a human-- but all too familiar to her. And his movements, though usually fluid and graceful... still she caught the occasional sharp flicker that was so characteristic of her own people.

Lilandra found that she could not force herself to look at Charles. She knew he was watching her watching Gambit, but it was as if she were too afraid to read the confirmation in his eyes. Even as she berated herself for the unreasoning terror in her heart, she could not help but argue in its favor as well. Never had she allowed herself to consider the possibility of having a child with Charles. Never. It was a political bombshell that could easily cost her the throne of the Imperium, for the noble houses of her people would not take well the idea of an heir whose blood was not pure Shi'ar.

She had long ago resigned herself to the fact that, though her heart might always belong to Charles, she would have to take another consort in order to provide an heir to her throne. That had not kept her from putting the day off, of course...

Sighing softly, Lilandra pushed herself to her feet. There was no help for it, if her fears were true, and she did not believe in ignoring problems in the hopes that they might magically disappear. Her empire survived and thrived because she faced its challenges head-on and did not let them grow to such proportions that they could topple her.

The over-tall grass sucked at her boots as she walked to where Gambit and Storm sat. Both looked up at her curiously as she stopped before them, and Lilandra could feel the sudden interest of the rest of the X-Men like a ripple of heat on the back of her neck.

"Storm," she said quietly, "may I ask a favor of you?"

The white eyebrows lifted fractionally. "Of course."

"Will you calm the surface of the lake?" Lilandra nodded toward the expanse of blue-green water that shimmered in the midday sun.

Storm followed her gaze, her curiosity obvious, but she said nothing as the wind died away and the gentle lapping of the water against the shore muted slowly and then disappeared.

"It is done."

Lilandra was too absorbed in her thoughts to thank the other woman. She turned slightly and extended her hand to Gambit. "Come with me."

She found herself staring into his eyes, blood red and lit with their own inner fire. The fire was dimmed by puzzled curiosity, however, as he slowly took her hand. Lilandra was acutely aware of the warmth of his fingers and the very human texture of his skin that was so much like Charles'. As she closed her hand around his, she was struck by the significance of the act. There was blood here, if her belief was proved true. Not only blood, but responsibility and a shared destiny that would rock the Shi'ar Empire to its foundation.

Gambit did not resist her pull as he rose to his feet, and allowed her lead him toward the lake with the others drifting curiously after them.

I am about to make a spectacle, Lilandra thought as they reached the water's edge. Even on Earth, where there are none but the X-Men to care.

Gingerly, she crouched by the water and drew Gambit down with her. The still lake reflected their images in perfectly clarity, but leeched of color. The monochrome reflection suited Lilandra. It minimized the differences and allowed the underlying similarity to surface.

"What do you see?" she asked Gambit, meeting his reflected gaze.

He studied the reflection and she saw the frightened recognition that flared in his eyes as he looked between their faces. He turned to stare at her for only a moment, but a moment in which Lilandra knew that his heart was completely certain of the tie between them. She could not begin to put a name to the emotion she saw in his gaze. All she knew was that it penetrated her to her very core and left her feeling vulnerable and shaken.

Then he rose to his feet like an uncoiling spring and shook his head sharply. "Non!" With a savage twist, he freed his hand from hers. His gaze darted to Charles, filling for one moment with a wild mix of anger and hurt, but then the expression disappeared entirely as he spun on his heel and strode away from the lake.

Lilandra made no effort to reach after him. Her feelings echoed his too closely, though perhaps for different reasons. She found herself turning toward Charles, no longer afraid to meet his gaze, and was stunned by the ache she saw in his eyes. His pain dwarfed her own concerns and left her feeling obscurely shamed.

Her shame turned quickly to anger. Everything she most wanted-- as a woman rather than a ruler-- was wrapped up in that human man whose face was so much like her own. Her completely unrealizable dreams of a family and a home with her only love-- everything that she could never have-was suddenly very real. And it hurt more than she thought possible.

The stillness of the lakeside was eventually interrupted by Cyclops, who crossed his arms and looked between Charles and Lilandra with an expression of deep uncertainly.

"Would one of you please explain what just happened?"

Neither Charles nor Lilandra answered him, which, in a way, was answer enough.

Chapter 21

The silence at the lakeside grew more strained with each passing moment, and Jean looked between her husband and Charles with a growing sense of dread. There simply was no way for this to be resolved without hurting everyone involved. It seemed strange to think that she herself was really only a peripheral player in it all, a minor consequence of the things Charles had done so long ago. Despite having been turned over to Onslaught, the central player was the man who had stalked away from them, his mind a raw wound of hurt, anger and confusion.

Finally, she could no longer stand the silence. "Charles..."

Slowly, Charles raised his eyes to look at her warily, as if he were waiting in dismay for her to act on the knowledge she possessed. There was such an air of defeat about him that it frightened her. It was as if he had lost his belief in the X-Men and their ability to triumph over any challenge.

Jean bit her lip, and forced herself to speak. "Charles, you have to tell them the truth--"

Don't you see? she pleaded with him silently. It's what we don't know that's tearing us apart. The truth is the only thing that can bring us back together.

Scott turned sharply at her words, his expression sliding through surprise into suspicion. "The truth about what?" he demanded, his gaze split equally between Charles and Jean.

Jean watched Charles intently, desperately hoping that he would say something... anything to reassure her that they had not put their trust in him for so many years for naught.

She was disappointed. Slowly, Jean turned to her husband. "The truth about Gambit," she answered him and saw his expression thin. Through their link, she felt a flash of hurt and understood its source. She shook her head in response to his unspoken question.

"Charles told me some... things this morning," she admitted. Privately, she added, About Onslaught, Scott. About why he left me to that monster.

"What kind of things?" Scott wanted to know. Behind him, Rogue was watching the exchange with a look of sick terror on her face. Jean couldn't begin to guess what she knew, but the possibility of learning something else dreadful about Gambit was obviously frightening to her.

Jean glanced once more at Charles, and this time caught his eye. "I'm going to restore the memories you hid from the original X-Men," she told him with as much fortitude as she could muster, and felt the ripple of shock that ran through the team. "They have the right to those."

Ignoring the flurry of startled questions from the X-Men around them, Charles nodded in agreement, but his expression narrowed. "I was hoping you would be willing to bear with me for more than a couple of hours, Jean." The words were sardonic.

Jean blew out her breath in a sigh, fighting to keep her temper. "So did I, but now Remy knows." She crossed her arms. "There's no point in not telling the rest of them."

Charles stiffened, his eyes blazing with sudden anger. "How could you possibly know whether there was a point to it or not?" he demanded. "You have no idea what kind of damage it will cause!"

Jean was so startled by the sudden outburst that she backed up a step, but a small part of her was relieved by his reaction. Anything was better than the listless apathy of the past few minutes.

"Then tell me, Charles. Give me a reason."

Charles sank back into his chair and closed his eyes. He looked exhausted and old beyond his years. "What do you want me to say?" He looked back at her with eyes full of pain. "That in my youthful arrogance I thought I knew how to save the world? That I traded my son's life for a safe path through history? That I thought I could cheat that cost by giving him back what I took away, but now it is impossible and so I have to find some way to live with the fact that I have killed my own son?" His expression hardened into something both cold and sarcastic. "Forgive me, Jean, if I really don't want to talk about it."

Jean could only stare at him, her thoughts whirling. It didn't make sense, though his pain was too real, too raw, for her not to believe him.

"I don't understand."

Charles covered his face with one hand. "Of course not." The hardness drained out of him, leaving only a bitter regret that Jean could taste in the back of mouth. Through the link she shared with her husband, she could feel the bits of information coming together in Scott's mind and the sudden shocked realization that followed. He turned to look toward where Gambit had disappeared around the side of the house, his surprise clearly visible in his face. Jean followed his gaze for a moment, then turned back to Charles.

"What about Remy?"

Charles looked up at her, a flicker of something gentle appearing in his face and then disappearing almost before she could register it. "Is he all right?"

Jean reached out with her mind, listening for the distressed thoughts she was certain she would find, and when she did find them, she was alarmed.

Once he'd rounded the corner of the house, Remy knees gave out beneath him and he sank to the ground, knotting his fingers in the long, cool grass.

It's not true. Dis can' be happening. He was trembling violently and tiny motes of light danced in the darkness that encroached on the edges of his vision. He knew he was dangerously close to blacking out and wondered momentarily why he was fighting it. Unconsciousness would at least banish the pain and confusion for a little while.

But I don' want t' be dat much of a coward. The thought startled him, and actually helped to push the darkness back. He was a master at running away, at taking the easy way out, but the prices he'd paid for those escapes were often brutal. He'd learned that lesson with Sinister and then again in Antarctica, and he was beginning to wonder if it wouldn't be wiser to just accept things up front and get it over with.

With that in mind, he slowly let himself focus on the image of himself and Lilandra reflected in the lake. He tried to take an objective look using his mind rather than his feelings, but he found the two impossible to separate. Yes, there was a resemblance, but there were also a lot of fundamental differences. That didn't prove anything. Not without a blood test, anyway. The problem was what had happened inside his heart at the moment that he realized what Lilandra was trying to show him. It was as if he'd always had a bunch of feelings floating around inside him-- anchorless, dissociated feelings-- but the moment he'd attached the concept of mother to Lilandra, they'd all suddenly grabbed on. In short, though he could only recall a handful of times in which he'd even been in the same room as the Shi'ar Empress, he suddenly loved her with unwavering confidence. That was what drove all of his arguments and protests away. What his mind could neither encompass not accept, his heart already knew.

But the confusion of loving a complete stranger was nothing compared to the storm of emotions that ripped through him when his thoughts turned to Xavier. Lilandra he could accept-- sort of. She conjured feelings of security, strength and warmth, and though she'd never done anything, as far as he knew, to create those feelings in him, she'd never done anything to hurt him, either. Xavier on the other hand...

Remy's breath locked in his chest. His vision dimmed to almost nothing under the onslaught of emotions, and he was left scrabbling to hold on to the shredded edges of his consciousness.

Xavier claimed to be Remy's father and everything inside him rebelled at the thought. It was, strictly speaking, impossible. The Professor wasn't old enough to be his father. But with the overwhelming certainly in his heart of who Lilandra was, it became impossible to dismiss Xavier's claim. Of course, that didn't make any sense either since the two had only known each other for a couple of years-- hardly long enough to have a toddler on their hands, let alone a grown man. But the same emotional association that had happened with Lilandra also applied to the Professor. Out of nowhere, Remy suddenly found himself feeling things that he could find no reason for. There was love, respect, fear, disappointment, hurt and anguish. And on top of the emotions he couldn't explain he felt bitterly angry and betrayed by the man. How could Xavier have known... and said nothing? Was he that ashamed to admit to having a son like Remy?

Stop that. Jean's mental voice was firm and cut through his thoughts like a knife.

You in on dis, too? he shot back, not bothering to disguise his resentment. Get out o' my head.

He could almost see her lips thinning. I am not in your head. You're projecting. Then her mental voice softened. Charles said that this is some kind of Shi'ar stress reaction.

Shi'ar. Remy's thoughts spun sickeningly. The doctors had diagnosed it as a panic reaction, but he hadn't had any trouble with the blackout spells for years. The last time was just after the Massacre, in fact. But to think that the root cause had something to do with him being part Shi'ar...

"Remy, breathe." Hands gripped his shoulders, the touch rekindling his awareness of the world around him. He realized that his lungs burned painfully. After a moment, he regained enough of himself to draw a shuddering breath and the darkness that clouded his vision retreated a step.

"That's it, just take it easy." Jean's voice was gentle and reassuring as her grip changed to become something like an embrace.

It ain' true, Jean. He protested weakly, his fingers knotting in the fabric of her sleeve. Dis can' be happenin' t' me.

Jean sighed. I know, but it is, anyway.

The calm acceptance in her mental voice was like an anchor. Remy clung to that thought as his spatial sense tracked the people who gathered closely around him. His thoughts shied away from Xavier even as he registered his presence only a couple of feet away, and that of Cyclops who had pushed the wheelchair across the lawn. Lilandra stood behind Jean, her arms crossed and her body language stating clearly that the space separating her from the Professor was there intentionally. Ororo trailed a few steps behind Lilandra, but then passed her to kneel beside Jean.

Remy felt the warmth of Ororo's hands on his back and smelled the familiar musk of her cologne. The sensations were comforting and helped to push the darkness down to a manageable level, but that did nothing to dispel the bitterness inside him.

Cautiously, he opened his eyes, squinting against the bright sunlight, and raised his head to find Ororo and Jean watching him with twin expressions of concern.

"My friend, are you well?" Ororo's brows were drawn together so that they almost touched. There was deep concern and even a hint of fear in the ice blue eyes.

Remy summoned a flip smile. "Y' ever sat dere an' watched y' entire life shatter an' de pieces rain down around y'?" he asked hoarsely.

Her expression of fear deepened minutely as she nodded.

Remy felt like his smile had frozen in place, cold and brittle. "Well, dis is about de t'ird time f' me. Take m' word, Stormy, it don' get any easier."

Ororo pressed her lips together in a thin line, then reached out and took Remy's chin in her hand. She met his gaze intently. "I have told you this before... do NOT call me that."

The old joke, delivered in regal solemnity as only Ororo could manage, snapped Remy's artifice in two. He barked a laugh that was nearly a sob.

"Remy."

Remy froze at the sound of the Professor's voice, his breath choking off as a cold hand clamped around his heart. Very slowly, he pulled away from Ororo and turned to look at the man who had brought all this on him.

"How long?" Remy demanded as his anger boiled over. "I been livin' in dis house f' t'ree years, an' y' never said anyt'ing." He nearly spat the word. "So how long have y' known?"

Xavier was silent for several long moments, his face completely still save for the indecipherable emotions burning in his eyes. "How long have I known what, Remy?" he finally asked in a strangely gentle voice.

"Dat... dat..." Remy choked on the words that his mind screamed. He knew it was true, with a horrible gut-level certainty that he couldn't justify. Xavier's question was a challenge, to see if he believed enough to commit the concept to words.

Fury enveloped him. He wasn't the one who had lied and hidden things. He wasn't the one who had known, but hadn't cared enough to say anything.

Unbidden, Remy's eyes began to glow. "Not'ing," he bit out.

Xavier's gaze jerked away from his, and Remy tasted bile. He shook off Jean and Ororo and rose unsteadily to his feet. He had hardly taken a step when a hand closed around his arm with surprising strength. Remy looked down to find the Professor staring at him.

"How long have I known that you are my son?" he asked in a voice that was both fierce and soft. Ororo's gasp of surprise punctuated the question as Remy's knees threatened to buckle once more.

Speechless, Remy nodded and Xavier's eyes narrowed in pain. "Thirteen years, Remy." His expression was ashen. "Thirteen years."

General Gerard Donovan leaned back in his chair and let his eyes sag shut. What a mess.

Three days ago, Project Grayscape was a little-known research project with a well-obscured budget and even better-obscured agenda. Today...

He snorted sourly. Today, Grayscape was a crater in the ground. Luckily, the prototype equipment had already been taken off site for field testing and they'd managed to rescue a number of the psions, so it wasn't a complete loss. But the damage to the program was daunting. Questions were coming fast and furious now as more information about the destruction of the Arizona installation became available. The White House had already released a statement saying that the blast heard as far away as Las Vegas was the result of a nuclear test, which was earning the administration an overwhelming round of censure from other world leaders. However, that was preferable to admitting that a top secret program aimed at developing psi weapons had been attacked by two separate mutant groups and a spaceship possibly representing a third and non-human interest.

Donovan opened his eyes and leaned forward abruptly, his gaze focusing on the grainy black-and-white photographs spread across his desk. Satellite photos were hardly the best for this kind of thing, but at least they gave him an idea of what had happened. Originally, the base had been attacked by the large mutant group. At least, their experts thought they were mutants. The leader most certainly was. He had been tentatively identified as one so-called Erik the Red, which was interesting since they had absolutely zero information on Erik's real identity. Intel rumor was that he was originally a persona invented by one of the X-Men almost eight years ago, but which had been revived on occasion by a number of different people.

The rest of the attacking forces led by Erik the Red were surprisingly homogeneous for a mutant strike force. They had identified two basic "types", the large cats and the bipedals, which had already been dubbed "Ed" by the majority of the staff because of their alarming resemblance to a movie character named Edward Scissorhands. The evidence pointed to these forces being some kind of mutate or other created mutant population. They had several bodies of the Ed type for the lab folks to go over, but the cats appeared to disintegrate at death. He would be very interested to hear what the doctors concluded once they'd had a chance to study the bodies.

The second group to arrive on the scene appeared to be a small contingent of X-Men. That was disturbing in and of itself because the X-Men had been sniffing around Project Grayscape for several months, though Donovan had been assured that they were no where close to finding anything concrete. Obviously, that assumption was incorrect, and three of the mutant outlaws had shown up very soon after the fireworks started. They were accompanied by two other mutants, both of whom were currently unidentified. Donovan was somewhat surprised that the group was so small. The X-Men behaved like a pack, and when one or more of their members was besieged, the rest tended to show up quickly.

It was possible that the spaceship was supposed to fill that backup role. It hadn't uncloaked until it was well into the atmosphere, and had obviously been targeting Erik the Red's mutant force rather than the X-Men. The data was sketchy at best, but their current hypothesis was that the ship had crashed because of something the mystery mutant Erik had done to it. It was too precisely targeted to take out the base or possibly the X-Men, to have been an accident.

The phone rang, shattering his introspection. Donovan picked it up with a grunt.

"Yes?"

"Sir, this is Captain Towler. I'm down in the Spectral Analysis lab. I think we've got something here you should see."

Donovan agreed curtly and then hauled himself out of his chair. He found he had to dig out a map of the Pentagon to figure out where the Spectral Analysis lab was, but about fifteen minutes later he was walking through the high-tech tangle of computing equipment and lab paraphernalia.

Captain Towler motioned him over to one of the computer stations where a young man in a lab coat was seated at the keyboard. The large monitor displayed a picture that Donovan recognized from his desk, but the satellite photo was barely visible beneath several layers of wavy colored blotches that radiated away from the fuzzy dot that was Erik the Red.

"What is this?" Donovan asked the Captain.

"It's an analysis of the radiant energy aura of Erik the Red," answered the young tech and Donovan pinned him with a cold stare for his impertinence.

"Sir," Towler said quickly, "the satellite that took the pictures you saw was one of our Voodoo IV spy birds, which is equipped with a full spectrum sensor package. We downloaded all of the data at the same time as the photo images, but it has taken this long to process it." He gestured toward the odd picture on the screen. "But what we discovered is... rather... amazing." He paused. "Even disturbing."

That caught Donovan's attention. Towler wasn't the kind to get spooked by mutant shenanigans. "So what am I looking at here?"

Towler turned to the tech. "Let's start from the beginning and layer it up, just like you showed me."

The tech nodded. "O.k." He tapped a few keys and the colors disappeared from the screen, leaving only the satellite photo image. Then he glanced up at Donovan.

"General, this is one of the pictures recorded by the satellite. Everything I'm going to put on top of it was recorded at the same time. Each layer of colors represents a different kind of energy that Erik was throwing out."

Donovan nodded and the man typed a command, which covered the pictures in multiple shades of blue, green and purple. Erik's figure was fairly glowing with a vibrant purple color that faded into blues and greens in an uneven star-like pattern as it spread out away from him. On the edge of the photo was a second figure that was highlighted with a star of colors, though this one was mostly blue.

"All right," the tech said, pointing to Erik. "This is the psi energy filter, and Erik here reads almost off the scale."

"Level 20," Towler interjected and Donovan turned to look at him, his stomach tightening.

"Are you sure?"

"That's what the purple means, sir."

Donovan turned back to the screen. "Then who's this?" He tapped the blue star.

"That's the X-Man Phoenix. She's estimated to be a 17 or so-- high alpha mutant. This Erik is definitely Omega class."

Donovan chewed on his lip, thoughts spinning. "Is there any way this could be Xavier?" he finally asked.

Towler shook his head. "No, sir. Xavier was definitely still in the complex when Erik attacked, and some of the photos suggest that he was one of the prisoners Erik took with him when he teleported out." Towler paused significantly. "However, it is interesting that you should mention Xavier."

"Why?"

Towler shook his head. "Let's finish this first. It should become obvious."

Uncertain what to think of the cryptic statement, Donovan turned his attention back to the image on the computer. The tech typed a few more commands, and a second layer of color was laid on top of the blue and purple one. The result was a poor mesh of hues that reminded him of nothing so much as a child's fingerpainting. The second layer of color appeared to be in shades of orange, yellow and brown, and as he stared the patterns began to emerge. This time, the figure of Erik was the sole generator of this particular type of energy.

The tech finished on the keyboard. "This second filter is an EM-- electro-magnetic-- filter. The yellow represents the normal EM field for this particular part of the planet under these atmospheric conditions. The darker the shade is, the greater the deviation from the norm."

Donovan peered at the screen. Erik was, indeed, surrounded by a dark bubble that would seem to indicate that he was manipulating the planet's magnetic field. The conclusion Donovan drew from that was not entirely unexpected.

"Magneto?" After all, there had never been any proof of the man's death.

Towler pursed his lips. "Maybe. Probably, even, but that's not all there is."

Frowning, Donovan crossed his arms. The tech typed new commands, and this time, the overlay was a kind of black squiggle that looked for all the world like someone had taken a charcoal pencil and scrawled on the screen. Somehow, though, the jagged black lines managed to convey a sense of menace that Donovan was at a loss to explain. He cocked an eyebrow at the tech in silent question.

The tech looked down at the keyboard. "This is what we've been calling the empath band. It's a variety of psi energy that seems to affect emotion rather than conscious or even unconscious thought."

"Is the black signifcant?"

The tech nodded. "Different emotions are generated in different places in the brain, and have different ‘frequencies' if you want to call them that. This filter assigns a different color to each one."

Donovan felt a small lump of unease forming in his stomach. "And the black is?"

The tech glanced up at him uncertainly. "It's fear, sir."

Donovan found himself relaxing slightly. "So Erik was projecting fear during the attack?"

Towler shook his head. "No, General. We think he was absorbing it."

Donovan looked between Towler and the young tech, gauging their expressions. "So what's the bad news here?" he finally asked. There was definitely something the two were leading up to.

The tech turned back to his computer and began typing. "This last filter is just an attempt to extrapolate the data we have and create a kind of standard energy signature for Erik." The image was redrawn and Donovan could see where the colors had been muted or slightly rearranged.

"So this is Erik the Red." Under the tech's rapid typing, the screen split into two panes, with the picture of Erik occupying the left half. "Now, take a look at this one."

A second image appeared on the right, and Donovan was immediately struck by the similarity between the two colored auras. The second image was not a satellite picture but rather a conventional photo, taken at great distance through a telephoto lens. The mad collection of colors obscured any details of the man's appearance, but given the quality, Donovan didn't think he'd be able to make out the man's features even without them.

"This is another picture of Erik?" Donovan asked with a gesture toward the second picture.

Slowly, Towler shook his head. "No, sir. That's Onslaught."

For a moment, Donovan was so startled he forgot to breathe.

"Are you saying that you think this Erik the Red is actually Onslaught?" he demanded once his lungs resumed functioning.

Towler shrugged, but the tech shook his head. "There are enough differences between these signatures that they could potentially be two different entities." The tech gave Donovan an uncomfortable look. "But I've got to admit that they're close enough to give me a serious case of the shivers."

Donovan stared at the screen with a growing sense of dismay. This could not possibly be Onslaught. Everything they'd heard said that Onslaught had been destroyed during the battle in New York. Donovan bit his lip. But no matter who he was, Erik the Red was a threat that his superiors needed to know about.

Chapter 22

The silence in the mansion's living room was almost unbearable. But, there seemed to be a lot of uncomfortable silences these days, Jean thought. All of the X-Men had gathered at Professor Xavier's request though most of them were unaware of why save that it had something to do with Gambit.

For his part, Remy could have turned to stone for all the reaction he was showing. He lounged in a folding chair in the farthest corner of the room from Charles, his arms crossed and his long face betraying absolutely nothing. Jean could read no more from his mind than she could from his face, though she now had an inkling of how his shields could be so strong. That didn't keep her from wishing she could see through them, however, if even a little bit.

The only veteran X-Man missing from the room was Scott. After the confrontation outside, Charles had returned to the house and made a single phone call. Sometime after that, Scott had left, telling Jean only that he would be back in a few hours.

"So where's ol' fearless leader?" Logan asked her, his expression grim in contrast to his words. "It ain't like him t' be late t' a team meetin'."

"He went to the airport," Charles answered quietly. "At my request." His eyes turned toward Remy but jerked away before they reached him. "There is one other person who should be included in this."

"Not to spoil the surprise or anything--" Bobby's attempted levity sounded flat in the tense room, "but what exactly is 'this'?"

Charles didn't answer, and Jean could feel the uncertainty in the minds around her rise yet another notch. She surveyed the room, her gaze eventually meeting Logan's and pausing there. She was surprised by the sadness that shadowed his normally clear blue eyes.

"Seems t' me it's a reckonin' o' sorts." Logan broke away from Jean to look at Charles. "Ain' it."

Charles simply nodded.

Bobby harrumphed, misinterpreting the exchange. "Well, it's about time," he groused, darting a glance at Gambit.

Jean felt a burst of anger as Charles' head snapped up, centering on the young mutant. As much as she loved him like a younger brother, Bobby's occasional prejudices bothered her, and the one he held against Gambit was stronger than most.

Bobby paled under Charles' cold stare. Jean could feel Charles fighting for control of his temper and was somewhat reassured when he mastered it.

"This 'reckoning', as Logan so aptly put it does, indeed, have a great deal to do with Remy but very little to do with the Morlocks." Charles straightened in his seat as many X-Men cast covert looks in Gambit's direction. Seated beside Remy, Ororo's brows dipped at the mention of the Morlocks, and Jean found herself wondering how the other woman had resolved those issues in her heart.

Charles' voice firmed. "This is my reckoning, Bobby. For what I have done to Remy... and to you all."

Bobby turned to look uncertainly at Gambit, then back to Charles. Out of the corner of her eye, Jean saw Remy stiffen and felt a stab of sympathy. She couldn't begin to imagine how he was feeling right now.

Off to one side, nearly equidistant from both Remy and Charles, stood Lilandra. She wore an emotionless mask similar to Gambit's, though Jean suspected there was a great deal going on behind it. Jean forbore prying, even a little, because the emotions involved were so intensely personal that she felt like a voyeur whenever she accidentally caught a stray thought.

The sound of a car engine pulling up in front of the house effectively ended the discussion. The gathered mutants waited silently, listening to the sounds of the front door opening and closing, and the mismatched cadence of footsteps growing nearer. Jean was not surprised to see the man who entered behind Scott, but she was fairly certain everyone else was.

Gambit's nonchalance shattered and he sprang to his feet, his eyes glowing. The heavy shields that hid his mind cracked for a moment and Jean felt the razor edge of his anger slide across her psyche. It was an anger that hid a tremendous well of hurt behind it, she realized.

"You!"

Jean Luc LeBeau turned and met Remy's gaze. "Oui," he agreed softly. Then he pulled himself up to his full height and bowed to Remy with remarkable grace. It was an archaic but courtly gesture, almost never seen in the United States, and yet it seemed somehow appropriate.

Remy was taken aback. His eyes narrowed suspiciously and his gaze remained locked on Jean Luc as the thief crossed the room and extended his hand to Charles. Jean felt a hot flash of betrayal from Remy at the gesture before his shields solidified.

She was still struggling with her own emotions following Charles betrayal when he'd given her over to Onslaught, so she could hardly imagine what Remy was thinking at that moment with not one father, but two seemingly united against him...

"Jean Luc, it's good to see you again." Charles accepted the proffered hand, his face creasing with the first genuine smile Jean had seen since their return.

Jean Luc returned the smile with equal affection. "Charles." But then his smile died. "I assume dis means de time has come."

Charles nodded and gestured to an empty chair beside him. Jean Luc settled himself quickly, seeming oblivious to the roomful of stares that were fastened on him. Jean smiled to herself. The boy she had met so long ago had carried himself well, but she could definitely see where Remy had learned his unflappable cool.

"De last time we spoke, Remy told me a bit 'bout Onslaught." The comment from Jean Luc was almost conversational, but the gaze that settled on Remy momentarily before returning to Charles was anything but. "What happened? I don' remember dat bein' part o' de plan."

In the corner, Remy's eyes narrowed to slits. All around Jean, the thoughts of the X-Men echoed the sentiment, but no one spoke. They were all at least as interested in Charles' answer as Jean Luc was.

Charles shook his head sadly. "It wasn't. We... I should have done this sometime after we returned from Avalon, but I... allowed myself to be distracted."

Jean Luc's snort spoke volumes. Charles' lips twisted wryly. "All right. I put it off out of sheer terror. And then, when I began to suspect that there was something... wrong with me, I didn't dare."

Jean was surprised by how much Jean Luc's arrival fortified Charles. The other man's presence alone had dulled the sharp edge of his pain. But, she mused, if the Cajun thief was the only confidant he'd had for such heavy secrets, perhaps that wasn't surprising after all.

Jean Luc simply nodded as if that explanation was sufficient for him.

Through their link, Jean could feel Scott's confusion, his suspicion, and a sense of burgeoning dread. The X-Men's field leader turned one of the remaining empty chairs around, sat down on it backwards and folded his arms across the back. His every motion was an understated defiance that Jean was certain was not lost on Charles.

"We're all here, Professor," Scott said, his clipped tone betraying his feelings by the utter lack of emotion. "As you requested."

The small comfort Jean Luc had brought Charles evaporated as he turned to Scott. Jean felt a sudden lump in her throat. Scott's shattered trust was like a bed of hot, jagged splinters against her mind and Charles' grief at seeing that broken trust assaulted her from the other side. Jean squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, fighting for control.

Charles met Scott's gaze for several long moments, then broadened his focus to take in the whole room. "Very well. I suppose the best thing will be to start here in the present." He turned once again to Scott. "Scott or Jean, will you please explain why you came searching for me? What you... discovered about me?"

Jean looked to her husband questioningly and he nodded tersely. You're the one that figured it out. Jean was dismayed by the anger in his mental tone, though she knew it wasn't directed at her.

Jean sighed. "While Scott and I were in Alaska, I kept going over some of the... encounters I'd had with Onslaught on the Astral plane." Jean saw Betsy's eyebrows rise sharply at that. The two telepaths had spoken little about the events of Onslaught, mostly because Jean had avoided the issue whenever Betsy questioned her.

"At one point, Onslaught took me into Charles' mind and threw me down into a pit filled with all of the ugly thoughts and evil inclinations Charles had ever had in his life." She saw some surprise on the faces around her and shook her head. "Everyone has those thoughts and feelings, but we tend to disperse them in our minds, tuck them away in corners where we won't have to look at them again. But Charles had put all of that mental. . . muck into a single location." She shivered involuntarily at the memory. "Onslaught took me there because he wanted to use those things to erode my confidence in Charles. He failed in that, but once Onslaught was gone, I kept going back to that place in my memory because it bothered me so." She swept the room with her gaze. "What I finally discovered was that the pit Charles created in his mind was a protective shield for a doorway. A locked door in his mind behind which is hidden... I don't know what, exactly. Secrets he has been keeping for a very long time." She turned to look at Charles. "That's why we started looking for him."

Charles nodded slowly. "Now the time has come for me to open that door and show you all that is behind it." He took a deep, bracing breath. "The story is very long and convoluted. I must ask you to be patient and listen until I'm finished. It simply isn't going to make any sense at first." He paused as if struck by a sudden thought. Then he turned to Jean.

"It might be best to give you all an idea of where we will eventually arrive." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Jean has told you that I... removed some memories from the minds of the five original X-Men."

Jean felt the surge of hurt and betrayal from those around her. Jean had said it once, but for the Professor to openly admit to such an act made it impossible to disbelieve.

Charles' gaze faltered. "Jean," he said softly, "will you please restore those memories as you did with your own?"

Jean nodded. "What about the others?" What about Remy?

"If one of you four would be willing to share your memories with the rest, that would probably be the best choice."

And Remy's memories? she persisted.

You know it's more than just a week for him, Charles answered wearily. You can't just go into his mind and restore his memories.

Why not?

Because you would die.

Jean could only stare at Charles for a moment, disturbed by his flat prediction. After a moment, Charles met her gaze. "Jean, please."

She bit her lip, but then nodded. "All right."

Trying to shove away her uncertainties, she turned her thoughts to the task that Charles had set for her. Restoring the memories of the original X-Men would be relatively simple. Her thoughts settled momentarily on Warren and she felt a pang of sorrow. He'd been there, too, and she wondered what he would think if he could see Remy as something other than the man who created the Marauders. Sighing, she offered up a fleeting prayer for his safety, then forced herself back to her task.

Jean cleared her throat self-consciously. "I can restore Scott's, Hank's and Bobby's memories, and then replay my own memories of that time for the rest of you." She felt a flush of warmth rising in her cheeks as she mentally reviewed what she would be giving them. "Just please bear in mind that I was sixteen at the time and had a tremendous crush."

Scott's eyebrows dipped and she could feel his perplexity through their link. "A crush? On who?"

Jean rolled her eyes toward the ceiling with a resigned sigh. "Remy."

Remy, who had finally returned to his seat, sat bolt upright. "Quoi?"

"What?" Scott echoed in disbelief.

Jean met her husband's bewildered gaze and smiled sheepishly. "Nevermind. You'll see."

The X-Men were all gaping at her in various degrees of surprise, but before anyone could come up with another embarrassing question for her, Jean touched their minds and showed them the events of that week so many years ago. By the time she was done, they were no longer staring at her. They were staring at Remy. Rogue had both hands clapped over her mouth in an expression of dismayed surprise, and even Ororo had turned toward him, her eyes wide.

"Now jus' wait a minute--" he began, his thoughts projecting surprise, doubt and a defensive anger. "Dat never happened!"

Jean bit her lip at the vehement denial. It wasn't so much about the events of that week and his presence at the mansion. Those, though strange, were fairly innocuous. It was the accumulated shock of so many revelations-- of so many pieces of his life torn apart, exposed as a long-term fraud perpetrated on him by the only people he had ever allowed himself to trust.

Charles' fingers gripped the arms of his wheelchair until the knuckles turned white. "Yes, it did," he returned evenly. "You just don't remember."

Remy's eyes narrowed to slits, the red glow of his pupils snaking out through his eyelashes like tiny fingers of flame. In that moment, he ceased to look even remotely human and his mental shields snapped back into place with such force that Jean winced in sympathy.

"Sounds like y' done an awful lot o' messin' wit' m' head." The words were flat, angry.

Wolverine's growl punctuated his sentiment, and Jean glanced over at him. Of all of those present, she guessed, he would be the most angered by what Charles had done.

Charles took a deep breath, his expression reflecting deep regret. "Yes... I have."

"How much?" Remy demanded and Jean felt Charles' mind clench with apprehension.

Charles didn't answer immediately and Remy turned his anger towards the man that, until recently, he had called father.

"How much?!" he demanded again.

This was a pivotal moment, and Jean found herself leaning forward in anticipation. She had some idea what the answer would be, but she, too, wanted to know the whole truth.

Charles glanced briefly at Jean Luc as if looking for support, then turned back at Remy. "Everything you remember before joining the Thieves Guild is false."

The glowing eyes slowly widened in disbelief. "But... I was fifteen..." He was stunned, his face draining of color.

Jean watched him in concern. With his pupils hidden by the fiery red glow and his mind sealed off behind his shields, she had no way of gauging whether this was the onset of another stress-induced panic attack. She was reassured, however, when Ororo reached over to lay a hand on his arm and he responded with a glance in her direction, and then drew her closer, his expression tightening.

Jean's attention was dragged away from the two as Logan leapt to his feet and stalked toward Charles. "Lemme get this straight, Chuck. Are ya sayin' ya wiped out fifteen years o' Gumbo's memories?" His lips were curled in a snarl as he pointed behind him at Remy.

Charles met the fearsome gaze without flinching. "Yes, Logan, that's what I'm saying."

Logan's claws slid out of their sheaths with their familiar, frightening sound and Jean sucked in her breath. Around her, the X-Men tensed. Rogue stepped forward as if to intervene, but was restrained by Joseph's hand on her shoulder. After a moment, she shook Joseph off, but stayed where she was.

Logan raised one hand, though he did not directly threaten Charles with his claws. "All these years ya been preachin' at us 'bout usin' our powers ta help folks an' givin' everyone the chance ta choose their own path..." The fingers of his raised hand curled into a fist as his anger grew. "Yer a hypocrite, Professor. What ya did ain't any different from what Weapon X did ta me! It's a kind o' mental rape an' don't ya dare tell me ya had good enough reasons ta justify it!"

"Logan!" Scott barked a warning, coming out of his chair to place a restraining arm on the angry mutant though his gaze was fixed on Charles. Jean could feel Scott's anger boiling beneath the surface and Charles' shame as he faced them.

Logan shrugged off Scott's grip, his attention focused entirely on Charles, who looked away from the righteous fury in the other man's eyes.

"I... no longer know if the reasons were good enough." Charles pressed his lips together, his expression pained. "But what I did, I did with permission." He raised his gaze to Logan's, and Jean could see the silent plea there.

After a moment, Logan lowered his arm, but Jean could tell from his expression that he was far from mollified. She glanced over at Remy, who stood with his arms crossed, his face hard with suppressed fury. She didn't think he believed Charles' claim, though he didn't say anything.

Charles heaved a tired sigh. "Please, Logan. This will only make sense if I start at the beginning and explain everything."

Logan stared at him for several moments, then nodded abruptly. He turned on his heel and stalked back to his chair. "Start talkin'," he said as he sat.

Jean could see Charles collecting his thoughts. "There is no clear beginning to this story," he finally said, his gaze roving across them all. "But I suppose the best place to start is with our deaths." A flicker of surprise ran around the room, and Charles smiled humorlessly. "You see, the X-Men were betrayed and murdered by one of their own..."

Sighing contentedly, Renee closed her eyes and let herself slide completely beneath the warm water. Her bath was almost big enough to be labeled a pool. The stone tub was chiseled out of the native rock, with the lip sitting only a foot above the level of the floor. It was a circle nearly eight feet in diameter and perhaps four feet deep. Hot and cold water was piped in from somewhere within the mountain, though Renee hadn't discovered where. Lilies floated on the surface of the water, filling the air with their gentle scent. Renee was very curious where the flowers came from. Her bath was always decorated with them. She knew they were in a desert and the flowers were very fragile. Still, Apocalypse had to have some kind of regular supply shipment to provide food and other perishables to his household.

Renee rolled over onto her stomach beneath the water with a languorous stretch. Her back and neck ached from the strain of hunching over Apocalypse's console, and from the effort to absorb the information he threw at her. She was still very uncertain of what she'd gotten herself into. Apocalypse was a harsh taskmaster who held no sympathy for the physical or mental limits of his new student, which was apparently what she had become. It did not seem to matter to him that she couldn't read Egyptian hieroglyphs at all and could hardly speak the language. He expected her to understand him no matter what language he used and today he had finally sent her away in disgust for her lack of comprehension.

Angel's gloating grin as she'd walked away still made her cheeks burn. If her uncle had despised her before, he now hated her, and seemed intent on tormenting her at every opportunity. She had four puncture wounds on the back of her hand from where he'd sunk his talons into her skin in the process of handing her a data cube. He'd been careful not to allow his skin to touch hers and since his talons were effectively dead cells, they hadn't triggered her powers. She was grateful for that, at least. There was nothing she could do to prevent his subtle attacks, but she was glad not to have to fight her powers at the same time.

Pushing the thoughts away, she surfaced. She opened her eyes, expecting to find Shala waiting at the tub's edge with her robe, and gasped. Apocalypse stared at her impassively as she scrambled to tuck her body against the near wall of the pool, hopefully out of his line of sight, and stared at him wide eyed over the lip of the tub.

Unfazed, Apocalypse raised the complex-looking machine he held in his hands, showing it to her. "This module will help you to learn the hieroglyphs quickly."

Renee blinked the water out of her eyes, unnerved by his presence and his disinterested stare. "Now?"

The gray eyes narrowed fractionally. "Do not waste my time with foolish questions, healer."

Renee's breath caught in her throat. Apocalypse had no patience for anything but instant obedience, but she found herself frozen in place by his stare.

"...thank you," she tried hesitantly, acutely aware of the slate-colored eyes that bored into her own.

For the barest moment, Apocalypse's gaze faltered. Renee's heart skipped a beat and her cheeks flared as a hard rush of adrenaline pulsed through her. He knew! For all his cold, aloof attitude and ageless superiority, the creature who fancied himself a god was still a man underneath and he knew he'd been staring.

Renee bit her lip against a peal of hysterical, terrified laughter. She was sorely tempted to simply sink back under the warm water and not come up again until he'd left, if she came up at all. But after that one flicker, his gaze had retaken hers and now held her with the flat inflexibility she was accustomed to, demanding that she obey. She was certain he knew she'd seen the momentary lapse, but he was not going to acknowledge it.

A hundred thoughts tumbled through her head as she stared up at him. He held the upper hand here and they both knew it. Apocalypse held the power to debase her in any manner he chose, including this one. And yet, that tiny piece of exposed humanity was a crack in his armor if she could find a way to use it. She was not manipulative by nature, but her years of service to the Shadow King had taught her something about the value of an advantage.

Gathering her wits as well as her courage, Renee nodded toward the small bench that sat against the wall. "My robe is over there." She held her breath as Apocalypse followed her gaze to the pile of white cloth that lay across the bench seat.

He did not move for a painfully long interval, but finally he turned. His face was completely devoid of expression as he crossed the room, set down the machine on the little bench and picked up her robe. She watched in fascination as he returned and held the long garment open for her. Their gazes met once more, and Apocalypse's expression twitched with the barest acknowledgment. Then, to her utter amazement, he turned his head aside, averting his gaze.

Feeling as if her knees had turned to jelly, Renee climbed out of the tub in a cascade of water and slid into the waiting robe. Apocalypse's demeanor was impersonal as he settled it over her shoulders, and he turned away as soon as she drew the heavy folds around her. He went to retrieve the machine he'd brought and then walked out into the main room of Renee's quarters, leaving her nothing to do but follow.

The entity known only as the Gamesmaster allowed his awareness of the events transpiring in Apocalypse's buried palace to fade with a sense of satisfaction. One of the aspects of his mutant power allowed him to become a witness to any occurrence he chose, and it was an invaluable ability.

The LeBeau child was everything he could have hoped for. She was a survivor like her father and that core of strength would make her exactly what was needed. Managing Apocalypse was a difficult task at best. Ancient and powerful, he was not swayed by most of the normal pressures the Gamesmaster could bring to bear against him. It had been necessary to weaken him or else nothing could have diverted him from his aeons-long march to High Lordship. However, having accomplished that task, the Gamesmaster was left with a new challenge, that of prying Apocalypse out of his fortress at the appropriate time. If the immortal mutant decided to retreat to his mystical sources and hibernate until his strength returned, all would be lost.

The Gamesmaster did not dwell on that possibility. As he watched, events played out according to his will, marching inexorably toward the end he desired. He would not fail. Xavier was fallen and Neramani would soon rise. Apocalypse, too, was well in hand. All that remained was to coach the final player into position.

Confident that his plan was proceeding apace, the Gamesmaster turned his attention toward Washington.

Chapter 23

Jean stood quietly behind her husband, watching him as he stared out the window, his arms crossed and his expression the pensive frown she recognized. Though he was aware of her presence, he didn't move and Jean finally stepped up beside him, threading her arm through his. He glanced at her then, a single unrevealing look that only served to accentuate the stale anger that emanated through their rapport. She understood his feelings, even if she didn't entirely share them. Charles had violated his own dream by his actions, had manipulated all of them, had sacrificed lives... but his reasons for doing so were overwhelming. Whether she agreed with his choice or not, she could not help but feel a terrible sense of sympathy for what he had suffered because of it.

Sighing, Jean laid her head against Scott's arm. "I think the shock is beginning to wear off," she commented. It had been almost two days since Charles' confession.

He gave a sour snort. "Really? I keep hoping I'll wake up and find out this isn't real."

Jean smiled at his sarcastic rejoinder, recognizing that there was little behind it. "I did say ‘starting to'."

Scott uncrossed his arms with a sigh and drew Jean into a hug, tucking his chin against her shoulder.

"Are you ready to talk to the Professor?" she asked after a moment.

His hands tightened around her. "To be honest, I think I'd rather talk to Remy." He paused and Jean felt a wash of regret from him that was keen but also somehow almost wistful. "I owe him an apology for helping to talk him into this... this madness."

"You didn't know," Jean told him, wishing she could offer a better reassurance. Guilt was something that Scott did not handle well and his own small contribution to Remi's choice, she knew, was eating at him.

He shook his head, his chin grinding painfully against her shoulder. "No, I didn't. But I just can't fathom how the Professor could even have asked him to--" He bit off the rest of his sentence as his simmering anger swelled.

Jean pulled back until she could look into her husband's face. "Scott, you were there and so was I. We were so new to our powers." She shook her head sadly. "Remi could have killed any of us-- except for Charles-- without batting an eye. I mean, he went head-to-head with the Shadow King in that other timeline." She paused, trying to organize her thoughts. "I honestly think Charles was terrified by the prospect of what could happen if that much power went out of control. Remember what happened in the Danger Room? He had real reason to believe it might happen."

Scott released her abruptly and turned back to the window. "That doesn't excuse him." His darting glance dared her to contradict him. "It wasn't the Professor's choice to make. Do you realize that he has single-handedly choreographed the course of history for the last decade plus?" He turned toward her, his voice rising. "Are you ready to dismiss the fact that he let you die, Jean? That he did nothing to prevent the Dark Phoenix, or the development of the Sentinels, or Genosha, or the Morlock Massacre, or the Legacy Virus?"

Jean sucked in a sharp breath. "What about the fact that his intervention-- or manipulation or whatever you want to call it-- prevented the Shadow King from defeating us at Muir Island, Scott?" she shot back. "You would have been the one to die there." She pointed an accusing finger at his chest. "Which world would you rather have? Ours? Or the other one?"

"Neither!" he snapped. "What makes you think we could have possibly ended up in that exact situation?" He gestured in frustration. "The moment Remi jumped into our time, everything changed! The Professor had no right to arbitrarily choose how our future would go."

Jean shifted back a step beneath the intensity of his stare. "What if Charles was right, and Remi would have lost his mind?" she asked quietly. "What if we ended up with another Legion on our hands? What then?"

Scott pressed his lips together in a thin line. "You can't guarantee that would have happened."

Jean shook her head. "But it could have. Look, Scott--" she held up a hand to forestall him. "I don't believe that what he did was right." She waited a moment, watching to be certain that he'd absorbed her words. "I do agree that it was probably the path of least risk."

Scott stared at her and she shrugged diffidently. "I don't know the answer, Scott. Maybe there was a better choice. Maybe not."

Scott's brow dipped. "Would you be willing to tell Gambit that?" he challenged.

Jean paused. Would she? Would she be willing to walk up to Remy and tell him that his pain was justified because of the results? The answer came back surprisingly fast. After all, she, too, had once sacrificed her life for the good of others.

"Yes, I would." Then she cocked her head. "You know, this is the first time you've ever defended Gambit to me. Usually it's the other way around."

Scott gave her a sour look, his evaporating anger leaving only a mild bitter aftertaste. "Go ahead, rub it in."

Jean smiled thinly. It was all a matter of perspective, and the X-Men's opinions of Remy had shifted radically in the last couple of days. Jean was forced to admit that she felt her own portion of shame. It was hard to justify condemning Remy for his part in the Massacre once she understood what he had also done to protect them. It was... ungrateful. The part of her that was trained in psychology shook its head at her thoughts, however. After all, Remy was still the same person who had helped murder the Morlocks. The knowledge they now possessed did not make the man who had done those things any less cold or hard or thoughtless of the consequences. And though it was obvious that Remy had changed in the years since then, the damage those actions had done to the X-Men, and the fundamental issues of trust and responsibility, had not.

Jean shook her head. She could argue with herself as much as she liked. The truth was that her heart was intent on simply forgetting the Massacre, forgetting the hurts and the lies, and seeing only the young prince she had met so many years ago.

Scott seemed to sense her turning thoughts and drew her close again. His fingers tangled in the hair that covered the back of her neck and Jean closed her eyes with a sigh.

"Is Remy still on the roof?" Scott asked after a moment.

Jean reached out with her mind, searching. Gambit hadn't gone there immediately after Charles finished his explanation, but no one was surprised that he'd eventually migrated to that spot. The weather was poor in reflection of Storm's distress over both Remy her own fate as the Shadow Queen in that other timeline, but neither rain nor snow had ever kept Gambit from brooding in his favorite spot.

She registered a second presence on the roof with a touch of surprise. "Yes, and with company." She chewed briefly on her lip as she listened to the conversation. She was just barely skimming the surfaces of their minds and likened it to eavesdropping more than a telepathic intrusion, but after a moment she was satisfied and let her awareness fade. "It's all right, I think."

Scott's expression lightened minutely. "It's a good sign anyway. I'm almost tempted to call a team training session just to get him into the house, at least."

Jean looked up at him, surprised by a sudden thought. "Actually, a little bit of normal X-Men routine might be good for everyone. Lilandra promised us equipment and techs, now that a ship has arrived from Chandilar. We could probably get the Danger Room back into some semblance of working order."

"And maybe find an excuse to get Lilandra to come back down here and deal with her son?" he asked archly.

Jean grinned. "You make me sound so conniving." Her smile faded. "It would be good for them both. And Charles."

Scott sighed, his good humor dissolving. "Right."

Remy didn't move as a presence impinged on his spatial awareness. Rogue hovered a good ways above him, watching, as she had several times during the past days. He ignored her now as he had before, feeling as if he simply did not possess the energy to deal with whatever she might want.

To his dismay, she began to descend until she lit on the roof a few feet from him. She stood there, unmoving, until Remy's curiosity forced him to sneak a glance in her direction. Rogue met his gaze without reaction, her expression a mixture of interest and concern. Her hair was beginning to soak through from the cold drizzle, but she paid the rain no attention. Her uniform was the green-and-white one she seemed to have adopted in his absence, and she held a tattered blanket folded across one arm.

After a moment, Remy looked away. It wasn't really that he minded her presence. Antarctica had become somewhat... insignificant in the last few days. Mostly, he just didn't want to risk digging into anything that had to do with their relationship right now. He was certain there was a big can of worms there that would take time, effort and commitment to unravel-- things he didn't feel he could offer at the moment.

Interpreting his silence as acceptance, Rogue came forward and knelt beside him on the shingles. Remy stared resolutely ahead, unconsciously steeling himself. He was surprised when she said nothing, but instead shook out the blanket she was carrying and draped it across his shoulders.

Remy couldn't resist a puzzled glance. His armor-- the Shi'ar armor that Lilandra had coincidentally given him and which filled him with too many conflicting emotions to name-- was both warm and waterproof. He was surprisingly comfortable despite the weather.

Rogue gave him a flickering smile as her arms encircled his shoulders. "A long time ago, seems like, ya came up here ta give me some comfort... as a friend. Ah was hopin' ah could return the favor."

Remy continued to stare as memory drew him back to that day. It did seem like it was a long time ago, and yet he recalled with perfect clarity what it had felt like to hold her that afternoon, and the fiercely tender affection that had filled his heart as she cried in his arms.

He surprised himself by reaching over to lay his hand on her forearm and squeezing it lightly. "T'ank y'."

Her answering smile was brilliant. With a soft sigh, she settled herself, but instead of sitting beside him, she kept her arms around him, leaning her weight on his shoulders. He was acutely aware of her body pressed against his back, and the fact that the last time she had done that had been just after they'd made love in Antarctica. But despite those things, he found her presence comforting.

Remy's fingers tightened on her forearm as emotion overwhelmed him. She was like a small piece of sanity in the flood. Everything in his life had been turned upside down, torn apart and revealed for the lie it was. But Rogue's presence, her love and the familiar warmth that emanated from her was something real from that life that he could hold on to.

"I've missed y'," he whispered.

Rogue made a sound that was half laughter, half sob and hugged him. "Ah've missed ya, too, sugah."

They sat in silence then as the rain continued to fall, unabated. Eventually, their reverie was interrupted by an electric thrill that indicated that some kind of energy field had just swept over them. Alarmed, they both looked up as two Shi'ar abruptly appeared on the front lawn, a large metal box on the ground between them. Rogue relaxed with a soft sigh, but Remy stiffened, his momentary peace slipping away as the two aliens picked up the unwieldy box and carried it into the mansion. Then he snorted at himself. Look who I'm callin' alien.

"Ah wonder what that's about," Rogue said curiously.

Remy only shrugged. His thoughts shied away from wondering too much about anything having to do with the Shi'ar. The knowledge was still too new and too overwhelming. Objectively, he was a little disappointed in himself for his reaction. Considering some of the strange things he'd seen in his life, discovering that he was only half-human shouldn't have disturbed him so much. Still, it was different when it was happening to you, and there was an awful lot more to it than just a matter of mixed blood.

"Ah'll bet we could ask Lil o' the Professor," Rogue continued obliquely. She cocked her head to look at him.

Remy eyed her sidelong. "No t'anks."

"They're ya parents, sugah. Ya gonna have ta face them sometime."

Remy couldn't suppress a groan. "Please don' call dem dat, chere."

"Why not?" Her gaze was openly questioning.

Remy opened his mouth for a response, but nothing came out. He closed his mouth again and tried to gather his thoughts. How could he explain to her the things that had been chasing around inside him for the last two days? That if he accepted what Xavier had told them, embraced those things as truth, he would then be forced to step up to filling the role that the Professor was obviously expecting of him. The labels swam around in his head. Heir to the Shi'ar Empire. Omega telepath. Time traveler. Son. The prospect terrified him.

Slowly he shook his head. "I'm not him-- I'm not Rem'aillon Neramani." He stumbled a bit over the name. It felt foreign on his tongue, as much for the odd combination of sounds as for the fact that it was supposed to belong to him and didn't.

Unconsciously, his hands closed into fists. "I am jus' a t'ief dat grew up on de streets o' New Orleans." He was still struggling with the idea that so many of his memories were false. They didn't seem fake. In fact, they were strong and clear-- sometimes painfully so-- the accumulation of people and events that made him who he was. Jean had jumped in to help the Professor explain that his particular set of implanted memories were especially seamless because they had once been real memories, generated by his brain. It was just a different version of him that had lived them. His brain couldn't differentiate between versions, and without outside witnesses, there was no way to prove that what he remembered wasn't true. For the most part, Xavier hadn't had to do any tampering to make the memories fit him.

Perhaps because of those things, he was perversely pleased that Xavier claimed it was completely impossible to undo what he had done. Too much power, he'd said. Kill any telepath that tried it. Remy couldn't dispute that. He'd been probed by an Interpol telepath once, and she'd died. He'd never had any idea what had happened to her until now.

Rogue was watching him, her green eyes solemn. "Even without all this other stuff, sugah, y'all are a lot more than just a thief from New Orleans."

Remy looked away. "Like what, chere?"

Her voice colored with frustration. "Like an X-Man, foh starters."

A cold hand clenched around Remy's heart. In two days, she was the only person who had come looking for him. "Are y' so sure ‘bout dat?" he asked bitterly.

To his surprise, she chuckled. "Sugah, we've been talkin' about ya foh two days straight downstairs. Ah'm sure."

Startled, he turned to look at her and found her smiling. Then her smile faded as her gaze locked with his. "The X-Men don't hold grudges."

The double meaning of her words struck Remy through the heart and left him reeling. "Is dat a promise?" he asked, unable to break away from the flickering hope that shone in her eyes.

She nodded jerkily, then ducked her head. Her wet hair tumbled forward to paint a dark streak across the chest plates of his armor as she dug into an inner pocket of her uniform, obviously searching for something. When she found it, she abruptly released him and sat back on her heels. Curious and apprehensive, Remy turned.

Rogue stared at him, her expression one of hopeful terror. In one hand she held a singed playing card, which she held out to him. Remy didn't need to look to know what it was.

"De Queen o' Hearts." Wanting to double over, he pressed the heel of one hand against his gut as if the pressure could relieve the ache there. Just the sight of the card brought back a dozen memories, all of them either so sweet or so bitter that they hurt.

Rogue licked her lips, a wan smile escaping. "She's a lil' beat up."

Remy's gaze dropped to the card in her hand, its face creased and water stained, its edges burnt and crumbling. Like their relationship, it was so badly damaged that it was almost worthless, and yet that one piece of battered cardboard still held tremendous power over them both because of what it symbolized.

Hesitantly, Remy reached up and took the card from her hand. He ran his thumb across its face, brushing away the raindrops, as he studied it. Slowly, he shook his head. With so many other things crowding his mind and tearing at his heart, he wasn't certain he could handle this as well, but everything inside him demanded that he try.

He took a deep, steadying breath and looked up. "So now what?"

Sheepishly, Rogue brushed limp tendrils of hair away from her face. "Ah was hopin' ya'd tell me, sugah."

They stared at each other for several moments as the rain splashed down around them. Remy still didn't have any idea how he was going to live with the things he had learned about himself, but somehow, having Rogue with him made it seem more possible. He found himself smiling, if somewhat crookedly, and was rewarded by a similar expression from Rogue. The shadows in her eyes weren't gone, he noted, but they had retreated far enough for a spark of hope to show through. His heart lurched. It was that same tiny fire that had made him fall in love with her in the first place-- that unquenchable faith that refused to die, no matter how harshly life treated her.

Remy felt a sudden desire to laugh. In the last few months, he had been exposed as a murderer, left to die by people he counted as family and discovered that his entire life was built on a lie... but despite that, he was beginning to think that he still had something to live for.

Renee blinked in owlish disbelief as she stared at Ozymandias. "You want me to what?"

He returned her stare mildly, completely unaffected by the sudden terror Renee was certain was visible on her face. "Simply talk to him." His voice held the tiniest note of entreaty. "Bring the problem to his attention and the High Lord will act on it."

Around them, the laboratory machinery beeped and whined in soft cacophony, but Renee ignored it. "Isn't that your job?" she asked him. It felt very strange to challenge the timeless servant of Apocalypse, but Renee's instincts were telling her that he was trying to cajole her into something.

Ozymandias' expression firmed in annoyance and Renee resisted the desire to back away. "Of course, child." He sounded thoroughly exasperated. "I have. But the truth of the matter is that the High Lord is preoccupied with his work and will ignore me until it suits his pleasure to listen." He tapped the tablet in his hands meaningfully. "The tribesmen who supply us have decided to test their god's will and have not brought the required offering for the last two weeks, and they are unlikely to bring anything until Lord Apocalypse reminds them who it is they serve." He shrugged lightly. "It was bound to happen. Like their fathers before them, they have served the High Lord, but the fear fades with each succeeding generation."

Renee listened with interest. Ozymandias had only asked her to tell Apocalypse there was a problem with their supplies. She was pleased that he was willing to give her additional details, especially since it had something, however slight, to do with the world outside of the mountain. On the negative side, though, she didn't like the images her imagination conjured for how Apocalypse might go about frightening these tribesmen into submission.

Ozymandias went on, oblivious to her thoughts. "In the past, Apocalypse has not been inclined to act in these situations until all of the servants have starved to death." Renee blanched and he gave her a hard smile. "I am immortal, so it is of little consequence to me, but there are few pleasures left to this existence. I would prefer not to forego them." He tipped his head with an evaluating expression. "And though there is sufficient technology to provide sustenance for yourself, I doubt you would find it a pleasant repast."

Renee immediately thought of the slushy organic paste that fed Apocalypse's creations and suppressed a shudder. Nutritious it might be, but she wouldn't want to make a regular diet of it. And even if she did, that would do nothing for the slaves. Apocalypse would never condone using his lab facilities to provide food for them. She sometimes wondered if he even realized that they existed, or if he saw them as some kind of extension of the palace itself. She had yet to understand exactly how the men and women came to live inside the mountain. Shala had made reference to a childhood in what sounded like a small town or village, but Renee had not been able to get more detail from her than that.

Renee thought of Shala and bit her lip. "What makes you think he'll listen to me?" Apocalypse was still less than thrilled with her performance as his student, but as her grasp of the language and concepts grew, so did his approval. She was frightened of what he might do if she interfered in something that rightfully was none of her business.

Ozymandias smiled again, this time secretively. "I have no idea if he will, Healer. However, Angel... provides for himself and would not care if the servants starved, so you are my only recourse."

Renee stared at him. Did this ancient, bitter man really care about the slaves that served them? Or was he purely interested in his personal comfort level? She looked into his face, searching for some sign that would confirm her suspicion, but found nothing conclusive. Finally, she ducked her head. No matter what Ozymandias thought, she knew she would have to face Apocalypse for the sake of her own conscience.

She nodded abruptly. "I'll talk to him."

Renee waited more than a day before approaching Apocalypse. One brief conversation with Shala had been enough to convince her that Ozymandias was not exaggerating the situation, and she was appalled to discover that the servants were no longer eating in order to continue providing food for Ozymandias, herself and Angel, on the rare occasions that he appeared. Even more disturbing to Renee was the fact that Shala seemed completely content to starve if that was the will of her Lord. But it still took her some time to work up the nerve to broach the subject with Apocalypse.

She waited until it was very late and even Apocalypse had abandoned his laboratory in favor of the sitting room. She had long since been dismissed for the night, but now she crept through the darkened corridors, her heart pounding. She reached the arched entrance to Apocalypse's favored spot and paused there to watch. Apocalypse was seated in his chair, staring at the flames as he often did in the evenings. A data pad lay in his lap, ignored save for the light grip that kept it from sliding onto the floor. In the flickering light, he almost looked healthy, she thought. He was beginning to fill out and the pale light made the gaunt hollows of his cheeks seem like nothing more than an effect of the changing shadows. His hair still fell limply in a tangled mess from his topknot, but Renee was beginning to suspect that that was a matter of apathy rather than illness.

Gathering her courage, Renee slipped into the room. She ghosted barefoot across the floor and settled on her cushion next to his chair, carefully tucking the edges of her skirt around her toes. She had no idea how to make a request of Apocalypse. He had no tolerance for anyone who spoke to him out of turn, and just the thought of doing so made the scars on her back itch with the memory of the lash. So she decided that the best thing would simply be to wait until he acknowledged her.

Apocalypse turned his head to watch her as she sat, his expression vaguely curious. Renee took that as a good sign and returned his gaze hopefully. She remained like that for several minutes until his flat stare became completely unnerving, then ducked her head and turned her attention to the fire. Frightened and unable to sit completely still under his gaze, she fiddled with the rings on her hands which clinked together musically in the stillness.

Her breath caught in a gasp of dismay as Apocalypse leaned over to grab her wrist, his fingers grinding the bones together painfully. The data pad slid off his lap to clatter on the stone floor as he stripped the rings sharply from her hands, finger by finger, and threw them away. His expression was darkened with anger, and his wide lips pressed together in a thin line. When he was done, he thrust her hands back into her lap and then straightened in his chair. Then he stared resolutely at the fire, face cold and hard.

What did I do? Renee bit her lip against the fear that clambered up her throat, seeking release, and forced herself to breath in silent, shallow gasps. Her bare hands were knotted into fists in her lap as she fought the urge to curl up in a fetal ball on the broad cushion.

"The strong do not cower," Apocalypse said abruptly, his gaze never leaving the dancing flames. The anger etched in his tone matched that in his face. "Do you understand me?"

Renee raised both eyebrows, confused by both his words and his reaction. She wasn't even certain if the question was rhetorical as she answered with blunt honesty, "No."

Apocalypse's gray eyes snapped to her, his stare intent. Renee tried not to cringe as her heart began to pound in terror. "I don't understand." As far as she could tell, Apocalypse had always been pleased that she was afraid of him. Now, he seemed to have done a complete reversal and she didn't have the faintest idea why or how she was supposed to respond.

The expression of disbelief that flitted across Apocalypse's face was so completely incongruous that Renee was temporarily startled. He looked as if it had never occurred to him that someone might not understand him. Then the slightly baffled expression disappeared as if it had never existed.

"The weak cower in terror, Nightengale," Apocalypse explained in the most reasonable tone Renee had ever heard from him. She stared at him wide-eyed as he added, "Those worthy of survival have nothing to fear from me."

Renee blinked slowly as she tried to digest his statement. The idea that he really believed that she should not be afraid of him was mind-boggling. "Does that mean I am ‘worthy of survival'?" she finally asked.

His expression thinned with disapproval. "That is a foolish question."

Renee's frustration with Apocalypse's shifting attitudes toward her suddenly crystallized. "Not if I don't understand your standard, it isn't." Apocalypse terrified her. But if he were going to suddenly begin talking to her like a human being, she would do well to respond like one.

Apocalypse's eyebrows rose sharply and Renee sucked in her breath, afraid she had been too bold. But then his expression shifted toward curiosity. "What is it that you do not understand?"

Renee had to pause to gather her thoughts. Apocalypse had never offered to explain anything. Even the instruction he gave her regarding his work in genetics and cloning was thrown at her as if it were so basic she should already know it, leaving her scrambling to understand.

Finally, she raised her gaze to Apocalypse's. "Why me?" she asked. "There are much more powerful mutants in the world."

Apocalypse didn't respond immediately. He seemed to think about it for a moment, and then, to her surprise, he leaned on the arm of his chair and watched her with an evaluating expression.

"Strength and power are not the same thing," he told her sagely. "The strong survive."

Renee tried to stifle the small voice of hysteria that clamored in the back of her mind. I'm having a philosophical discussion with Apocalypse. The history that she knew did not record any details of Apocalypse's belief system, beyond the blatantly obvious. Given what she had seen in her time with him, Renee was fairly well convinced that the reason was simply that Apocalypse had never seen fit to explain himself to anyone.

Despite the pounding of her heart, Renee's found her curiosity growing. In her mind, she could hear Aunt Ororo's voice, telling her of the advantage that such knowledge could give her-- and the X-Men-- against Apocalypse. But Renee knew she wasn't looking for an advantage. What she wanted was to understand, because then she would know what caused his radical shifts in behavior and might be able to avoid his wrath.

Gathering her courage, she decided to plunge in. She might never get another chance. "How do you define strength, then, if it's not about mutant powers?"

Apocalypse's brow dipped thoughtfully. "They are not unrelated," he answered as he shifted in his seat. "Strength is the ability to exert your will--" he pointed one finger at Renee, "against the forces of your environment and prevail. It is the ability to survive."

Renee stared at him, bemused. That almost sounds rational, she thought. But it didn't bear any resemblance to the racial elitism and violent Darwinism that was consistently ascribed to him. She turned his definition over in her mind, trying to make the connection.

"So mutants are generally stronger because their powers give them more influence over their environment?" she hazarded after a moment. It was the only thing that made any sense to her at all, and she was rewarded by a rare expression of approval from Apocalypse.

"Yes. You understand."

Uncomfortable, Renee looked away. She had the sneaking suspicion that understanding was equivalent, in Apocalypse's eyes, to agreeing. And she still didn't have an explanation for the genocide he would perpetrate in future millennia.

"Then you don't hate humans?"

Apocalypse's eyes narrowed and Renee held her breath. "Humans are inferior," he told her bluntly. "Mutants are the next step of evolution." He paused as if gathering his thoughts. "It is inevitable that traditional humanity will give way to mutants-- inevitable and appropriate." He tapped the arm of his chair with his fist in emphasis, as his expression grew intense. "The strong breed strength. If the mutant race is to become what it holds the potential to be... what it is meant to be, it must be refined. The humans can only dilute and weaken us."

Us? Renee repeated silently. It was the first time she had ever heard Apocalypse identify himself as a part of any group and she was stunned by the passion that burned in his gray eyes. This was no clinical, scientific curiosity but a deep conviction about the destiny of the mutant race. The realization changed her view of him in a very fundamental way. Apocalypse, she realized, wasn't the power-mad mutant blindly in pursuit of world domination, as he was often portrayed. Instead, she saw in him a consuming desire to make the mutant race great. He wasn't insane, she understood then. Wrong, but not insane.

"Humans created us," she reminded him obliquely. "In the genetic sense, we came from them." She shook her head lightly. "Their genetic code is a lot more stable than ours." That was one problem that Apocalypse was constantly battling in his cloning work. The mutant genes just didn't behave predictably. Renee held a growing suspicion that the mutant genetic code was a lot less viable than the human because of its tendency to mutate radically with each generation. And though the products of those mutations might sometimes be extremely powerful, most simply couldn't survive. Something close to fifty percent of human conceptions were spontaneously aborted within the first few hours by the body's normal process, and she suspected that the mutant rate was much, much higher than that.

Apocalypse's expression darkened, but he didn't look like he was about to strike out at her, so Renee continued, "I don't think it's correct to categorize humans as ‘inferior'. In the long run, they may prove to be the true survivors."

Apocalypse actually recoiled at her statement, his eyes widening in outrage. "Mutants are destined to be the dominant force on this planet!"

Renee's heart was pounding in her ears, and the adrenaline that poured through her made it seem as if she could feel every single pore of her skin prickling with sudden heat. For a moment, she debated simply closing her mouth and saying nothing more in the hopes that that would appease his anger, but she found that she couldn't. In this one short conversation she had probably spoken as many words as in all of the rest of her time in the palace, and she was stunned to realize that she wanted to continue, despite the risk. Her hunger for any kind of interaction was so strong that even her fear of Apocalypse couldn't overrule it.

"Genetically, the chances are high that the mutant race will burn itself out," she answered as reasonably as she could. She kept her attention glued to him, searching for any sign of an attack. "Mutate so radically that it is no longer viable." Her Uncle Hanks's theories on that were fascinating, if a little scary.

Apocalypse stared at her for a moment longer, then launched himself out of his chair and paced to the fireplace before turning to face her. His agitation was clear in his every movement. "That is not acceptable," he told her flatly. "I will not allow it."

Renee stared at him curiously. Not acceptable? It seemed like a tremendously narrow viewpoint coming from one who knew so much about genetics, and she wondered what had originally caused Apocalypse to adopt his philosophies. He almost seemed to be stating that he intended to make mutants into the superior race he claimed they were destined to be. But, she argued silently, if mutants were destined for greatness, why would they need help achieving it?

She opened her mouth to respond when he cut her off. "Out of my sight, Healer!" He pointed toward the doorway, his stance imperious, his voice angry. "You are a disgrace to your kind."

Startled and frightened, Renee scrambled to her feet and backed away. Apocalypse glared at her until she turned and walked as quickly as she could from the room. The spot between her shoulder blades itched in expectation, but no bolt of power struck her and she paused just beyond the threshold to look back.

Apocalypse remained standing beside the fireplace, his chin sunk to his chest in contemplation and his expression deeply troubled. Renee bit her lip and, after a moment, turned away.

Chapter 24

Charles couldn't help a soft sigh of pleasure as he stroked the smooth surface of his new hoverchair. The Shi'ar technicians surrounding him nodded in approval as he touched the controls and brought the machine to life. It lifted from the floor with a barely perceptible hum, much quieter than his previous one, and Charles allowed himself a small smile. Shi'ar technology continued to march forward at a steady pace.

His pleasure was short lived, however. It amazed him to realize what a touchstone the hoverchair had become for him over the years. It gave him tremendous freedom and mobility but, more than that, it had become a symbol for him of all of the amazing things the X-Men had seen and experienced.

Turning his head, Charles glanced out the nearest viewport on the Shi'ar cruiser and was treated to a magnificent view of Earth. The blue and white planet's shoulder took up almost all of the view, with only a small slice of black space visible beyond the translucent glow of the atmosphere.

Did I do the right thing? he wondered for perhaps the millionth time since telling the X-Men-- and Remy-- about the events of thirteen years ago. I was so certain then, but we had barely even begun. I had no idea how strong the X-Men would eventually be. He closed his eyes and turned away from the view of Earth. Could we have kept Remi safe... and sane? Could I have raised my son?

Shivering, he pushed the thoughts away. He would never know the answers to those questions. It was best to deal with the present. Opening his eyes, he thanked the head technician and moved his hoverchair out of the lab and into the corridors that lined the cruiser. He queried the onboard computer at one point and was surprised to learn that Lilandra remained in her quarters rather than taking her normal post on the bridge. She had not come to meet him when he'd come aboard the ship, and, in fact, had not attempted to communicate with him in any way since she'd learned the truth. Secretly, Charles was terrified she might never do so.

He didn't plan to let her leave the system without at least one attempt to talk to her, however, and this seemed like the best opportunity. Mustering his resolve, he wound his way toward the Captain's quarters, which the Shi'ar officer had surrendered to Lilandra when she arrived. At the door Charles found two guards. The soldiers stepped in front of the featureless door, their stances reluctant.

"Imperial Consort," one began. "My apologies. The Majestrix does not wish to be disturbed."

Charles frowned. He was tempted to simply leave, but his stubborn streak wouldn't allow him to be so easily dissuaded. "Did the Majestrix leave specific instructions that no one was to enter her quarters?" he asked.

The guards traded glances. "No, Imperial Consort, she did not." He raised his chin slightly. "However, her orders were that she is not to be disturbed."

Charles cocked his head, wondering how much the Shi'ar crew knew about what had happened. "My presence is not likely to disturb the Majestrix," he stated firmly, his expression carefully controlled lest he give the lie away. "I would like to see her."

The guards once again shared glances, silently debating the point. But after a few moments, they stepped aside to allow Charles to pass.

"Thank you," he told them as the door slid open and he moved past them into the cabin. The door sealed behind him with a soft hiss. The interior of the room lay veiled in darkness. Lights burned, but so dimly that they appeared to be nothing more than luminescent circles painted on the ceiling. At first he couldn't spot Lilandra, but as his eyes adjusted he found her seated at a small table, her head in her hands. Her Imperial armor looked gray in the low light, turning her slender form into a ghostly apparition.

She was seated with her back to the door and did not turn as Charles approached. He stopped a short ways behind her, hurt that she would not even look at him. A dozen thoughts leapt into his mind, but none of them managed to find their way to his mouth and he struggled for something to say as the silence grew thicker.

Eventually Lilandra shifted in her seat, the sound of her armor flexing like the whisper of moth wings. She raised her head, but didn't turn around. "I left orders that I wasn't to be disturbed." Her voice held a sardonic note that faded quickly. "But I suppose it's good that you've come, Charles."

Uncertain how to read her statement, Charles hesitated. "I'm... glad you think so."

Lilandra turned her head to look at him out of the corner of one dark eye. "I cannot refute the wisdom of your actions, Charles. You acted in the best interest of your people... your planet. As a ruler, I must respect that."

Cold tendrils of dread began to snake their way into Charles' stomach. Lilandra was often formal with him out of necessity, but it was always a mask she wore. At that moment, Charles couldn't see the warm, vibrant woman beneath the mask and he was very afraid her cool distance had become a reality rather than a show put on for the sake of Shi'ar etiquette.

He opened his mouth to answer, but she cut him off, her voice brittle. "I will release you from your oaths, if you so desire." She turned so that she was facing straight ahead, her gaze fixed on the darkness.

Charles could only stare. He had taken an oath of loyalty and service to the Shi'ar Imperium as well as an oath of devotion to its Empress when he was officially appointed the Imperial Consort. That Lilandra would offer to dissolve those bonds ripped the floor out of his heart and sent him plummeting through the gaping hole.

"Lil--" Charles choked on her name, horrified. He licked his lips and tried again. "Please, Lil. Don't do this."

Lilandra turned sharply to stare at him. "Do what, Charles?" The mute accusation in her gaze felt like a needle in his heart. "I have done nothing."

Charles lowered his gaze at the double meaning in her words as Lilandra turned her back to him once again. She had a right to be angry, hurt. Charles wasn't certain how to reach out to her, but knew he had to try or he would lose her forever.

"I know," he acknowledged softly, unable to summon more than a whisper. "I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you."

Lilandra remained silent, her posture stiff. Eventually, she spoke. "You still haven't told me if you wish to be released from your oaths."

"No!" Charles shook his head vehemently, angry with her for not trusting him, no matter how much he might deserve it. "Of course not! Lilandra, I love you. I've loved you since the moment we met." He gripped the sides of his hoverchair until his fingers began to ache. "But I don't know how to prove that to you."

Lilandra paused, then turned in her seat so that they faced each other across a gulf of several feet. "You should have told me."

Charles chewed on his lip as he regained some measure of composure. "You know why I didn't," he answered.

They stared at each other in silence until Charles wanted to scream. Was that one decision going to cost him the love and trust of every single person he cared about?

Lilandra looked away. "What does... Gambit... think?"

Charles couldn't suppress his painful, bitter amusement. "I don't know. He isn't speaking to me either."

Lilandra's only answer was a soft snort. After a while, she shook her head. "It seems so... impossible." Her voice had fallen to a soft, distant whisper.

"Impossible that we have a child?" Charles asked gently, wishing he dared reach across the space separating them to take her hand in his.

Lilandra nodded, her face lighting momentarily with a smile. "Yes." Their gazes met, the contact speaking words neither knew how to say aloud-- tender words that reconfirmed the bond that joined them. Charles felt an immense wash of relief. The bond of their love might be stretched thin, strained by everything that had happened, but it survived and that was enough to bring joy to his heart.

Silence stretched between them, more comfortable this time. Eventually, Lilandra straightened, and her expression sharpening with curiosity. "I have been wondering, Charles. How did he become Heir to the Imperium? The noble families would have fought it tooth and talon."

Taken aback by the question, Charles had to search his memory for an answer and found little to offer. "I don't really know. It was an issue of debate at one point, and then something significant happened to sway the nobles, but I don't know what that was." His eyes narrowed as he chased the memory. "A coup attempt, I think." He shrugged. "It was in Remi's memories when I scanned them, but I wasn't paying particular attention to that facet of his life."

"Remi..." Lilandra's gaze turned thoughtful. "Rem'aillon. That was my grandfather's name. He was a great Emperor, a hero of our people."

Charles arched an eyebrow. "Really? I didn't know that." And in a strange way it brought home to him the true magnitude of what he'd done. He tasted regret in the back of his throat, the bitter knowledge of what he'd taken away from his son.

Lilandra nodded, seeming unaware of his thoughts. "The resemblance is striking, once you know to look."

Charles wasn't certain how to answer her. He had a difficult time seeing the Shi'ar in Remy's very human features.

"Would you be willing to talk with him?" he asked after a while. Though Gambit had gotten involved in the X-Men's daily routine, he studiously avoided Charles, making it plain that he didn't want to see him if possible. Charles had not yet convinced himself that he had any right to push the issue.

Lilandra gave him a piercing stare. "What would you have me say to him, Charles?"

Charles shook his head. "I have no idea." He felt utterly helpless, as he had since Erik the Red had first set recent events into motion. "Anything, Lil. He won't talk to me." Charles finally reached across to take her hand. "Please."

Lilandra sighed, her fingers tightening around his. "All right." She shook her head. "I will think of... something."

Remy waited uncomfortably as Jean-Luc set his single suitcase down on the front porch and checked his watch. "Y' sure y' don' want me t' drive y' to de airport?"

Jean-Luc glanced at him, shook his head. "Non. An airport ain' de place f' goodbyes."

Remy tried to keep his feeling off his face. Is dat what dis is? He felt strangely abandoned, as if Jean-Luc might completely disavow any knowledge of him now that he had fulfilled his part of the pact he'd made with Xavier.

He didn't know how to ask the question, though, and so stood silently until Jean-Luc turned to look at him, his expression troubled. "Remy, are y' all right?"

The unspoken affection behind his question shattered the young X-Man's mask. Remy closed his eyes and looked away, hiding his face against the chance that his tears might leak out through his tightly squeezed lids. Strangely enough, this was the first time in nearly ten years that he had seen simple affection-- even love-- in Jean-Luc's eyes. But that realization only served to fuel a painful understanding.

If he could, Xavier'd wipe out Remy LeBeau t' make room f' his precious Rem'aillon. Jean-Luc might've jus' been doin' what he saw as his duty, but at least he cares 'bout me. And now Jean-Luc was leaving to return to New Orleans, his part done.

For Remy, it was like being banished all over again. Jean-Luc's words from that night so long ago echoed in his mind. New Orleans ain' y' home any more. Go, an' never return.

Strong hands gripped Remy's shoulders. He looked up to find Jean-Luc standing in front of him, his face drawn and sad. Remy needed no more invitation to lean into the other man's embrace, wrapping his arms around Jean-Luc's chest and burying his face in his shoulder as if he were still a child.

Jean-Luc hugged him tightly and Remy felt a hand stroking his hair. "Ah, m' boy..."

"Pere..."

They stood like that for several minutes, until a scratchy voice, filled with venom, interrupted. "Awww, ain't that sweet?"

Remy spun to find Marrow crouched at the end of the porch, a long bone dagger clenched in either hand. His stomach sank in horror even as the adrenaline pumping into his system brought everything into sharp focus. He'd been so intent on his memories that he hadn't heard the warning of his spatial sense, and now he found himself face to face with one of the people he figured he'd hurt most. Both fascinated and horrified, he looked Marrow over. Bone spurs sprouted from her face and arms, painful even to look at. Wild hatred burned deep in the eyes that stared at him from a ravaged face. Her flesh couldn't heal at the same pace as the bone growths' progression, leaving half-healed wounds like footprints on her skin. Pink hair grew in clumps where the scalp was healthy enough, falling in gnarled tangles around her face.

With one hand, Remy motioned Jean-Luc back as he stepped away from his adoptive father. Marrow's gaze tracked him with the unflinching intensity of a predator. Very slowly, Remy reached into his jacket and pulled out his bow staff, telescoping it to its full length.

Marrow gave him a contemptuous look. "Pretty stick ain't gonna save you, gene-traitor." Her voice was a low, sibilant purr.

"Maybe, chere," he agreed, taking another step and gauging her reactions as she pivoted to stay with him. From what little he knew, she was fast and vicious. He didn't want to underestimate her despite the voice inside that kept insisting that Sarah would never hurt him.

"Do y' remember me, Sarah?" he asked as memories overwhelmed him. As he spoke, X-Men converged on them from several directions. They formed a broad circle around the two combatants, absorbing Jean-Luc into their ring.

Marrow spat, her eyes never leaving Remy. "I know who you are, traitor."

Remy almost laughed at that. If it weren't for the terrible sorrow he felt at seeing what had become of her, he might have. Since she'd ignored the Professor's summons to the meeting where he had completely unraveled Remy's life, she probably had no idea who he really was.

Focusing, Remy spun his staff once, getting the balance. "Dat wasn' what I asked, Sarah."

For the first time, Marrow faltered. Her eyes clouded for a moment, but then blazed with renewed hatred as her lips curled in a snarl. "My name is Marrow," she hissed at him and raised one of her knives.

From the corner of his eye Remy could see the X-Men standing ready, held back by Wolverine's outstretched hand. He was grateful for the Canuck's restraint. Marrow would never be able to hold up against the combined power of the X-Men and he didn't want to see her get hurt trying.

Without warning, Marrow launched herself toward him. Remy ducked, swinging his staff around to shield him from the flashing knives and heard bone clang against metal. He dove aside as the second blade sliced through the air where his throat had been a moment before and rolled to his feet, untouched. Marrow landed in a crouch a short ways away and began to circle, knives held ready. Remy moved with her, keeping a constant distance between them.

"Y' still haven' answered m' question," Remy reminded her, keeping his voice gentle with an effort of will. She was fast, and there was no question that she would kill him if she could. It hurt to see how much she hated him.

"Shut up!" Marrow glared at him, but that couldn't completely disguise the pain in her face.

Remy could only shake his head. It had been a struggle to get the four-year-old Sarah to speak politely, even at the best of times, and the memory brought a fleeting smile to his lips. "Tsk, tsk. Dat's no way f' a lady t' talk, now is it, m' Sarah Beautiful."

Marrow stopped dead, the blood draining from her face. Slowly, she began to shake her head in denial. "No." Recognition flooded her features, followed by horror. "No. It was you." Her voice never rose above a whisper. Then, with a strangled cry, she turned and ran, pushing between two of the X-Men as she fled across the yard toward the lake.

Silence reigned for several long moments as Remy stared after her.

Logan finally broke the stillness. "Ya want ta tell us what that was all about, Gumbo?" he asked, his characteristic drawl masking a keen interest.

Remy didn't look at him. There'd been entirely too much truth in his life lately, but he couldn't seem to find the means to avoid it. At the moment, he felt too weary to even try.

He shrugged. "Dere ain' much t' tell. After... de Massacre, dere wasn' any place t' take her. No one was gon' take such an obvious mutant in, so I kept her. Had a place in de Caribbean dat was pretty isolated..." He trailed off, remembering the long days on the beach and the sound of Sarah's tinkling laugh.

Logan made a guttural noise and Remy looked up. The other man's piercing blue eyes bored into his own. "I had a talk with Marrow, while back," Logan said. "Was tryin' ta figure out if there was anyone on the planet she cares for."

Uncertain where he was going, Remy frowned. "An'?"

Logan lifted both bushy eyebrows. "An' I found one." Something in his gaze made Remy tense in expectation. "I thought she was talkin' about her blood father... but now I think she meant you."

"Me?" Understanding hit Remy and he closed his eyes. "Merde." He shook his head.

Logan was nodding. "An' now she knows it, too."

Beside Logan, Ororo watched Remy with obvious distress. He wasn't certain how she felt about Marrow, given all that had occurred between them. "How did Sarah return to the Morlocks?" she asked after a moment.

Remy gave her a brief glance, unable to hold her gaze longer than that. "Callista an' de rest o' de survivin' Morlocks came f' her-- 'bout a year after..." He collapsed his staff and put it away, uncomfortable. "I would've had t' kill some o' dem t' keep dem from takin' her." The thought alone made his skin crawl. "At de time, it seemed like de best t'ing f' her-- goin' back t' her family."

Ororo's gaze filled with compassion. "You could not have known, Remy."

He shrugged as a yellow cab turned into the driveway. "Non." There was no way he could have known about Mikhail and the horrible alternate world he would transport the Morlocks to. But knowing that didn't help much.

There was nothing else to say, so they waited in silence as the cab pulled up and the driver got out. Remy followed Jean-Luc down the stairs as he went to put his suitcase in the trunk.

"I guess dis is goodbye," Remy finally said as Jean-Luc prepared to get into the cab.

Jean-Luc paused, then turned to face Remy directly. "Oui," he agreed.

Remy didn't know what to say to that. Unable to meet the other man's gaze, he looked away.

After a moment, Jean-Luc's hands captured his face, his expression sad. "T'ings have changed, Remy." He shrugged, seeming embarrassed. "I'm a little relieved, honestly." But then he paused, his discomfort evaporating as if it had never existed. "But de t'ings dat bind us are stronger dan dat. If y' ever need me, jus' call. I will come."

Touched, Remy nodded. Jean-Luc watched him a moment longer, then turned and got into the cab. Remy shut the door behind him, then watched as the car slowly pulled away, taking with it the only father he'd ever known.

Renee clung to the rail of Apocalypse's skimmer as the sand-laden air whipped past. Harsh sunlight drenched her, falling deliciously hot on her skin, and were it not for the circumstances, Renee might have enjoyed the trip. What little she could see through her slitted eyes was bare rock and sand, with here and there a scraggly, dust colored bush.

After her late night conversation-- she didn't want to call it an argument-- with Apocalypse, she had run back to her rooms in terror. But by morning, guilt prodded her to once again try to breach the subject of their food shortage with the High Lord. And now, for no reason she could understand, she found herself becoming part of his entourage as he went to deal with the local tribesmen.

A few feet behind her, Apocalypse sat in a throne-like chair at the center of the skimmer. Angel stood behind him, guiding the craft while two of the cat men stood at the forward corners. Renee wondered if she were the only one who felt like she was about to be blown away by the rushing wind. None of the others showed any signs of concern. But, she amended sourly, they were all dressed in close-fitting clothing while she wore a long skirt and scarves that trailed in the wind like flags. A larger hovercraft, filled with the cat guards, followed them, but it wasn't open to the air the way Apocalypse's ship was.

The skimmer banked sharply, losing altitude in the process, and Renee was forced to brace herself to keep from tumbling out of the open airship. In the distance, she could barely make out a dark formation on the horizon that swelled with each passing moment. It resolved itself into a small village of mud and straw huts, arranged in a loose ring. Tiny figures moved between the buildings, visible at that distance only because their dark skins and brilliantly colored clothing stood out against the pale desert sand.

Renee didn't think any of the villagers had even noticed the skimmer's approach when Angel opened fire. Bright streaks of light lanced out from the skimmer's nose, striking the huts, which exploded in great flashes of orange fire. Where the lasers hit the ground, dirt and sand fountained twenty feet into the air, throwing nearby people and animals around like cloth dolls.

"No!" Renee's cry was lost to the rushing wind. She turned to look back at Apocalypse, horrified. He sat in his chair, the hard planes of his face still and his eyes smoldering with the intense stare that frightened her beyond words. Rather than face him, she turned back toward the burning village that grew larger with every passing moment. They were close enough now that she could see individual figures lying on the ground, both adults and children. Some lay broken and still, but others rolled around, their agonized screams barely audible above the wind but impossible to ignore.

Renee didn't stop to think about her actions. Some things, her mother had taught her, just had to be done. It was a lesson her timid, reserved natured did not want to learn, but after everything she'd been through since following Remi and Cody into that vortex, she finally had. Even her fear of Apocalypse wasn't enough to drown the inner voice that compelled her to act.

Under Angel's control, the skimmer shot straight across the center of the devastated town. Renee figured he was probably going to turn back for another pass, but she didn't wait to find out. At exactly the right moment, she vaulted over the waist-high railing, tucking her long body into a ball as she plummeted toward the ground. She straightened after a moment and spread her arms for balance, forcing herself to look down toward her landing site rather than up toward Apocalypse.

Blessed with her father's unique physiology, she hit the ground feet first and rolled, stirring up a cloud of sand and dust that choked her as she struggled to draw air into her lungs. The echo of the skimmer's engines filled the air with a sound like constant thunder that diminished by degrees. Renee regained her feet and sprinted across the ground, everything inside her tensed in anticipation of Apocalypse's wrath. But until he caught up with her, she was determined to do whatever she could to help these people whose lives she had inadvertently destroyed.

The hot sand felt like tiny sawblades on her bare feet, but Renee had no attention to spare for anything but the villagers. Panicked men and women ran in all directions around her, some simply fleeing, others gathering weapons or possessions. Bodies littered the ground around blackened and burning craters, and the burning huts had become nothing more than huge columns of fire that sent intense heat radiating outward in waves. Dodging the flames, Renee searched for those she could help with her powers and found many. They cowered away from her-- those who were aware enough to notice her presence-- until they felt her healing powers began to take effect. A dozen voices babbled at her in rapid-fire Egyptian, far too fast for her to follow, as she reached out to touch them.

She looked up with terror to match the villagers as the roar of Apocalypse's ship became deafening. The slender hovercraft descended on a pillar of energy at the center of the village, the second craft following it nearby. Even at a distance, Renee could see the fury that darkened the High Lord's face as he stood in the middle of his ship, his thick arms crossed over his chest. Everything inside Renee wanted to flee, to run away from Apocalypse as fast as she could. Instead, she continued what she was doing, gritting her teeth at the effort of controlling her powers and forcing her body to keep going even as each new use drained her that much further.

To Renee, the entire event slowly took on a dream-like quality. She ignored Apocalypse because she didn't know what else to do and continued to heal the villagers she could find. Around her, the cat-men went through the wrecked village, rounding up everyone and herding them into the central clearing. Eventually, a cat-man stopped Renee, motioning with his sword for her to precede him toward the place where the villagers were gathered around Apocalypse's skimmer. She went without protest, instinctively trying to brush some of the dirt from her skirt. It was foolish, she knew, but some part of her was frightened of going before Apocalypse with blood, soot and dirt staining her normally pristine dress.

The cat-man marched her through the terrified crowd, which parted before them like a wake, and brought her to the edge of the skimmer on which Apocalypse still stood. Shaking, Renee looked up at his wide, ugly gray face, but he ignored her. Instead, he turned and spoke to Angel in a voice too low for her to hear. Angel listened and nodded, then launched himself into the air. Gasps of shock and fear followed him as he wheeled over the crowd.

A moment later, he landed, singling out a tall man with a gash on his forehead that bled unnoticed down his face. The man stood proudly straight before Angel, his skin pale with fear but his face composed and his eyes defiant. He didn't flinch when Angel leveled a laser rifle at him, but calmly went where he was directed. He walked to the front of the crowd with Angel following and stopped before Apocalypse. He was standing only a few feet from Renee and his gaze flicked curiously to her before focusing on the High Lord.

Apocalypse's expression darkened even further as he stared at the man Renee suspected was the village leader. At a nod from Apocalypse, Angel stepped forward and swung his rifle at the backs of the man's legs. The man grunted in pain as he fell to his knees, but the fire in his eyes remained undiminished.

A few moments later, Renee saw the fire replaced by fear as cat-men dragged a woman and two young children forward. The woman's face was streaked with tears, and though she whimpered softly as she walked, her face was set. She held a child's hand in each of hers, and when the cat-men forced her to her knees behind her husband, she gathered them both into her lap and held them tightly.

Renee's stomach clenched in horrible anticipation as Apocalypse looked down at the man. This is my fault, she thought miserably. If I hadn't told him about the food supplies, he wouldn't have done this. She knew that wasn't the whole story though, because if she hadn't said anything, Shala and the other slaves would have starved to death inside Apocalypse's palace. She felt helpless in the face of Apocalypse's inhumanity and angry at him for putting her in a position where people would die no matter what she did.

"Who dares defy me?" Apocalypse boomed in Egyptian from atop the skimmer's deck. Renee was surprised by how powerful he sounded. His voice rang across the clearing, deep and unnaturally loud. The frailty and weakness she regularly saw in him was completely hidden, making him all the more frightening.

The man who knelt a few feet from Renee flinched minisculely, but then raised his head to look at Apocalypse. "Lord Apocalypse, I am called Namores."

It took Renee a moment to translate the name he'd used for Apocalypse. In Egyptian, the name meant Forever Walker, which, she mused distractedly, was an entirely different thing than the English translation.

Apocalypse stared down at Namores. To Renee, his stance seemed somehow thoughtful, though his angry expression had not changed. "You show courage, mortal," Apocalypse said after a moment, as if granting a concession. "But I will not tolerate rebellion by my servants." His gaze narrowed. "You will be punished for your disobedience. I will erase your lineage from the face of the Earth, and you will serve as a warning to the rest."

Namores' eyes widened in horror as he cast a glance over his shoulder at his family. Renee wanted to scream, but fear rooted her in place. Her own disobedience would likely result in her death as well, if not something worse. On the headman's far side, Angel watched silently, his mouth curled upward in a smirk that lit a white-hot fire of rage inside Renee. Apocalypse's motives she understood somewhat, even if she hated them. Angel was just cruel. The troubled but gentle man she'd known as a child had been completely devoured by his darker impulses.

Apocalypse raised one hand and Renee was overwhelmed by the memory of lightning spitting from his hands to impale the two cat-men who had only acted to protect him. With a cry, she jumped forward, placing her body squarely in front of the terrified man and instinctively spreading her arms in an effort to shield him as much as possible. Her heart throbbed frantically in her chest, making it hard to breathe. Behind her, she could hear his children wailing in fear and confusion, and their mother's whispered reassurances.

Apocalypse paused, an expression of pure surprise crossing his face before being consumed by anger. In her peripheral vision, Renee could see Angel take a menacing step toward her and she pulled out her bo, telescoping it to its full length. He stopped where he was at the warning gesture and looked toward Apocalypse. Renee, too, watched the High Lord, her entire body reverberating with fearful expectation.

Apocalypse speared her with his gaze. "You presume too much, Nightengale. Move, or you will suffer punishment for your disobedience." The words were in English, cold and harsh.

Renee's mind raced. The fact that Apocalypse had paused to threaten her meant she had a chance to influence him, but no moral or emotional appeal would sway him. With a convulsive swallow, she gathered her wits.

"Killing this man is only a temporary solution," she told Apocalypse in English, her pale voice growing stronger with each word as she sorted through the logic. "You'll terrify them into submission, but the fear only lasts for a few generations and after that they will revolt again." Ozymandias had told her the history of Apocalypse's relationship with this remote tribe, so she knew it to be true. "But if you let him live, you can create a more permanent solution."

Renee stood frozen while Apocalypse stared at her, wondering what he would do. He could as easily kill her as answer.

Slowly, the dark gray brows knotted in an expression of disgust. "You are a child. What do you know of the use of power?" Apocalypse asked scornfully. "If I cut off the head of the beast, it dies."

Renee flexed her fingers on her bo staff and raised her chin in unconscious pride. "I am an X-Man and a daughter of X-Men. I have survived being thrown backward in time, and have outlived the Shadow King, who made me his slave. He made me his Hound and his assassin, and from him I learned a great deal about the application of power." Renee almost spat the word at him. What Apocalypse considered power, she considered detestable, and his arrogance only served to make her more angry. "If you show mercy and give this man back his family-- the things he loves most-- he will serve you out of gratitude."

Apocalypse's scorn deepened. "I do not care about gratitude, only obedience."

Renee nodded, holding forcibly to her composure. "Of course. But don't you see? He--" she pointed behind her at the kneeling man. "-- will obey willingly because you gave him what he loves. And he will teach his people to obey, and they will teach their children, and their children's children..." She paused to regroup, watching Apocalypse for any sign that he understood what she was saying. "You said yourself that this man has courage. It would be a shame to sacrifice that genetic trait when there's another way to gain his obedience. You are the High Lord Apocalypse. You have as much power to spare this man's life as to take it away."

Apocalypse stared at her in silence. Renee desperately wanted to fidget under his gaze. She'd done everything she could, and now she could only wait to see how Apocalypse would respond. She watched Angel out of the corner of her eye as well, hoping she would see an attack coming if he decided to take matters into his own hands.

Very slowly, Apocalypse crossed his arms over his chest once again. "You are sentimental and weak, Nightengale," he pronounced solemnly as if passing a sentence. Renee's stomach clenched in dread, filling her throat with bile. "But, perhaps there is value in proving you wrong."

Renee looked up in surprise. Apocalypse met her gaze, the fierce, ancient intensity in his gray eyes burning into her like a brand. "You will explain to this human what I expect, Healer. I will hold you responsible for his actions, and this tribe's."

Renee could only stare at him, breathless. His sudden reversal left her reeling, her emotions scattering across the landscape of her heart. One by one they caught fire, blazing inside her until she wanted to throw her arms up toward the sky and scream, just to give the conflagration some kind of release.

Apocalypse watched her for a final moment, then turned away, calling Angel to him. Renee let out a long, shaky breath as the winged man launched himself into the sky, and began to tremble violently. She set the butt of her staff on the ground and leaned against it, fighting for control.

"Lady... what did the Forever Walker say?" The quiet voice from behind Renee startled her. She turned to find Namores looking up at her, his face filled with conflicting hope and fear.

Gathering herself, Renee straightened and turned to face him. "He said he will not kill you or your family this time..." she struggled with her limited Egyptian. "As a gesture of good faith." Namores' eyes widened as she continued. "But he expects the shipments to start again, and that you will make sure your people do not rebel."

Namores looked over his shoulder at his family, then nodded his head. "I understand, Lady." He dropped his gaze. "I... will do as you say."

Relieved beyond words, Renee reached out to touch the man's blood-streaked face, concentrating on the power that was her birthright. Startled, Namores looked up at her, his expression faltering as the wound in his head knit itself together. As she withdrew, he touched the spot in wonder.

"Others of my people are hurt..." he began hesitantly.

Renee glanced up at Apocalypse, but he was talking with Angel and seemed to be ignoring her. She turned back to the headman and nodded. "Of course. Bring them to me."

Namores jumped to his feet, pausing only for a moment to tenderly touch his wife's face, then went into the crowd, talking and gesturing toward Renee. Soon, a steady stream of people approached and she had little attention to spare for anything else. But still, she couldn't help but overhear snatches of conversations as she worked, and what she heard sent a chill crawling up her spine. The tribesmen didn't call her "Lady" as Namores had. Instead, they called her another name... the same one they used for Apocalypse but with a feminine ending attached. In English, that name was Forever Walker.

Chapter 25

General Gerard Donovan stood beside the fourth hospital bed in the row, nodding absently to the nurse as she passed by. The place in which he stood looked less like a hospital than a sickroom, with two rows of ten beds on either side of a long windowless dormitory. The corrugated metal ceiling curved over his head in a half-circle, and the air was still and hot from the desert sun beaming down on it, despite the tired efforts of two air-conditioners.

The woman who lay in the fourth bed was the newest addition to the facility. Like the other three, she too was in a coma she was not expected to ever wake from. When he glanced at the EKG monitor, Donovan noted that it showed a plain flat line.

Vegetable, he thought with a sigh. She was a young woman, pretty in a fresh, vibrant way that reminded him of his daughter Eliza. This wasn't what I wanted when I agreed to take command of the project. The Psi-Neutralizer, called P-Noot for short, had been intended from its inception as a means of neutralizing the most powerful weapon mutants possessed: their telepaths. And despite the destruction of the Grayscape facility, the project had succeeded wildly, with one unfortunate-- or not so unfortunate, depending on your view-- side effect. The target telepath was very literally brain-killed, and left in a degenerative vegetative state.

This young mutant had registered as a twelve on the newly standardized psionic scale. She was still considered a beta mutant, though just barely. There was significant debate amongst the design engineers as to whether the P-Noot would be as effective on an alpha telepath. Donovan grimaced. Or an omega.

He shook off his doubts with an effort. More than anything, it had been a string of good luck that had brought them this far, and Donovan didn't believe in luck. The original designs for the P-Noot had been wrong. The device wouldn't have given a mutant telepath a suntan, let alone fried his brain. But one of the engineers had claimed to have had a vision from God himself, who had manifested as a giant silver face and described to him how to change the design. The engineer had made the changes to the design specs without any supporting calculations, and without informing any of his colleagues until after the prototype trials had proven successful. So now they had a wildly powerful weapon against telepaths, and not the first clue why it worked. Or of what they would do if it didn't work so well against the high-level psions.

Donovan didn't believe in God. At least, not in the kind of God that granted visions about minute changes in circuit board designs. But, if it wasn't God who'd set the project ahead by a year or two, that left the unsettling question of who it was. Whoever it was knew the most intimate details of the project and was able to understand the technology to the point of fixing it. Donovan wavered between believing they had a super-human or even non-human ally out there somewhere, to thinking the mutants had come up with a very subtle means of sabotaging the project. And only time would tell him which it was, if either.

With a growl, Donovan turned on his heel and strode out of the hospital. Harsh sunlight slammed into his eyes as he emerged, making him wince despite the brim of the Army regulation cap that shaded his face. Squinting, he made his way across the compound of tents and metal domes to the HQ building. It was the only structure that rated the name "building", and even it was only a semi-permanent construction.

Donovan was sweating profusely by the time he stepped inside. The switch from the Nevada afternoon to the climate-controlled interior of the building drew a silent sigh of relief. He hated hot weather.

The headquarters building held the engineering labs as well as administrative offices. Donovan had intended to go straight to his office, but found himself instead turning toward the sprawling disaster that somehow claimed to hold the secrets of psionic negation.

The engineering lab looked exactly as it had the last time Donovan had been there, two days earlier. As far as he could tell, none of these young men and women had ever heard of the concept of organization, let alone cleaning up after themselves. The room was a treacherous maze of computing equipment and power couplings. Tables filled with unknown odds and ends of electronic equipment sat at haphazard angles with power cords stretched across the distance like the web of some demented spider. All other horizontal surfaces were taken up by piles of either books or print outs, except the far end of one rectangular table where two coffee makers and a pile of mini-pizza boxes from the cafeteria had taken up residence.

As much as Donovan hated the disorganization, he knew better than to disturb it. The civilian men and women who worked in this lab were some of the best and brightest. Minds of that caliber always came with severe personality quirks. So, holding his distaste at bay as best he could, Donovan made his way through the tangle to the computer where he most commonly found Dan Chang. Chang was the tech who'd come up with the spectral signature for both Onslaught and Erik the Red, and Donovan had had him transferred from the Pentagon to this lab so he could continue his investigation without too many high ranking people looking over his shoulder. If possible, Donovan wanted first crack at Erik.

Chang looked up Donovan approached. "Speak of the devil." He glanced at the engineer who sat beside him, peering with him into the computer's screen. "I was just telling Matt we should call you, General."

Donovan forgot his mental list of the engineering lab's faults in an instant. "What have you got?" he asked as he came around the corner of the table to stand behind the two.

Chang shrugged. "A theory. But… we think we've come up with an I.D. on Erik the Red."

Only long years of practice kept the expression off Donovan's face. "Show me."

Chang spun his chair around in a full circle then pointed to the screen. "Take a look."

The screen was divided into four equal panes. The top two held the now-familiar pictures of Onslaught and Erik the Red with their ugly multi-colored auras. The two bottom windows displayed spiky line graphs that reminded Donovan of some kind of audio wave analysis.

"Here we have Erik and Onslaught with the original signatures I showed you back at the Pentagon." Chang pointed to the upper left and upper right images respectively. "These--" he pointed to the lower graphs, "are two dimensional representations of the same information. We're using a pretty basic power spectral density analysis method to represent the total mutant energy being produced as a function of the quasi-frequencies they operate on."

"Quasi-frequencies?"

Chang continued to watch the screen. "Yes. Real frequency is a measure of events per period of time. Generally, we use Hertz, or cycles per second. In the case of mutant energy, however, we're not really dealing with something that behaves as a function of time, so we used a mathematical transformation to put us in the time plane. That way, we can represent the data in terms of something we know how to work with, namely frequency. But since it's not really frequency we're dealing with, we've been calling it the quasi-frequency to help us remember."

Donovan nodded to show he was following the explanation and Chang returned to the main thread of the discussion. He tapped the screen with the tip of his pen. "Now, the big question in both these cases is, who are these people to be throwing off such wild spectrums of energy? We know that most mutants only have one power or use one kind of energy. There are a few exceptions, but that's the general rule. But these guys--" he waved toward the screen, "are using three separate types of energy: psi, empath, and magnetic."

Donovan was beginning to see where he was headed. "Onslaught was a combination of Charles Xavier and Magneto, which explains the psi and magnetic powers. Xavier admitted that much under questioning." At the Grayscape base, Donovan had never even bothered to use normal interrogation techniques on Xavier. The man had obviously been broken long before he was turned over to them.

Chang held up a cautioning finger. "True, but that's not all Xavier said. I dug out the transcripts and went through them, trying to figure out where the third element-- the empath-- could have come from."

"And?"

Chang dug through piles of papers until he came out with a thick booklet with "Eyes Only" stamped across it in red. He flipped it open to a page marked with numerous post-it notes around the edges.

"Here." He showed the page to Donovan and pointed to a passage that had been underlined in pencil. "Xavier said there was a dark presence inside him. Something evil, something that wasn't him."

Donovan frowned as he read the marked portion. Memory filled in Xavier's listless, rasping voice, his dull, defeated eyes. "He was trying to justify himself," he finally said. "Trying to find some reason why it wasn't his fault."

Chang gave him a noncommittal shrug. "So the psych people said. But what if it was true? What if there really was a third entity in the mix?"

"An empath?"

Chang nodded. "A telepath-empath, actually."

Donovan stared at the young engineer for several long moments, debating, then decided he really had no choice but to throw away his preconceptions about Xavier and listen to what Chang was trying to tell him. He hooked a nearby chair with one foot and dropped his considerable bulk into its fragile, ergonomically correct cocoon.

"Show me."

Chang and his associate exchanged grins. "All right." Chang spent several minutes at the keyboard, eventually bringing up two more window pairs, upper and lower, like the ones already displayed for Erik the Red and Onslaught. Donovan wasn't the least surprised to see that the two new ones showed data on Xavier and Magneto.

"We have old data on both Xavier and Magneto here. As you can see, their spectral graphs show far fewer spikes than Onslaught's."

Donovan nodded. The two mutants' signatures were distinctly different from each other, and neither one came close to the full-spectrum spiky-ness of Onslaught.

Chang hid the new windows, returning the view to Onslaught and Erik the Red. "I made the assumption that Onslaught's spectral signature would be the sum of the signatures of his three components." He typed a new command and the graph suddenly became three graphs in different colors, all overlaid on the white line of the original signature. "The red is Magneto, the blue Xavier, and the yellow is our unknown third quantity. As you can see, if you add up the various amplitudes at each quasi-frequency, you get the total of Onslaught's signature."

Donovan leaned closer to study the new chart. The yellow line contained more spikes than either Xavier or Magneto. Many of them were in an area where neither of the other two showed any activity at all, but several of the yellow spikes overlapped the densest portion of Xavier's spikes. He pointed to the overlapping blue and yellow points. "Is this why you concluded the third entity must be a telepath-empath?"

Chang nodded. "Yes, and from the amplitudes I'd guess he's high-alpha or even omega level on both powers."

Donovan pursed his lips, alarmed. "Is he-- or she, I suppose-- less powerful than Xavier since he's got fewer telepath spikes?"

Chang shook his head and glanced at his partner. "We don't think so. Amplitude is the measure of raw power, but the number of spikes may have something to do with how well trained or versatile the mutant is with their power."

Donovan shrugged. "Sounds reasonable, anyway."

Chang shot him a vaguely miffed glance. "Now look at Erik the Red."

Donovan obediently shifted his attention as the other man split Erik's signature into its component pieces. This time, there were only two traces-- yellow and red-- that made up the total signature. Donovan couldn't help but note that it looked to be an exact match. The yellow traces on each of the two graphs looked to be identical.

He sat back in his chair. "So Erik has the same kinds of power as Onslaught, but he's only made up of two of Onslaught's three components." He sank his chin to his chest, thinking. "Is that why he wanted Xavier? To rebuild the original mix? Bring Onslaught back to life?"

Chang only shrugged. "You've got me there. But since Xavier's powers are basically flatlined, I don't think he'll have much luck."

Donovan had to agree with that. "Do you have any idea who the third entity is?"

Chang shook his head, and Donovan levered himself to his feet. "All right." He glanced down at the engineer. "This is good work, Mr. Chang. Put it all together in some kind of readable format and have it on my desk by tomorrow morning." He was going to have to pass this information on. Maybe someone higher up at the Pentagon would know who their mystery telepath-empath might be.

"Erik the Red is the Shadow King."

Jean's eyes widened. "Charles, are you sure?"

"The Shadow King has been dead for years," Scott added.

Hanging inverted over the table, Hank chuckled. "Not that that's ever stopped anyone."

Jean grinned up at him. "Oh, hush."

The Professor gave them all a stern stare. "This isn't a laughing matter." His reproving tone effectively capped the banter at the table.

On Jean's far side, Bobby sighed. "Nothing ever is anymore," he commented in an undertone and Jean's stomach tightened. It was a painfully true observation and she found herself sighing as well.

"Charles, we know how serious the situation is." Even to her own ears, she sounded as if she were losing her patience. "Living under a cloud of doom isn't going to make it any better."

Heads nodded around the table as Charles' expression closed in on itself. All of the X-Men were gathered in the newly refurbished War Room. Jean kept a discreet eye on Remy down near the far end of the table, but he seemed to be holding his own emotionally for the moment. Rogue and Storm sat to either side of him, the latter focused on Marrow, who crouched on a chair about midway up the table. Marrow was ignoring Storm in favor of Gambit, a dangerous smile on her face and her fingers lightly tapping the long bone spurs growing out of her forearm.

Jean bit her lip in consternation. Scott, we're all strung so taut. The minute something snaps we're going to be trying to kill each other.

Scott turned his head fractionally to look at her. I know. I just don't have a clue what to do about it. He gave her the mental equivalent of squeezing her hand as he turned back to Charles.

"What makes you sure it's the Shadow King?"

Charles' gaze narrowed. "I recognized him. It took me a long time to figure out what was so familiar about him, but between my own encounters with him in this timeline and… Rem'aillon's experiences in the alternate timeline, I can draw no other conclusion."

Jean risked a quick look down the table. Remy's shields were firmly in place, but for once he didn't seem to have reacted to the mention of his alter identity. She swallowed a heartfelt sigh. If she had to label it, she would say Remy was suffering from a bad case of Second-Son Syndrome. In Charles' eyes, Rem'aillon was obviously the favored son, the one he ached to have restored to him. It wasn't surprising Remy was acting the way he was, even if that reaction was sometimes terribly immature.

Turning away from Marrow, Storm spoke up. "That is a very bad thing, then. The Shadow King is an omega telepath." She paused significantly. "The only one on the planet." Her voice remained neutral, giving little insight into her thoughts.

Jean could feel the sudden waves of regret and loss that emanated from Charles, but he simply nodded. "Given what I have seen of how the telepaths in the alternate timeline networked themselves to boost their power, I think we may be able to combat him with the various alpha telepaths on the current X-rosters."

Jean raised an eyebrow but didn't immediately comment. Instead, she turned to the only other telepath in the room.

"Betsy?"

"I think he's out of his mind." Elisabeth's answer was as sharp as the blade of the katana she wore strapped to her back. "The networking idea is a good one, but he's grasping at straws if he thinks a handful of us can take on the Shadow King and win. Look where that got us at Muir."

Jean nodded in agreement. Unfortunately, I was thinking something similar myself, she added privately.

And? Betsy could obviously feel the decision that weighed so heavily on Jean's mind.

Jean sighed. Just be ready. This could get ugly. Turning, she looked first at Charles, then to Remy.

"There is one omega who might be able to help us."

For a moment, every person in the room focused on her, their attention both curious and wary.

"Who?" Scott finally asked.

Jean's hands curled into fists in her lap. "Rem'aillon."

Remy's gaze snapped to hers, hostile and frightened. "No way."

"That's impossible, Jean." Charles's voice interrupted before she could respond to Remy and she turned to look at him.

"Why?"

The look Charles gave her was full of reproach. "We've been through this before." One hand fluttered in a gesture of helpless frustration. "I made a mistake when I set up Gambit's psychic defenses. If you tried to break the blocks on his powers you'd get hit with a psi bolt fueled by the full power of an omega telepath. It would kill you." For a moment his gaze flickered guiltily toward Remy before returning to Jean.

She returned Charles's stare with as much fortitude as she could muster. "If it was just me." She glanced down the table at Psylocke. "But we were just talking about networking telepaths. What if I had Betsy and Cable and Emma Frost and however many others I thought I needed to back me up? We're talking about one psi bolt here, not an ongoing battle."

She saw Charles open his mouth for a retort, but he shut it again before any sound could emerge. He steepled his hands in front of his mouth and stared at her thoughtfully. "I… don't know, Jean," he finally said. A tiny spark seemed to kindle in his eyes. "It might work."

"And if it didn't?" Scott's voice was full of alarm.

Jean shrugged, uncomfortable. "One or more of us would probably end up dead."

Scott's jaw clenched, the muscle standing out in sharp relief. "Then it's out of the question."

Jean tried to hold onto her temper. "I wouldn't be willing to try it if I really thought that would happen," she answered tightly. "I'm not stupid."

Scott glared at her in a mixture of anger and fear as silence engulfed the table. Jean returned his gaze defiantly.

"So, ain' anybody gon' ask me what I t'ink o' dis niftly lil' plan?" Gambit's voice held a venomous, bitter edge.

Jean turned with a guilty start. She'd been so engrossed in debating the technicalities with Charles that she'd completely forgotten about the man himself. Moistening her lips, she quickly tried to make amends.

"I'm sorry, Remy. It wasn't my intention to shut you out. I was just trying to point out the possibilities. In the end, the decision is yours. It has to be."

The blood red stare faltered, and Jean could feel the hard edges of his anger crumble. She breathed a sigh of relief as he nodded in tacit acceptance of her apology. The last thing she wanted was to alienate him any further.

Charles slowly leaned back in his hoverchair. His gaze was distant as he stared down the length of the table. "I, too, owe you an apology, Remy." His soft voice seemed like a shout in the stillness. At Gambit's startled look, he continued, "I have grown too used to controlling people and events as I see fit, and despite the pain I have caused, it is a difficult thing to let go of that power." He paused and shook his head sadly. "Jean is right. It is possible, though terribly risky. The choice is entirely yours. I--" He faltered for a moment and swallowed convulsively to regain his voice. Jean could feel the hot shards of disappointment and loss as he forced out his next words. "I will support whatever decision you make."

Wary gratification filled Remy's expression. He nodded slowly. "Merci."

Surprisingly, Jean's mood lifted a little at the exchange. It was the first time father and son had spoken directly to each other since Remy had learned the truth and she smiled as she realized what had happened. It's a beginning.

Remy's spatial sense warned him of Lilandra's approach long before her boot heels began to echo on the weathered wood of the boat dock. In the time it took for her to cross the distance to where he stood at the dock's end, he had thought of no less than fifteen different excuses to leave before she could strike up a conversation. But when her footsteps ceased directly behind him he still hadn't moved.

After a moment, he forced himself to turn. "Hello, Lilandra."

The Shi'ar Majestrix nodded in greeting as the evening breeze ruffled her feathered crest. "Gambit." She seemed horribly uncomfortable, but her jaw was set in a stubborn line Remy recognized from years of staring in the bathroom mirror, and in that instant all his thoughts of making things difficult for her evaporated.

"De name's Remy."

She nodded again. "I know." Her lips curved in an oddly shy smile. "But we haven't been properly introduced and I… didn't want to presume."

Touched, Remy gallantly held out his hand. "Well, I guess we can fix dat. I'm Remy LeBeau."

"Lilandra Neramani." She shook his hand. The contact was brief, and they quickly separated. Remy found himself chuckling in acute embarrassment, and as he looked away his gaze swept across the wine bottle and flutes Lilandra held in her other hand.

He looked up at her in surprise. "You brought wine?"

She shrugged. "I can't stomach the beer on this planet, and it is always easier to talk when the hands have something to do."

"Guess I can' argue wit' dat." Remy was amazed by how easily they had fallen into something approximating a normal conversation. He had to admit it felt a lot more like meeting a regular woman than trying to get acquainted with the mother he couldn't remember, but for now that seemed good enough. He hadn't realized until that moment how much he wanted contact-- any kind of contact-- with her. "What did y' bring?"

Lilandra raised the bottle and offered it to him. "A random selection from the cellar, I'm afraid. I don't read… whatever language the labels are written in. I hope I haven't committed a terrible breach of wine etiquette."

Remy grinned as he studied the label. "Actually, y' done pretty good." He made short work of the cork with his pocketknife and poured wine into the glasses Lilandra held out. Then, setting the bottle aside, he sat down on the edge of the dock and dangled one leg over the edge. Lilandra copied him and they ended up facing each other across a short gap.

Remy sipped his wine and tried to figure out what to say.

Lilandra cupped her glass in both hands and stared upward. "The stars are so bright here." Remy followed her gaze. "On Chandilar, the skies are always alight. You can barely see the stars at all. Here, they're so bright they seem almost unreal."

Remy shrugged. "I've always been more o' de city boy, m'self. Never spent much time lookin' at stars."

Lilandra continued to study the sky. "There," she said after a minute, pointing. "Do you see that little bluish one, near the horizon?"

Remy followed the direction of her pointing hand and nodded. "I t'ink so."

"That's the star Chandilar orbits." She turned to look at him, her gaze thoughtful. "It's where you were hatched. Or will be, I suppose."

Remy simply stared at her as his stomach tried to crawl up his throat. "Hatched?" he finally managed to ask.

Lilandra regarded him quizzically for a moment before her expression cleared. "Oh, I suppose that would sound strange. Humans do have live births, don't they? I had forgotten. Any child of mine would spend the last phase of gestation in an egg in the Aviary." She made a dismissive gesture, as if it weren't terribly important. Remy, on the other hand, felt like his head was spinning and not just from the concept of being hatched. Lilandra had, however obliquely, laid claim to the fact that he was her child, her son, and a tight knot in his heart suddenly loosened in response.

"I wish I could remember y'," he said without realizing he was speaking the thought aloud.

Lilandra's dark gaze met his, her expression vaguely troubled. "I hope they would be pleasant memories," she said softly.

Flushing, Remy looked away. "I… t'ink so." He pressed one hand to his heart, struggling to explain. "I c'n feel you. Here."

A short moment later, Lilandra reached over to touch his knee and he looked up into her face. Without his consciously willing it to, his hand sought out hers, curling around her slender fingers in a tight grip that echoed the nameless feelings in his heart.

"What's de Shi'ar word f' mother?" Remy finally asked.

"Aman."

"Aman." Remy tested the sound of the word, finding it far more comfortable than he could possibly have imagined. He nodded to himself. "Dat sounds right… feels right." He gave her a lopsided smile. "Do y' mind if…?"

Lilandra's smile glowed. "No, not at all."

"Aman it is, den."

Chapter 26

Gerard Donovan leaned back in his chair and looked around the conference table at his staff. "Have we settled on a target for the Alpha test?"

There was no way to guess how well the P-Noot would work on high-level telepaths without experimenting. Unfortunately, capturing an alpha telepath was nearly impossible, which meant they would have to venture into the field. Of course, taking the device out came with its own set of risks, but that couldn't be helped. A second prototype was already under construction, in case something happened to the first.

One of the staffers nodded. "Yes, sir." He slid a surveillance photograph toward Donovan. "Elizabeth Braddock, codename Psylocke." The picture showed the Asian woman with purple hair sitting at a small table at a New York street café.

Donovan looked up in surprise. "An X-Man?"

The staffer, Captain Leeson, nodded. "For several reasons, sir: First, the X-Men have a known base of operations, so we know where to find them. Second, if we can neutralize one of their telepaths, it will further handicap the most telepath-intensive of the mutant teams."

Donovan stared at him in consternation. "It will also bring the rest of the X-Men down on us like a ton of bricks. Even without telepaths, they're not to be underestimated, as our recent encounter with them at the Grayscape facility illustrates." He paused to see if the gathered officers had absorbed his words. A sudden thought caught him. "Why not Phoenix?"

Captain Leeson frowned. "Given the various transformations she's gone through—including dying and being resurrected—we didn't think she would provide representative test results, sir."

"But the fact that Elizabeth Braddock wasn't born Asian doesn't bother you?"

His comment spurred a short, intense flurry of whispers near the other end of the table. Captain Leeson flashed his fellow officers a dirty glance before returning his attention to Donovan.

"That might skew the data, sir," he admitted, shuffling his papers. "However, our choices are limited."

Donovan frowned. "What about Emma Frost?"

Leeson consulted his information. "We discarded her because of her position as headmistress of a school, General. There might be public outcry if any of the students were injured, even if they are mutants." He shrugged. "For that reason, we also discarded Jonothan Starsmore, one of her students."

Donovan leaned back in his seat. "Cable?"

"Location unknown, sir," another officer piped up.

Captain Leeson looked over at the other man. "And that pretty much sums up all the other alpha telepaths on our list, sir—Location Unknown."

Donovan decided not to challenge that statement. High-power mutants kept their locations hidden for good reason. "So what's your plan?"

Leeson returned his attention to the general. "It's pretty fluid, sir. The X-Men frequent a bar in Westchester, usually in small groups. We'd like to set up an ambush there, but the timing can't be predicted."

"Probability of success?"

Leeson shrugged. "We'll either get lucky or we won't, sir."

Well, Donovan thought, that was pretty much the way of it when dealing with top-end mutants. "Make sure Wolverine isn't there," he told the captain. "That's an automatic no-go." The mutant knew military operations far too well.

Leeson nodded. "Yes, sir."

Remy settled at the edge of the red and white checkered cloth Rogue had spread on the ground, watching with interest as she unpacked the basket beside her. Above them an ancient cottonwood spread its limbs, bathing their picnic in shade. The mansion was just visible on the far side of the lake, but Remy didn't want to be reminded of any of that right now. He turned his back to the distant structure and concentrated on the woman in front of him.

They had decided they might do some swimming in the lake later in the afternoon, and in that spirit, Rogue had chosen to wear a bright yellow bikini and a pair of denim shorts. Not the Remy was going to complain; the view was spectacular. He poured wine while Rogue set out various dishes. When she was done, she brushed an errant hair out of her face with one gloved hand and flashed him a nervous smile.

"Ah hope ya hungry, sugah."

He grinned, biting back the first response that came to mind. He wasn't quite ready to dive back into innuendo-land. They were friends again, something he hadn't believed possible. He wasn't entirely certain how ready he was to take their relationship further, let alone wanting to push her in that direction.

Though he didn't mind this romantic little picnic she'd cooked up. On the contrary.

"Starvin'," he answered and handed her a glass of wine. "Dis is really nice, chere."

She flushed, looking pleased. "Ya ought ta be impressed, sugah." She cast a sly gaze his way. "Ah don't cook foh most people."

Remy chuckled, twirling his glass in his fingers. "An' what did I do t' deserve such an honor?"

Her playful expression disappeared. Solemn green eyes speared deep into his own. "Ya forgave me."

A cold wave washed across Remy, bringing with it memory and emotions he usually kept buried. He'd come so close to starving to death, freezing to death... to killing himself just to put an end to his misery.

He sighed, shifting so that he was leaning on one elbow with his lanky form stretched out along the edge of the cloth. Perhaps it was time to talk about it.

"What really happened out dere?" He watched his hands as they toyed with the wineglass, only risking a quick glance at the woman seated across from him.

Rogue blew out her breath in a sigh. "Ah don't honestly know, sugah. Maybe Jean could explain it, but... somethin' strange happened when ah absorbed ya in the Citadel."

"More'n de fact dat I didn' drop?" It had been distinctly strange to feel his mind and powers drain away without spinning down into a dark mass of oblivion himself.

Rogue nodded. "Ah don't know if Erik was doin' somethin', or if it was just yoh telepathic weirdness reactin' with ma powers, which are psi-based, too..."

Remy willed himself not to react to the mention of his disconnected telepathy. "It didn' happen de first time y' absorbed m' powers."

"No, ah think it was Erik—the Shadow King." She glanced quickly at him, regret shining from her eyes. "It was more than just absorbin' ya powers. Ah had ya memories, yeah, but everything ya felt, ah felt, too, only it was thrown back at me a hundred times stronger. Ah felt those emotions just like they were mine, an' eventually ah couldn't tell what was real an' what wasn't." She shrugged. "Ya thought ya deserved to die foh helpin' destroy the Morlocks an'... ah obliged ya."

Remy absorbed her explanation with an almost overwhelming sense of relief. She'd never honestly hated him enough to kill him. That thought had haunted him ever since he'd watched her fly away through the howling Antarctic wind.

"I wonder why he did it," he finally said. "De Shadow King, I mean. He didn' know about—" He waved a hand in vague circles, trying to encompass the enormity of his past without putting any of it into words. "So why bother wit' me?"

Hesitantly, Rogue reached for his hand. Her gloved fingers curled around his own and, strangely, something inside Remy loosened another notch.

"You're more important ta people than ya'll let yourself believe, sugah. What happened in Antarctica went a long way towards guttin' the X-Men."

"Betrayal will do dat." He looked away, out over the lake toward the mansion.

Rogue tightened her grip on his hand. "It's true ya should have told us, Remy. Ya should have trusted us that much." He turned back to her, surprised by her vehemence. She flashed him a weak smile. "But if there's anybody who's got good reason not t' trust the X-Men, it's you. When ah think about what the Professor did—" She shook her head sharply, anger momentarily lighting her features.

Remy held up a hand to forestall her. "Let's not go dere, 'kay?" The last thing he wanted to do right now was talk about Xavier. "I'd much rather spend de time enjoyin' de company..." He reached out to take a piece of fried chicken. "An y' excellent food."

"All right," she agreed, taking a chicken leg of her own.

They ate in silence for several minutes. Remy let his thoughts drift, determined to steer clear of weighty, painful matters. He found himself sifting through memories of Rogue. Perhaps strongest in his mind was that short, bittersweet time they'd spent in each other's arms in Antarctica. It had been an incredibly selfish thing to do, and yet, given the chance to make the choice again he didn't think he could deny himself the sweet warmth of her touch, or the soul-deep fire her passion ignited in him.

He reached for her with one gloved hand, letting the backs of his fingers trail the length of her thigh. Rogue didn't flinch or move away. When he hazarded a look into her face, he found her smiling softly.

Then, with a nervous twist to her lips, she sat forward and began to rummage in the picnic basket. "Hang on, sugah. Ah've got somethin'—" She found what she was looking for and sat back. A locket on a heavy gold chain dangled from her fingers. Without looking at him, she fastened it around her neck. "There."

Remy watched her curiously. When she looked at him, he raised an eyebrow in silent question.

Rogue laid a hand flat across the locket at her throat, her cheeks turning a delicate shade of pink. "Ah asked Lilandra foh a favor." She lowered her hand. "It's a power-suppressor."

Remy stared at her as the magnitude of the action hit him. This was Rogue, voluntarily setting her powers aside. Making herself vulnerable. For him. For them.

Carefully moving his plate out of the way, he stripped off his gloves. With only a moment's hesitation, he reached over and laid his hand on her thigh. His fingers tightened involuntarily. Her skin was warm and as smooth as silk.

She covered his hand with her own.

Remy cracked a smile. "Dis mean y' brought me out here t' seduce me, ma chere?"

She laughed, the sound bright and silvery. "Ah'm considerin' it, sugah."

After that, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to draw her down beside him on the checkered blanket. He kissed her softly and felt her arms slide around him. When they parted, she sighed and tucked her head into the hollow of his shoulder. Remy held her close, relishing the feel of her body lying flush with his.

"Do ya remember our first picnic, sugah?" Rogue asked a moment later.

Remy had to smile. "I remember accidentally hittin' y' in de face wit' dat pie y' baked."

She laughed outright. "Ah was so mad. There ah was, tryin' ta impress ya with mah fine Southern cookin'..."

Remy sighed. "An' I was too busy fightin' wit' Bishop t' appreciate it. Y' know what's weird, t'ough?" He glanced down at Rogue, who shook her head.

"What?"

"Bishop. Dat was de first time he warned us de X-Men would be betrayed. An' I knew he was tellin' de truth. Deep in m' gut, like. I didn' know why at de time, o' course, but I knew he was right."

Rogue's grip on him tightened. "It was still part a ya past, even if ya couldn't remember it."

Remy stared blankly at the spreading branches that arched above them. "Yeah. Accordin' t' Xavier, I've lived through it all, what, two, t'ree times? Makes m' head hurt jus' t'inking about it."

"It'd make anybody crazy, sugah."

He paused. "Does dat mean y' agree wit' me not wantin' Jeannie an' de rest messin' wit' m' head?"

Rogue was quiet as the moments stretched. Her fingers traced an idle design on his chest. "Ah like ya just the way ya are," she finally said.

Letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, Remy hugged her tight.

She returned the embrace, then pulled away just far enough to look up into his face. "But what if we can't take the Shadow King without an omega telepath?"

Remy didn't want to think about it. "I don' know, chere. I guess we'll have t' deal wit' it if de time ever comes." He dipped his head to plant a kiss on her mouth, then a second. As he'd hoped, Rogue responded ardently, and he soon forgot all about Xavier, the Shadow King, and a lost young price named Rem'aillon.

back to Valerie's stories | X-Men archive | comicfic.net