Generation: Black Air (2)
Mending the Broken
JBMcDragon

The empathic noise of utter despair awoke him.

He closed his eyes tighter, trying to will it gone, and rolled over.

It didn't work.

Vault sighed heavily, knowing he'd never get back to sleep while someone was hurting and his conscience was pricking him. He threw the sheets off his body and swung his legs over the side. Orange eyes looked out the window, seeing stars still bright in the night sky.

He groaned and stumbled up, out of bed, brushing his black hair out of his eyes. Stockinged feet padded silently out his door, down the hall. He glanced in at Pistol, but the man was still sleeping. Momentarily, Vault considered waking him up . . . then decided Pistol could use the rest. He continued silently down the hall.

Cable was pulling on a robe as he stumbled out of his room, meeting Vault on the stairs. He looked at the boy for a moment through sleep-thickened eyes, then muttered, "What are you doing up?"

Vault hesitated, swallowing. "Trace woke me up," he whispered.

Cable nodded. "He woke me up, too." Cable sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes with callused fingers. "Thoughts are too loud."

Vault nodded.

"Why don't you go back to bed?" Cable said resignedly. "I'll take care of this."

Vault hesitated a moment more, and Domino appeared at the doorway of the room she and Cable shared while visiting.

"Why don't you both go back to bed," she said quietly, shrugging into a sweater. "I'll go check it out. I can't sleep anyway."

Vault eyed her blearily, noting the too bright eyes that indicated she hadn't even gone to bed yet. He sighed and nodded, turning and walking back to his room as Cable did the same, and Domino trotted down the stairs.

***

Domino was silent as she walked through the downstairs, aware that Trace was down there, but not knowing where. He was too quiet.

She checked the kitchen last, glancing around with violet eyes. She didn't see him at first, curled and unmoving as he was. But his alabaster skin stood out against the wooden cupboards he was leaning against.

He sat in the corner of the kitchen, his head buried in his arms, which were wrapped around his knees. In the soft moonlight he didn't look quite so gaunt.

Domino paced softly across the room, kneeling in front of the young man.

Black, greasy hair fell in long, unbrushed strands. He wore only boxer shorts, and the waistband was soaked with sweat. His back was against the corner cupboard, but stretching around his sides like long claw marks were scars, jagged and broken.

"Trace?" Domino whispered quietly, reaching forward and brushing black hair out of his face.

He pulled back instinctively, flinching away while remaining curled.

"Trace, it's okay now," Domino whispered lightly, turning so she could sit next to him. She wrapped a long, slender arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer, alarmed at the coolness of his skin. She looked closer and saw goosebumps covering his body. "This'll be over in a few days," she continued, pulling off her sweater and putting it around his shoulders.

"I hate it," Trace said, obviously fighting back tears. "I hate it. I just want my needles. I liked that."

"I know," Domino answered, running her fingers through his hair. Only that afternoon, the same day Domino and Cable had arrived for a visit, had they stopped giving him morphine. They had been told by the doctor from the English Mutant Underground that in a worst case scenario it would take ten days before he was clean. "But this will be over soon, and then you won't need your needles anymore."

"I want to go home," he said, his shoulders shaking.

Domino pulled him closer, across her lap. Though he was twenty-one, he was so slight and sickly that he weighed very little. "You don't really want to go home," she said softly.

"Yes I do."

"No you don't."

"Bullshit," Trace said without much passion. "When I was home I had my needles and my family and . . . and I knew what do to and not do . . . and I want to go back!"

Domino frowned over his head. He was crying, tears soaking into her flannel.

"I hurt all over and I keep throwing up and I can't sleep and my heart's racing. . . ."

Domino nodded. Those were all symptoms they'd been told to expect. "But that will go away."

"Bullshit." Again without conviction. "I want to go home." He was openly crying now, turning his face to bury it in the hollow between her neck and shoulder.

Domino looked up as she felt another presence, and saw Pistol glaring down at her.

"I'll take him," he said quietly.

Domino made no move to get up, and Pistol knelt beside the two figures.

"Come on, Trace," he said softly. "You can spend the night in my room. You'll be okay. I won't let things hurt you."

Trace turned away from Domino, one hand stretching out toward Pistol. "I tried not to wake you," he murmured quietly. The older boy just nodded and helped him to his feet, then simply picked him up when Trace's legs refused to support his weight. Silently, Pistol carried Trace up the stairs and into his bedroom.

***

"That is a strange relationship," Domino noted at the breakfast table the next morning.

"What is?" Vault asked as he tried to figure out how to eat an orange. He took a bite, peel and all, then made a face and ran to the trashcan to spit it out. Glaring at the orange, he threw the entire thing away.

Kitty shot him a dirty look, getting another orange and showing him how to peel it.

"Trace and Pistol," Domino answered.

"Why's it strange?" Vault asked, taking orange pieces as Kitty freed them.

Azul ran into the room breathlessly, smelling of fresh grass and new flowers. Grinning, he deposited a rock on the table and ran back outside.

"It's just unusual. Pistol seems to take care of Trace like . . . like he's a child."

Vault frowned and ate another orange piece. "Of course. Trace can't care for himself very easily."

"Why not?" Logan asked, setting down a platter of scrambled eggs.

Azul ran in the door, three fingers covered in dust, and grabbed for the eggs.

Kitty caught his arm and pulled it away, telling him quietly to wash his hands first.

"'Cause Trace is always picked on. I mean, sometimes he can hardly walk. And if he looks like he's doing good, then . . . " Vault hesitated, familiar suspiciousness setting in.

"Then what?" Logan asked quietly, sitting down next to him.

Vault watched his own orange hands play with the edge of the table. "You won't hurt him if you find out?"

Logan shook his head, no.

"If they thought he was doing okay," Vault said very quietly, "then they'd beat him again. So if he always looked sick, they'd leave him alone. Mostly." Vault's eyes flickered upward, uncertainly.

Logan was fuming. At the way these children had been treated, that they would have to be ill just to be safe. But he was very careful not to let that show, since he knew Vault would assume Logan was mad at him. "No one's going to hurt him, now," Logan said very quietly, when he was sure he could speak without raging. "No one's going to hurt any of you."

Vault nodded, eyes wide. The kitchen had fallen silent, all movement halted.

"Promise?" Azul asked from behind Vault. His young voice was hesitant.

"I promise," Logan said, looking straight into those golden eyes.

"What if . . . what if we do something bad?" Azul asked slowly. He wrapped his fingers around the refrigerator handle, clinging to it as if for protection.

"Like what?" Logan asked in return.

"Like . . ." his little black tongue stuck out, pinched between fangs as he tried to think of something. "Like if I broke something you liked."

"I would be very sad about it," Logan answered honestly. "And I might be angry, if it were because you did something you shouldn't have. But no one will hurt you."

"What if I accidentally cut you with a knife?" Azul asked.

"That would hurt me, but I wouldn't hurt you for it."

Azul nodded slowly. "Can I ask a question?"

Logan nodded.

All eyes were riveted on the small boy.

"What's this?" He reached back, pulling something small and square out of his back pocket. "I found it in Pete's underwear drawer when I was looking for the Oreos."

"Gimme that!" Pete shouted, lunging across the table to grab at the small foil package.

Azul made a tiny panicked sound and dropped it, dodging behind Logan. "Am I in trouble?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"No," Logan said, suppressing a grin as Pete stuffed the package in his pocket and Kitty blushed furiously. "But don't go through people's things any more unless you have permission. Clear?"

Azul nodded solemnly.

"Where's the morphine?" The words were snapped, clipped yet snarled. The man who strode through the door walked with a predatory air of certainty, yellow, slit pupil eyes slicing around and taking in everything.

"Pistol," Kitty said, surprised as she moved quickly out of his path.

His path veered suddenly, body bent slightly as though he were stalking something as he turned and followed her slight form.

Logan was on his feet as Kitty bumped into the refrigerator, and Pistol stopped only inches from her. Logan started to step forward, and was suddenly paralyzed with fear.

Pistol's fangs were bared as he snarled at Kitty, only very slightly taller than she. "Where's the morphine?"

Logan's eyes flicked around, seeing the other figures at the table equally immobile. His eyes landed on Vault, who hadn't looked up. "Kid," he barked angrily. "Stop it. Now."

Vault looked up, confusion, fear and uncertainty warring across his porcelain features.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the terror was gone.

Pete and Logan lunged for Pistol at the same time, but Logan reached him first.

Pistol twisted away swiftly, coming to rest across the kitchen on the balls of his feet, ready to move in any direction.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Logan rumbled, dangerously quiet.

Pete had reached Kitty, pulling her away and into his arms. He glared at Pistol above his love's shoulder, his hands glowing on her waist.

"I think," Pistol snarled back, "that I'm protecting my family. Where the hell is the morphine?!" Elongated canine teeth were bared, yellow eyes flashing in harsh comparison to Logan's cold steel orbs.

"I think you're attacking part of your family," Logan growled back. "Because that's what Kitty is now. Part of your family. Remember?"

"Where the fuck is the morphine?" Pistol shouted, rage painting his face.

A blast of pure heat shot out, landing next to him and burning the wooden cupboard black. "Calm down," Pete said quietly, having moved to stand in front of Kitty. "We don't 'ave any morphine 'ere."

"Bullshit!" Pistol's arm lashed out, hitting the knife holder and sending it and all its contents spilling across the floor. "Where are the needles?"

"Why do you want them?" Logan asked back, suddenly half afraid that Trace hadn't been the only addict.

"Because without them he's sick," Pistol snarled, his hands like claws at his sides.

"That will go away," Domino said quietly.

"Bullshit. Where are the needles?" He was looking directly at Kitty, anger, hatred and betrayal in every line of his bulky body.

"They're gone," Kitty said quietly.

Pistol took a deep breath, straightening his features and his body. Vault tensed. When Pistol spoke again, his voice was iron sheathed in velvet. "Find some. Now."

Kitty shook her head, started to say she couldn't, but he interrupted.

His words were even quieter, colder. "Find some."

Kitty's mouth opened again, and Pistol raised his eyebrows to silence her. "Find some." The words were barely a whisper. His gaze swept the room, commandingly, then he turned and left.

There was silence for a long moment.

"I want 'im gone," Pete said finally. His hands were glowing with pent up anger transformed into heat. "I want 'im out of 'ere. He's dangerous. We knew that from the first time we saw 'im attack Constance."

"Pete," Kitty said softly, an arm on his shoulder. "He just needs help."

"Right. He needs more 'elp than we can give 'im. I want 'im gone."

"You can't make him leave," Vault said, horror in his voice.

"Why not? You don't seem to care much about 'im."

Vault's mouth opened silently, as he tried to refute that. He respected Pistol, but they had never been friends. "Logan, you can't make him leave," Vault finally appealed, twisting in his chair to look pleadingly up at Wolverine. "You just can't."

"Someone get Kurt. Tell him to go check on Trace," Logan snapped. "Kitty, go make Pete calm down."

Pete opened his mouth in protest, fury on his face.

"Pete, we'll talk about it later," Logan said gruffly.

Pete bristled, but left with Kitty.

"Someone find Amanda and Cable. Tell 'em ta get down here pronto."

Domino got up and left, Azul shouted that he'd get Kurt and teleported out.

Logan stood in the kitchen, alone but for the silent empath sitting at the table. "Logan?" Vault asked quietly. "You won't really make him go, will you?"

Logan's eyes focused on the boy, and he pulled out a chair and sat down. "What is Pistol in your hierarchy?" he asked seriously, intent.

Vault hesitated, more worried about whether or not they would make Pistol leave then he was about the hierarchy.

"I know he protected all of you, but what else? How does this work?"

Vault rested his head in his hands, trying to think. He had a hard time describing something they'd lived with forever, something that seemed normal to him. "He's . . . the boss. He protected us. And he kept everyone in line. And. . . ."

"Do you like him?" Logan prompted.

"Not really. . . . "

"But you respect him."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Vault hesitated again, trying to put things that he'd never thought about before into words. "I suppose . . . because he helps us. He teaches us things. He taught us how to live. I mean, he's the first to make it to twenty-three. He taught us how to stay out of trouble. He even taught us what to do under extreme circumstances--what do to if you got in trouble, and couldn't seem to get out." Vault's voice was quiet. "He taught us how to survive, and kept us all safe."

Logan nodded to himself. "He's the head wolf-father figure."

Vault just looked at him, still unable to understand those terms.

"All right. Thanks." Logan stood up, turning away.

"Logan! Are you going to make him leave?"

Wolverine paused. "We'll see," he said at last, then left the room.

***

"You called, oh great one?" Amanda said dryly as she and Cable entered the room.

Logan looked up, nodding. "Amanda, would you call Beast and either Jean, Betsy or Emma? Number's in the rolodex. Tell them I said get here, pronto. Cable, would you keep a mental "eye" on everyone around here? Things may get nasty."

Cable nodded, frowning. "What's going on?"

Logan briefed him quickly, summing up the events of the morning in moments. After Cable had left, Logan clicked on Kitty's prized computer and started searching through the files.

***

The meeting of the adults was held in the sitting room, doors closed. Cable telepathically briefed those who didn't know on what had happened.

"Beast's on his way," Amanda said, sitting comfortably on the couch. "Jean's coming--flying down this afternoon."

"Good. He can make sure Trace is all right, and she'll make sure Pistol's head is together," Logan growled as he leaned against the mantle. He turned, looking at Cable. "I didn't want you to do it because you're too close to the kids."

Cable nodded.

Logan turned, watching Nightcrawler. "Elf, what could you tell?"

"Trace is exhibiting all the signs of someone going through morphine withdrawal," he said, his accent light. "But he's in no danger. He feels miserable, and mostly I think Pistol is worried." He hesitated, thinking. "Trace gave me the impression that someone had told them that Trace would die if he stopped taking his 'needles.'"

Logan scowled and nodded.

"I still say we get rid o' 'im," Pete snapped, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. "Take Pistol and Vault and ship 'im off to someplace what can 'andle 'em better."

"Vault too?" Logan asked, eyebrows raised.

Pete nodded. "The little empath always seems to be rootin' fer the spaz to slice someone up. You can't know what you're really feelin' and what 'e's makin' you feel."

"His role has been to make sure there's no interference before now," Logan said quietly. "I don't think he's rootin' fer anyone. And he's only purposefully changed someone's feelings when there's a fight."

Pete snorted. "Sure 'e's not rootin' for anyone," Pete said sarcastically. "Y' never met 'is father."

"Shrine," Logan supplied, glancing down at a print-out he held loosely in one hand. "I did some research. Borrowed your computer, Pun'kin."

Kitty nodded easily.

"Shrine and you had a nasty run in just before he died," Logan said, glancing at Pete. "Of course you think the kid's worthless."

Pete glared up at Logan, but said nothing.

"When Jean gets here," Logan said to the group at large, "I want her to do a psyche evaluation of Pistol. Found some other interestin' facts, after doin' a little diggin'."

Pete looked up curiously.

Logan looked down at his print-out, clearing his throat. "My blood was the foremost used when creating him," he said. "There were two others also used quite a bit, and one that wasn't used much at all. One of the mains and the little one didn't lead anywhere when I checked into them, but the other name--Adam Nickolas--panned into another name. Erik von Braun. Which sounded familiar. I did a bit more diggin' and came up with the man's possibly real name, the name you may recognize. The second largest donor to Pistol's blood was a man by the name of Victor Creed, or Sabretooth."

"Claws come out of his fingers," Domino said quietly, nodding. "Should have seen it."

"Nah," Logan said, shaking his head. He uncoiled his muscles purposefully, reminding himself that his was the foremost blood used, not Creed's. "We all missed it. When I realized it, I even recognized that he's got some of the murderer's scent. I just hadn't placed it."

"Then we send 'im away," Pete said, sitting back. "It's the only sane thing to do."

"We send him away and he becomes as insane as Sabretooth," Kitty said, eyes flashing at her lover. "If we keep him here, maybe we can curb that."

"Or maybe 'e'll kill us all an' run loose," Pete snapped, sitting up in agitation. "Kit--"

"Don't 'Kit' me," she snapped back, glaring at him. "We can't just--"

"Kids," Logan growled, glaring at both of them. "We'll talk it over. Take it to a vote. Honestly, I think the best thing would be to keep him here, with his family. With the people who have kept him sane so far, and where we can keep a close eye on him. But," and he held up a hand before Pete could protest, "we need to find out if there's a danger of him losing it, first. When Jean gets here, we'll know."

***

"What are we going to do?" Azul asked as they sat in the pasture outside. Azul, Lynx, Enchantment and Constance had all gathered to talk it over. Vault hadn't heard the adult's conversation, and Pistol and Trace were upstairs.

"We could tell Pistol," Enchantment said quietly. "He'll know what to do."

"No, it's about him. He won't be able to think clearly," Constance said. She'd started tactical training two and half years before, and had learned that quickly. "We have to figure out what to do on our own."

"What's our problem, then?" Lynx asked, sitting on the fence and chewing a blade of grass. "What are the things we need to focus on?"

Constance frowned and paced a bit. "We need to decide, first, if we want Pistol to stay or go."

"Stay," Enchantment said automatically. When she realized she'd spoken first, she blushed and tried to sink into the grass as far as she could go.

"I agree with Chant," Azul said, nodding.

"Me too," Lynx said.

"Actually, even though I attacked him and we fought and all, I do too. Pistol has to stay." Constance sighed. She'd already moved on after having been almost killed by Pistol. She'd seen so much murder and death in her thirteen years that, while it had made her nervous around him for several days, she had gotten over it abnormally fast. "If they say Pistol can't stay here anymore, do we go with him?" she asked the three nine year olds before her.

There was a longer pause, but finally Lynx nodded. "We do. I like living here. I like it a lot. But I'd rather stay with Pistol."

Enchantment and Azul made similar noises.

"Okay. Best case scenario: we stay here, with Pistol. Worst case scenario: we leave here, with Pistol."

The others nodded.

"Then how do we make it clear that we want Pistol to stay?" Constance asked.

The three children were silent. "What if we help the adults understand he's okay, he doesn't really want to hurt them?" Lynx asked finally.

Constance shook her head. "Do you even believe that?"

Lynx sighed. "No."

"They're not going to do anything for a while," Enchantment said softly. "Why don't we just wait and see what happens, first? Maybe it'll all be okay."

Constance started to glare at her disdainfully, then stopped. "Actually," she said slowly, "that's a good idea."

***

"You have to eat something," Pistol said quietly, sitting on the rim of the bathtub and watching Trace as he leaned against the toilet bowl, eyes closed and ribs heaving. Every breath showed that he was painfully skinny, his bones protruding from his skin.

"Don't wanna," Trace said, slurring the words. "Feel sick."

If Trace had opened his eyes, he would have seen a completely unfamiliar look cross his friend's features. He would have seen pain and worry etched harshly across the planes of Pistol's face, as the man hoped that Trace would be all right.

Pistol wanted to sit and cry. He could feel the urge, like a hurricane building inside him. After everything, he wasn't going to let Trace die. He refused to let that happen.

But he didn't see how he could stop it. The longing to sit on the floor and bury his face in his arms and sob as he knew Trace sometimes did was great, but he didn't. That was a show of weakness, and there was no one to protect him as he protected Trace. If he was weak then they'd all suffer.

Pistol really didn't think these men and women were any different from the guards. He had the sinking feeling that it was all a ruse at worst, and they would be taken back to Black Air and punished for trying to escape, or that, at best, all humans were like the guards and soon enough these ones would revert to their true forms. And he would be ready when that happened.

But until it happened, he would be strong. He wouldn't let them see his weaknesses, because if he did his entire family would be hurt.

Pistol reached out a hand that tried to tremble, letting it rest on his best friend's shoulder.

"I feel so sick," Trace whispered brokenly.

"I know," Pistol said, and vowed that he'd get the damn needles before Trace died.

***

"All right, brief me," Jean said as she pulled out a seat at the kitchen table. Cable sent her a mental package with everything that had transpired since Logan had first scented Pistol, long before they'd gotten the children away from Black Air.

Jean sifted through it quickly, nodding shortly. "So I have to make sure he's not psychotic?" she asked quietly.

Logan's lips twisted in a smile, and he nodded.

It was late--past midnight--and the children were supposed to be in bed. Logan could hear them still walking around upstairs, however, sneaking about and talking to one another. The four youngest--Constance, Azul, Lynx and Enchantment--had been acting odd ever since that afternoon, shortly after they'd all come in from being outside. Logan wasn't sure what was up, but he had a hunch they knew about the adult's conversation. "I thought we'd let you sleep the rest of the night, and do it some time tomorrow," he said gruffly.

The heavy oak door creaked softly, and all eyes riveted on it. Vault shouldered his way in carefully, holding a dozing Enchantment. "Sorry," he said quietly, walking into the kitchen to the refrigerator. Balancing Enchantment on one arm and his shoulder, he opened the door and peered inside. His orange eyes shifted, though, looking over at the stranger in their midst.

"Need help, Vault?" Cable asked softly, reaching out to take Enchantment. She woke instantly, stiffening in fear and clinging to Vault's neck.

"It's okay, kiddo," Vault said softly. "It's just Nate."

Her large blue eyes blinked warily, then came to rest on Jean. "Who's she?" she whispered into Vault's ear.

Vault closed the refrigerator door and turned to look at the group. Enchantment twisted to look, too.

"Vault, Enchantment, this is a friend of ours. Her name is Jean Grey-Summers. Jean, this is Vault, and this is Enchantment," Cable said, introducing everyone calmly.

Enchantment rested her head on Vault's shoulder, but kept her eyes fixed on Jean.

Jean smiled, sending tendrils of telepathy to soothe their minds. Her smile faltered when Vault's eyes narrowed, and a shaft of hate/pain/betrayal was directed back at her. Jean was no empath, and though she had learned--after much training--to use her telepathic abilities in a slightly empathic way, she had no true defenses against something that potent.

Her breath came in sharply as the emotions hit and left her. A warning. Jean looked up again, keeping steady contact with Vault. "That was uncalled for," she said softly.

Vault stared back at her coldly. "Then don't mess with my head. And leave Chant alone."

The others looked around, confused, not having been privy to the empathic exchange.

Jean smiled warmly, and nodded. "We're agreed then. No head games."

Vault nodded.

Enchantment buried her face in the hollow between Vault's neck and shoulder, confused and tired.

"How come you're up so late?" Nate asked, breaking the silence that followed.

Vault looked up at the man, shrugging slightly. "Chant had a nightmare. Thought we'd get some food."

Cable nodded.

"There's some dinner left in the 'fridge, if you'd like it," Domino offered.

Vault nodded, opened the door wider and brought the container out. He nodded once more to the group at large, watching Jean carefully, then retreated upstairs.

"Well," Logan said gruffly. "Now you've met one of the nicest of the children. Betcha can't wait to meet the others," he said, borderline sarcasm in his voice.

Jean only smiled.

***

Jean made sure to be one of the first people at the breakfast table the next morning. Luckily, she'd never had a problem sleeping and had been able to do so on the plane, so despite the late hour of the night before she wasn't horribly tired.

The first unfamiliar person to come through the door was Nightcrawler's clone. He practically bounced into the room, grin already on his face. Then he saw her and stopped dead, tail dropping to hang, unmoving, behind him, smile replaced by a look of borderline fear. Jean could feel his thoughts battering at her defenses, skittish, restless, curious but afraid.

She smiled warmly at him, remembering her pact with Vault the night before and not using any soothing telepathy. "Hello," she said softly. "I'm Jean. What's your name?"

He started moving again, edging around the table slowly, never letting his golden eyes leave her. He slid into a chair on the opposite side of the table, sitting back to keep as much distance as possible between them. "Azul," he answered finally.

Jean nodded. "I'm Logan's friend. He told me a little bit about you." As she spoke she opened her mind carefully, letting his surface thoughts flit through. "He said you're very smart, and very curious."

Azul seemed to relax a little, casting a glance up at Logan, who was watching Pete make omelets. "He did?"

"Yes. He said you're a very kind young man."

Azul's smile widened. "Really?"

Jean nodded. She felt Azul's thoughts calm a bit, awe entering to flavor them slightly. Then they sped up once more, though this time with far less fear and more excitement.

"You wanna see my collection?"

Jean nodded.

Azul teleported, the thought hardly entering his mind before he was gone. Jean blinked. Even Kurt didn't tend to teleport that fast. She wondered if it had ever occurred to Azul that he could end up inside something if he didn't think of the location he wanted clearly enough.

In another instant he was back, turning a grocery bag upside down and letting things fall out of it in a cloud of dust and clamor.

Before Jean, on the table, lay rusted tin cups, rocks, dead bugs and other assorted odds and ends.

"I got them all from outside," Azul said, beaming proudly.

Even without her telepathic abilities Jean could sense the importance of that. She sent a mental question to Logan, trying to find out why that was so wonderful. His answer, that Azul had never before had an "outside," was quick. Jean managed to not flinch.

It was a while until the next child came downstairs, and Azul had told Jean about all his things and put them away by the time the new addition got there.

It was actually two people, and Jean recognized Enchantment from the night before. The other girl was Kitty's clone, both girls sporting short hair.

"Hello," Jean said, smiling.

Enchantment smiled hesitantly back and circled around her.

Lynx stopped and glared.

"You must be Lynx," Jean said to the girl.

Lynx glared at her. "Who are you?"

"Lynx," Logan said gruffly. "When meeting someone for the first time you have to be polite. Tell them who you are, and then ask for their name."

Lynx turned and glared at Logan, then swiveled back to Jean. "I'm Lynx. Who the fuck are you?"

"Lynx," Logan reprimanded.

Lynx glared at Jean.

"I'm Jean," she said. "A friend of Logan's."

Lynx glared.

"Amanda has told me much about you," Jean said, smiling.

Lynx glared.

"She said that you learned to ride a horse, all by yourself. That's quite a feat. You must be very proud."

Lynx glared.

"She also says you and Enchantment are friends," Jean said, turning and smiling at Enchantment.

The small blond ducked her head, tucking it into her shoulder, then sat in Azul's chair with him. He offered her part of his omelet, and she ate.

Lynx glared.

"Are you going to get your own horse some day?" Jean asked curiously, looking back at Lynx.

Lynx gave one final glare, then stormed out of the room, out of the house and into the barn where she kept her bridle.

~Are they all this delightful?~ Jean asked Logan tiredly.

Logan chuckled. Heads up. Here comes Vault.

Jean looked up just as the boy entered the room. He'd shielded himself from her well, and she couldn't feel either his thoughts or his emotions. Azul's were still bubbly and excited, Enchantment's soft and scared. Lynx's had been hostile, like jagged edges of glass. From all these Jean had a feeling of how the child acted and re-acted to things. From Vault's eerie mental silence all she could tell was that he didn't trust her.

"Good morning, Vault," Jean said conversationally.

He glanced up at her, then went and got Sugar Pops out of the cupboard. Half his head was shaved, a star covering part of his eye and some of his head. Birthmark or tattoo, Jean couldn't tell. The hair that was left was dyed black, brown roots showing, and dropped almost to his shoulder.

"I hear you're something of the peacekeeper around here," Jean said, choosing her words carefully. Really most of what she'd picked up about him came from Pete, who said that he manipulated people to make sure they didn't interfere. Jean supposed that could be translated into 'peacekeeper.'

Vault cocked a sardonic eyebrow at Jean, but didn't say anything.

"Do you have any friends?" Jean asked.

Vault poured his cereal into a mug, then started eating it dry. He came over and sat down at the table near her. After eating a few pieces, he looked up. "Why?" he asked finally.

"Just wondering," Jean answered.

Vault eyed her a moment more, then concentrated on his cereal.

Jean thought about continuing the 'conversation'--he had to be interested in something--but another girl came in the door.

The girl was about thirteen, had waist length, straight black hair and large blue eyes. She hesitated when she saw Jean, but then went and got herself a plate.

Jean smiled curiously. This was the first child who hadn't stopped dead in fear and uncertainty at the sight of a new person. Interesting.

"Hello," Jean said, smiling. "I'm Jean, Logan's friend."

The girl looked at her, at Logan, then picked up her plate--now with omelet--and carried it to the table. "Hello," she returned. "I'm Constance."

Jean smiled warmly. The girl's thoughts were bold, sure, empowered. She somehow knew no one was going to hurt her. Jean sent a mental query to Logan, and was given a picture of her and Pistol fighting. Jean nodded mentally. The girl was probably very powerful, then, and hadn't been hurt too badly in recent years.

"I've heard all about Azul's outside collection," Jean said, smiling, "and Lynx and Vault hate me I think--"

Constance grinned.

"--but I haven't heard much about you. What do you do while the others are riding horses and looking for outside things?"

Constance shrugged. "Not much. I'm learning to read."

Jean sent another question to Logan, but this time he shrugged. The "learning to read" bit was new to him.

"Who's teaching you?" Jean asked, propping an elbow on the table.

"Pistol. He's really good at it." Constance smiled absently up at Jean.

"What am I good at?" called a rather deep and rough voice from the doorway.

Jean recognized him instantly as Pistol. He carried the same, self-assured air that Logan had, combined with more pain, distrust and ferocity. He looked at Jean out of golden, split-pupil eyes that carried neither like nor hate for her, but massive amounts of caution. He was neither tall nor short, but his shoulders were broad and his waist narrow, and his stocky frame was packed with muscle. Steel gray hair hung straight past his ears, catching in the collar of the shirt he wore. He had large hands and feet, and was shoeless. His ears were pointed, and his canine teeth elongated.

Aside from the ruthlessness Jean sensed from him, he was also more animalistic than Logan was--as hard as that was to believe. Logan seemed, at times, like a shadow animal--something creeping around just out of your vision, something that may or may not be dangerous. Pistol was more like a human raised wolf--something that was bold, and didn't bother with the shadows because he was no longer afraid of people. Something that would either attack with the intent to kill, or be loyal to a fault.

Jean picked up those impressions right away--for all intents and purposes, he had little mental shielding. He'd probably never needed it, she reasoned.

Jean smiled as warmly as she could, wanting this boy as friend rather than enemy. "Pistol?" she asked. He nodded shortly, and she continued. "I'm Jean. Came to check on you guys and make sure everything was running smoothly."

Pistol's head cocked and he looked at her, unblinking. His gaze never leaving hers, Pistol sidestepped softly to avoid being crashed into by Azul running out of the room, panting that he had to get something.

Yes, Jean decided. Very animal like. What worried her more, though, was the odd sense of age she detected from the twenty-three year old man. He looked his age, had the air of someone older who has been through much more, but beneath that there still lay the uncertain youthfulness of someone without direction, the same feeling Jean got from the boys who smoked, drank and joined gangs to find some sort of consistency in their lives.

Pistol's head turned suddenly, tendons arcing in his neck as his nose flared. "Trace? Y'okay?"

Another boy--the last, Jean was glad to realize--came around the corner. He held onto the wall as though to let go meant he might collapse. His thoughts were tainted black and sickly gray, and Jean felt the abscesses in his mind that ate away at his strength.

~Watch these two, Logan,~ Jean sent quickly. ~Pistol you told me about. But watch the younger one too.~

Outwardly, she smiled again and sipped her tea while the boy stood shakily in the doorway. He wore only flannel pants, tied around his waist as tightly as they could go, but still about to fall off his hips. Rib bones protruded from beneath a scarred chest, hipbones shortly below those. Skin that looked like it should have been white was almost ashen gray, and his face was drawn. An eye patch like Domino's, only slightly off-set, seemed to have lost color, as though being sick wore on his entire body. His blue eyes--which Jean suspected were pale anyway--looked almost lost in the white around them and the black pupils stared out unnervingly. He had straight black hair that dropped almost to his collarbones--which stuck out painfully from beneath his scrawny neck--and it was greasy and unwashed.

He moved to step forward, into the room, and almost fell. Pistol stepped toward him, but it was Jean's mind that caught the boy in a careful hand. She picked him up, mentally supporting his entire weight, and cradled him softly in a yellow cocoon. A seat moved away from the table of its own accord, and Trace--too sick to even look in surprise as he floated softly across the room--was settled carefully into the chair. A blanket floated from the other room and wrapped around him, protecting his bones from the rough wooden edges of his seat.

"How'd you do that?" Pistol asked quietly, his voice rough. His eyes slid around to Jean's face, watching her carefully.

"It's called telekinesis," Jean answered. "I can move things by thinking about it."

Pistol nodded slightly, and she could almost hear him rehearsing the word in his mind, committing it to memory.

Trace sniffed, laying his head on the table, and all eyes returned to him.

"You want something to eat?" Pistol asked, looking with great concern at his friend.

Jean watched Trace carefully. Even his mental "noise" was weak, the field that all people carried with them as a mental presence dim.

"No," Trace answered weakly.

"What about some avocados? You like those," Pistol offered.

"No," Trace answered, shrugging the blanket off his shoulders.

"Water? You said your mouth was dry."

Trace barely shook his head.

"What about--"

One pale eye opened, ringed with dark circles, and Trace looked up at Jean. "Can you make him shut up with that tele-kens stuff?"

Jean smiled, feeling for the first time the dry humor that was buried under sickness. If she probed slightly deeper, she could sense kindness in him--a loving heart with walls built all around from years of abuse, neglect and drug use. "Sorry. I could, but it might hurt him."

"That's okay," Trace croaked, his energy mounting slowly. "He has a healing factor."

Jean laughed, a chiming sound she knew people liked.

Pistol was glaring at Trace, though it lacked a certain venom. "You have to sleep sometime, Trace," he growled, "and when you do, I'm coming after you."

Trace smiled ruefully, closing his pale eyes. "At the rate I'm going, I'm never gonna sleep again."

"Insomnia's part of the withdrawal," Kitty said softly. "It'll pass in a few days."

Trace made a rotten face, but didn't open his eyes.

Pistol's own eyes had sharpened at the mention of withdrawal, and he focused on Kitty quickly. Jean felt his thoughts turn sharp and unforgiving--like slivers of ice. "You have morphine?"

Kitty took a deep breath and looked up at him. Logan stopped what he was doing to watch the pair carefully. "Trace is going to be fine. He doesn't need morphine."

A growl rumbled from somewhere inside Pistol's chest. "He does."

"'Stole," Trace murmured from where he lay on the table. "I want to go upstairs, and I don't think I can do it myself."

Pistol glared at Kitty once more, seemingly torn between Trace and the slip of a woman. Finally, he whipped around in disgust and picked Trace up, helping him out of the kitchen and back up the stairs.

***

It was just past noon, and the sun was bright over the house. The heat of the day had lulled everyone into little or no motion--except Lynx, who was trying to figure out how a saddle worked, and Azul, who was chasing spiders in the barn. Vault peered into the den, where Enchantment and Kitty were watching television. Enchantment sat barely three feet away from the set, gazing up at it fixedly. Kitty lay stretched out on the sofa, reading. After a moment Pete walked in, carrying two glasses, and Kitty got up long enough for him to sit before she laid back down, her head in his lap.

Vault wandered away from the door. Upstairs he knew Pistol, Trace and Jean were all in the same room. Pistol was too intent on Trace to bother with kicking Jean out of the room, and her presence was calm.

Vault didn't like her much. He didn't trust her after the episode the night before, when she had tried to manipulate his mind. Since then he'd scanned continuously, but he hadn't caught her doing it to anyone else.

Vault continued past the den, where Cable and Domino were teaching a laughing Amanda and Kurt and a reluctant Constance how to play pool. He kept going, down the hall, his feet silent on the wooden floor. At the end of the hall was a large room, and inside sat Logan.

The room was mostly empty--a small tree and a wall of mirrors the only decorations. It seemed warm though, instead of cavernous. The floors were polished wood, and there was a sliding glass door leading outside.

Vault walked quietly in, watching Logan as he sat cross legged on the floor. "Logan?" he whispered, dreading to break the careful silence.

"What?" Logan said, never opening his eyes. He carefully kept irritation out of his voice, not wanting to scare the eighteen year old.

"What are you doing?"

"Meditating," Logan answered.

". . . Oh." Vault watched the man for a moment more. Then he sat down carefully just behind him, and to one side, and tried to imitate Logan's pose. Vault admired Logan, the easy way he dealt with people, and the respect he got. Vault straightened his back, as the man's was straight, and closed his eyes.

A few moments later, he opened them.

Logan was still sitting the same way. Vault closed his eyes again.

And a moment later opened them.

Surely there was something else to this. Vault adjusted his position once more, then again closed his eyes and did his best to imitate Logan.

After a moment his eyes opened.

***

Logan hid his smile at the boy fidgeting behind him. It reminded him of Kitty when she'd first started. "Have you ever meditated before?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to bother you," Vault said quickly, standing up and turning to leave the room.

"Stop. Sit. Right here." Logan pointed to a spot next to him with one hand.

Vault walked back over slowly, his head ducked and his orange skin flushed. "Sorry," he whispered again as he sat down.

"You didn't do anythin' to be sorry about."

"But--" Vault started, looking up at Logan.

Logan ignored him, interrupting with, "Now here's what you do. . . ."

***

"What happened then?" Jean asked, leaning against the cupboards below the sink.

"I--"

"Barfed all over the bathroom," Trace cut in weakly, chuckling. His eyes were sparkling, though dimly.

"Shut up," Pistol said, glaring at Trace. "I spent the rest of the night in the bathroom."

"Barfing."

Pistol mock-glared at Trace, who smiled.

Jean glanced from Pistol, who perched on one side of her by the bathtub, to Trace, who leaned against the toilet in front of her. She had spent the morning with the two boys, helping get blankets for Trace during cold spells, and then helping to cool him down during hot ones. He'd thrown up stomach acid, not having eaten for almost two days, and Jean had helped Pistol force food down the boy's throat. He threw that up, too, and they'd fed him more, hoping his body would absorb some before it came back up. As she'd worked by his side, Pistol had stopped being quite so defensive, and eventually she got him talking. Once Pistol started talking, Trace would join in when he wasn't feeling too rotten.

Jean had been careful, watching to make sure she didn't react in any way they didn't expect. It was hard, though, especially when Pistol told of killing men because "they" said he should, or when Trace talked about being beaten for talking after lights out. Through all these stories Jean remained carefully calm, never once acting appalled, though she would have liked to. They settled down when she didn't, however, and so she carefully kept up her facade of nonchalance.

She couldn't believe some of the stories the boys told her. And through them, especially being able to read the flicker of surface thoughts that went along with the memories, Jean had a good idea of what each boy was like.

Jean smiled suddenly, feeling a familiar presence fill the house while the words "Hello hello!" bellowed up the stairway. Jean stood, looking at the door. Pistol stood with her, a frown of concern on his face.

"Who's that?" he asked quietly.

Jean smiled at him happily. "An old friend of mine, Hank. Since you're so worried about Trace, he came to make sure everything was all right."

"Does he have morphine?" Pistol asked quickly.

"Why do you want morphine so badly, Pistol?" Jean asked, focused on the boy.

Pistol blinked at her for a moment, unsure of whether or not he should tell her. His thoughts took the choice from him, though, broiling up to the top of his mind. Memories of guards, telling him that he'd better do what he was told or they'd never give Trace his needles again, and then he would die. Trace vomiting in the bathroom made the lie sound like truth, and Pistol, afraid that his senses would be wrong and that even though he thought they were lying they weren't, believed them.

"Withdrawal is something everyone goes through when you become addicted," Jean said softly. "No one dies from it with the proper care, though."

Pistol scowled. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by Azul running into his bedroom and hanging onto the doorframe of the adjoining bathroom. "You won't believe what just came in!" he panted excitedly. "It's a giant teddy bear!" He grinned hugely, splitting his face with clean white fangs. "I hope I never get that hairy!" he continued before turning and running back into the bedroom doorway. He stopped and turned back. "Quick, come see!" he said, then disappeared.

***

Beast was just frightening enough to keep all the children upstairs, peering down at him from the railing. It wasn't even his appearance as much as it was his very size that frightened the youths.

"I dare you to go touch him," Azul whispered loudly to Lynx. She glared at him. "I double dare you," Azul whispered again.

Lynx sighed, knowing she couldn't turn that down. Slowly, she crept down the stairs. Beast had disappeared into the kitchen with the other adults, and Lynx slunk around the corner silently. She could see him, sitting in a chair that looked like it would break at any moment. Lynx inched toward him, hearing Azul come down the stairs and peer around the corner, watching her.

Ever so slowly, her heart pounding, her eyes frantic, Lynx reached out and touched Beast's fur.

Beast felt the tickle and started to turn, only to be stopped by a telepathic warning from Nate. ~If you move, they'll all panic,~ Nate said, inserting the words into the doctor's mind. Beast very carefully did not move. Moments later he heard two sets of feet race back up the stairs.

"How am I going to make sure the children are healthy if they're frightened of me?" Beast asked calmly.

Jean smiled from the doorway, walking into the room and bending to plant a kiss on Hank's cheek. "You only have to look over Trace for right now, and I don't think he'll protest too much. I've already spoken with the boys about it--though I think Pistol plans on forcing the issue about wanting morphine for Trace."

Hank smiled up at Jean, his mind working swiftly beneath his calm exterior. "I think I can work with that."

Domino straightened from where she leaned against the cupboards, and Hank shook his head. "Don't worry--he will be clean."

Domino smiled slightly and relaxed once more.

***

Hank was very much aware of the children as they followed him silently down the hall, always just out of sight. Only Enchantment hadn't bothered to follow him, staying instead in her room. As of yet he hadn't seen any of them, and still didn't know what they looked like. But muted whispers and names given to him by Nate and Jean made him feel as though he could identify each one.

"Pistol? The doctor's here to make sure Trace is all right," Jean called as she and Hank walked into the boy's room.

Pistol stood in the doorway to the bathroom, arms crossed, glaring at the both of them. "No doctors," he snarled, flashing a hint of his canines.

Hank stopped, then smiled. "But I have morphine." It wasn't a lie, for he did have it.

Pistol hesitated, then nodded and moved aside. "But if you hurt him--"

"My job is to make people healthy," Hank said softly, "not to hurt them. I'm not that kind of doctor."

Hank didn't know what sort of doctors Pistol had seen in his twenty-three years, but hearing "I'm not that kind of doctor" seemed to make the boy relax.

Hank settled down on the floor next to Trace, a stunningly sick boy who held onto the toilet as if it were his only friend. "This isn't exactly the same stuff you're used to and it won't seem to help much at first," Hank said, pulling out a needle and tapping the air from it, "but it will. You just won't be able to tell."

Trace was bare from the waist up, and Hank inspected him for signs of where he had been injected before. An area of raised, flaking skin made it apparent that the space had been irritated, and Hank rightly assumed that was the injection site. Swiftly, his movements that of someone who had done this many times before, Hank cleaned the spot and quickly injected the boy.

~What is that, Hank?~ Jean asked mentally.

A placebo. Water.

Jean smothered her smile.

"You're sure this'll help?" Pistol growled.

"How long has Trace been without morphine?" Hank countered.

"This is the third day," Pistol answered slowly.

"Then within just a few days he'll be back to normal," Hank assured him. "In fact, better."

Pistol nodded slightly, watching Hank closely. Pistol had no reason to believe Hank wouldn't hurt Trace, other than the man's assurances.

Hank could feel the young man's eyes on his back, but he ignored them studiously. He'd been in far worse situations in his years as a doctor. Working quickly, Hank checked Trace's eyes, ears, and mouth, eyed the patch of irritated skin on his shoulder, took blood and checked some of the boy's reflexes, all the while keeping up a comforting patter.

"How old are you, Trace?"

"Twenty-one," the boy said softly.

"What's your favorite food?"

"Don't have one."

"Do you read?"

"No."

"Why not?" Hank sat back on his heels, smiling up at the boy.

Trace gave him an odd look, as though the answer were as obvious as the fur on Beast's back. "I can't."

Hank hesitated, then turned to Pistol. "Can you?"

Pistol nodded slowly.

"Do you have a favorite book?"

Pistol shook his head, watching both Hank and Trace.

"I do," Trace said, finding himself liking the doctor who kneeled before him. Hank's blue head swiveled back around so he could smile up at Trace.

"I thought you couldn't read."

"Pistol reads to me," Trace said, smiling slightly.

Hank watched him expectantly. The circles under his eyes were too dark, and his bones stuck out prominently. Mentally, Hank found himself comparing Trace's skin tone to Domino's. Trace was ashen, while Domino was a soft white, almost like some sort of animal with white fur.

"I like _The War of the Worlds_," Trace said, when he was sure Hank expected him to continue.

"Ah, yes. One of Wells' better books, I believe. Have you read _The Time Machine_?"

Trace looked up at Pistol, confusion written on his face.

"No," Pistol answered for him.

"An excellent novel. I highly recommend it. Have you read anything by David Brin?"

Pistol shook his head once more.

"Another good author. His books are old, now, but still well written. He knows what it is he speaks of, because he himself was a scientist." Hank smiled. "I believe I have a copy of one of his books, if you would like to read it."

Pistol shook his head. "But Azul might like it," he said after a moment.

Hank nodded. "Then I shall find Azul and give it to him."

***

Hank was as good as his word. By that evening he had examined both Pistol and Trace, but none of the other children would come near him. Even as they sat eating dinner the children were conspicuously absent. After a long time Kurt left, and came back half an hour later with Azul and Enchantment in tow. Enchantment rode on his back, peering anxiously over his shoulder to look at Beast, and Azul hid just behind him, holding onto Kurt's tail for comfort.

"I would like you both to meet Hank," Kurt said to Enchantment and Azul.

Both children eyed Hank uncertainly.

"Hello," Beast said, smiling.

Neither child answered.

"Hank," Kurt continued, "this is Enchantment, and this handsome little devil is Azul."

Enchantment laughed uncertainly. "He looks like you, Kurt," she whispered.

"Why, you're right! I suppose that means I'm a handsome little devil too, aren't I?"

Enchantment giggled again, but didn't answer.

"So you're Azul," Hank said, smiling. "I was told by Pistol that I should give you a book. It's by one of my favorite authors."

Azul stepped forward slightly, intrigued in spite of himself. "A book? For me?" He twisted Kurt's tail anxiously, and Kurt cringed.

Hank smiled and nodded. "I take it you can read?"

Azul nodded and took another step forward, dropping Kurt's tail. "I'm learning. I'm pretty good, too." He stepped forward again, brushing black hair out of his face. "'Least, I think I am."

Beast nodded seriously and pulled the book out of the bag sitting by his feet. Calmly, he pushed it across the table to Azul.

Azul grinned as he snatched it up, his large yellow eyes devouring the cover.

"And do you read, Enchantment?" Hank asked softly. The looks of consternation he could see on the people around the room indicated they hadn't been fully aware that reading was a problem.

Enchantment shook her head silently.

"Would you like to learn?" Hank asked, his voice still quiet.

Enchantment's eyes widened and she tucked her head back behind Kurt's neck. A muffled "No," was all that Hank could hear.

"Why not?" Beast asked.

Enchantment didn't answer, and Azul was inching for the door.

"Azul," Kitty said quietly, bending to look him in the eye. "Why doesn't Enchantment want to learn to read?"

"Because she's afraid that she'll have to sleep with someone to learn," a clear, young voice answered from the other doorway. All heads swiveled to look at Constance, standing defiantly in the door. "She doesn't want to sleep with anyone. She's only nine," Constance continued.

"Can you read, Constance?" Logan asked quietly.

Constance hesitated, then looked at Azul. "A little. Pistol was trying to teach me, but I only saw him every three cycles."

Cycles? Hank thought loudly.

~Days,~ Nate supplied.

"How did you learn, Az?" Domino asked. All eyes turned toward the door, but the boy was already gone.

There was silence for a long time, then Amanda looked up at Constance. "Who else can read?"

"Just Azul and Pistol." Constance shrugged. "It wasn't like we had to learn or anything. There was no reason to." Constance ignored the tension in the room, turning to look at Hank. "What sort of doctor are you? Trace and Pistol said you didn't hurt them. That's not like any doctor I've ever seen."

Hank looked up at the serious young girl, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. "I'm a medical doctor. I help people get better. I help them feel better, and make sure they stay healthy." He paused, then eyed her. "Will you let me make sure you're healthy?"

Constance didn't answer for so long, Hank was starting to think she wasn't going to. Finally, "Yeah. But if you hurt me I'll tell Pistol."

Hank nodded.

***

By the next noon all the children had agreed to be looked at. The clones were malnourished, for Black Air said they weren't yet important and didn't warrant the expense of healthy food, and Azul was borderline anemic, but none were sick. In fact, Trace came downstairs and ate that day. Hank ended up cautioning the boy not to eat too much, or else he would make himself sick. Trace responded by eating everything he could get his hands on and marveling at the different kinds of food.

"I guess you did make him better," Pistol finally conceded. "What kind of morphine was that?"

Hank braced for the worst. "It was water. His own body made him get better. He won't ever have to take morphine again."

Pistol's eyes widened in shock that someone had dared lie to him, then he calmed down and shrugged. "As long as he's better."

"Y'know," Trace said, glaring up at them with his mouth full, "I am sitting here. You don't have to talk like I'm not."

Pistol grinned.

***

Azul looked in the vase. Not finding what he wanted, he opened the drawer and looked in there. Nope. He wandered down the hall, toward the front door and various rooms. It wasn't in the flower pot, either. Azul crossed a closed door, going to see if the Oreos were in the hall closet. Halfway across the door, however, he stopped and listened.

The adults were all inside; he could hear them. And they were talking about the kids again.

Azul flattened himself against the door and strained to listen.

***

"The children are all as healthy as can be expected," Hank noted, sitting comfortably in the largest chair in the house. "You'll have to watch all of them for sunburning, however. They've been inside all their lives, and were never exposed to the sunlight. That'll be your biggest concern for the moment, especially here in the country."

"Jean?" Logan asked, turning to the redhead. He paused a moment, testing the air reflexively. He could smell Azul nearby, but the heavy wood paneling muffled the direction.

"Well, I came to make sure Pistol wasn't psychotic, and he's not. However, he is twenty-three, and he was raised to be a murderer. You'll have to watch him very carefully, Logan. He's been drilled to hate people, not to trust anyone, and taught that people are evil. He could be dangerous if not handled right. Trace isn't quite so bad, because he was dismissed as sickly as sentenced to die when he was young. His natural disposition seems to be calm and open, but you'll still have to watch him." Jean paused, glancing out the window as someone screeched.

Lynx dusted off her pants and went running after the horse that had dumped her.

"Vault worries me a bit. Mostly, admittedly, because he wouldn't speak much to me. I don't get the feeling of ill will from him, though he has a problem with authority and trust, if I can believe Pistol and Trace. You'll have to go with your own impressions on him. Constance may or may not be trouble. She's thirteen, and that's one of the hardest ages anyway, so keep an eye on her. Of the three nine year olds, Lynx will be a problem--"

Amanda laughed. "I know."

Jean grinned. "She likes you, though. She knows where she stands with you, I think. Azul is very much like he seems outwardly, so because of the way he was raised you'll have to watch him, but I don't predict as many problems as with the others. Enchantment's been hurt, I think, but she's too frightened still to talk with anyone." Jean sighed and shrugged. "That's the best I can do."

Logan nodded, smiling around his cigar. "Thanks, Jeannie." There was a pause, and he looked around the group. "So. Now we decide what to do with Pistol, Trace, and Vault."

Pete shook his head shortly. "I still say they're too dangerous. Jean said herself, they've been raised to be murderers. They need more help than we can give 'em. There's gotta be someplace better to have 'em then in a house practically by ourselves in the middle o' nowhere. That spells disaster, if you ask me."

***

Azul bit his lip, worried, and straightened a bit. His legs were starting to hurt, and his tail was lashing irritably. On a back lash it caught the vase sitting on the table behind him, knocking the very old and extremely expensive thing onto the hard wood floor.

Azul froze as he heard the crash, his heart turning to ice in his chest. The voices inside the room quieted, then started back up and came for the door. Azul turned, seeing the broken shards of vase scattered like death before him.

"Oh my God," he whispered hoarsely, shaking as he reached to start picking up the pieces. The door behind him flew open, and he leapt forward into the mess of porcelain and glass, cutting his hands and feet and not even realizing it as he whirled to face the people.

"Azul," Logan barked, reaching to pull the child out of the shattered remains of the vase.

Azul panicked, paddling backward to stay away from Logan's groping hands. "Oh my God," he said again, his breath coming faster. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry," he panted, leaving streaks of blood behind as he tried furiously to escape. "I can replace it, I swear, I'll work it off--"

"Azul, come out of the glass," Logan said quietly, trying to calm the boy.

"--I didn't mean to, please don't be mad--" Azul cried, his voice getting louder as more of the adults crowded closer and his avenues of escape were cut off. Visions flashed through his mind, his imagination coming up with all sorts of horrible things that could happen to him for this. Amid all the painful things he could come up with, one of the worst was suddenly seeing these people turn cold and sending him back to Black Air. "Please don't send me away," he cried, sliding backward across wood and shards, slipping on the glass. "Please please please I'm sorry don't send me back--"

Kurt teleported, landing in the great circle of glass himself and reaching out to teleport Azul out. Already Azul's hands, feet, arms and back were scratched up and bleeding freely.

Azul screamed, seeing suddenly someone appear in front of him and reach for him. He shoved himself backward, his head cracking against the bottom of the banister, his arms shoved out from underneath him by the lowest step.

Then, suddenly, there were familiar arms around him, pulling him up the stairs and away from the painful glass and people surrounding him.

Pistol drove everyone back with a vicious glare, crouching on the lower stairs where he had stopped to drag Azul away. "Shh, Az," he said softly, pulling the young boy into a protective embrace.

Azul twisted in his arms, almost climbing up Pistol's body and clinging to his neck. "Please don't let them send me back," he sobbed frantically, burying his face in Pistol's neck. "Please don't--"

"Shhh, Azul, it's all right. I'm not going to let them hurt you or send you anywhere," Pistol said, rocking Azul quietly. His hands, large and sure, cradled the boy's head and smoothed his shirt down his back. "You're safe, now. I'm keeping you safe. Remember? I'll always keep you safe," Pistol whispered, his words at odds with the look on his face. He glared up as Logan came too close, pulling his lips back in a silent snarl. Azul started to move again, and the snarl and anger left his expression as he looked back down at the boy, trying to soothe him.

"All right, leave them," Logan whispered, spreading his arms to keep the others away from the stairs. "Let Pistol calm him."

Pistol turned his attention back to the boy he held as the others disappeared. Trace arrived above him, settling his white hand on Azul's black head of hair. "It's going to be okay," Pistol whispered quietly, rocking the sobbing boy. "Shhh. It's gonna be fine."

***

Logan looked around at the group assembled. They stood in the other side of the house, where it was less likely Pistol would hear them. Logan could still hear Azul crying, but Pistol's words were lost to him.

"Now I know why they all wanted Pistol around so badly," Logan said softly.

Pete, who had been staring at the floor, one arm around Kitty, looked up. "He's father and protector to 'em. Shite. Even I don't think we can make 'em leave without breakin' up the entire structure and sendin' 'em all to the loony bin." Pete sighed, sat back and looked straight at Logan. "I vote they stay. All of 'em. But I bet I'll regret it later," he muttered to himself.

Logan grinned. "And everyone else?"

***

Lynx, Enchantment and Constance met the adults as they left the meeting room.

"We want to talk with you," Constance said, crushing her urge to run.

"What about?" Amanda asked quietly.

"Pistol, Trace and Vault. We don't want them to leave." Constance took a deep breath and continued. "If they leave, we're going with them."

The adults looked at each other, exchanging glances. It was Pete who finally stepped forward, looking down at the children before him. "We ain't now, nor are we ever, goin' to make anyone leave. We want you all to stay here, with us, fer a long time to come."

The relief that washed over the group of three was obvious. Constance smiled. "Good. 'Cause we like it here."

***

Azul lay huddled in Pistol's bed, Pistol at the window and Trace beside Azul. His blue fur was stiff with dried tears, and his eyes were swollen and red. "I didn't mean to break it," he whispered, his voice hoarse. Yellow eyes looked up until they met ice blue ones. "What if they're really mad and want to beat me?"

"We won't let 'em," Pistol growled from the window.

Tears were brimming again in Azul's eyes. "What if they send me back to Black Air?"

Pistol stood, covering the distance between them in three long strides. "Listen, Azul. I'm not going to let them hurt you. And if they try and send you back, I'll go back with you long before I let that happen."

Azul sniffed. "Promise?"

Pistol reached down with one long arm, scooping the boy up and carrying him to the window. "I promise everything that you see that I won't let anything happen to you."

Azul nodded, still sniffing, and wiggled around until he had turned. He looped his blue arms around Pistol's neck and hugged him tightly, feeling the older boy return the gesture.

"Azul!" Constance cried, coming into the room. "Azul! Come on! You've got to see this!"

Azul and Pistol turned, then Pistol set Azul on the ground and they all followed Constance down the stairs. The broken vase at the foot of the stairs had been cleaned up, and there was a great commotion in the kitchen. Slowly, Pistol, Azul, Trace and Constance entered.

"Oh dear," Kurt sighed as a glass slipped from his hand and crashed to the floor below, to join other pieces of broken crockery. "I dropped it again."

"Kurt!" Logan said in mock irritation. "I told you not to break my things!"

"I know," Kurt said, sighing heavily. "I try not to."

"Here, Fuzzy," Kitty said, phasing over to where he was to keep from stepping on the broken glass. "Let me help you." She reached above his head for a plate, drawing it out of the cupboard. As she turned away from Kurt the plate slipped from her fingers, dropping and shattering on the floor below her feet. "Oops!" Kitty cried.

"Kitty!" Logan shouted. "I told you and Kurt to be careful!"

"Sorry, Logan," Kitty said, downcast. "Am I in trouble?"

"Nah," Logan said easily. "Just try not to do it again."

"Okay," Kitty said, smiling brightly. She reached for another dish, and this also promptly fell and shattered on the floor.

Azul started to giggle. Constance was already laughing.

"Kitty!" Logan shouted. "Be careful!"

Kitty sighed. "I'm just so clumsy today!"

"Here, let me try," Jean suggested. Her bags sat at her feet, Hank across from her. He'd postponed his flight back so that he could make sure Azul wasn't too badly scratched up. Jean frowned, pretending to concentrate on the "difficult" task of mentally lifting a bowl from the cupboard. It slipped and shattered.

"Jean!" Logan wailed. "Everyone needs to stop breaking my things!"

Azul started to laugh harder, and Trace joined him. Pistol grinned. Constance was almost in hysterics, laughing so hard she had to sit down.

The adults in the room stopped their charade to watch the children, smiles on their faces.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, the four in the doorway stopped laughing.

"So, I'm not in trouble?" Azul asked hesitantly, still clinging to Pistol.

"No," Logan answered, smiling. "I promised you wouldn't be in trouble, remember?"

Azul nodded.

"I don't like my things broken, but I'm more worried about you. I don't want you hurt. You're a lot more important to us than a vase."

Azul sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of his arm. "I am?" His hopeful tone tore at their hearts.

"Of course. All of you kids are a lot more important than things. Things can be replaced, but you guys are special and we have to keep you healthy." Logan smiled and held out his hand. "We're sorry for scaring you."

Azul looked up at Pistol for reassurance, then teleported to where Logan and the others sat. "I'm sorry I broke your vase," he whispered, tense and ready to bolt.

"It's okay," Logan answered. "I'm sorry you broke your skin. Can Hank look at it and make sure you're all right?"

Azul hesitated, looking back again at Pistol. Pistol smiled slightly and nodded, and Azul looked back and did the same. "Yeah," he said quietly, looking uncertainly at Hank.

Hank smiled and held one great big furry paw out to Azul.

Azul smiled uncertainly back, then stepped over to let Hank look at his arms, legs, and back.

Standing in the doorway, Trace and Pistol shared expressive looks. "He's really not in trouble," Logan heard Trace murmur.

"Nah. But I still don't trust any of 'em completely," Pistol answered as quietly.

Logan looked up at the two, both of them watching Hank like hawks. He glanced at Hank and Azul, who was fidgeting slightly, then into the kitchen.

He had one hell of a mess to clean up.

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

FEEDBACK! I love it. It makes me happy. And I spend a lot of time on these silly Generation: Black Air stories. I need to work on my novel more . . . :P JBMcDragon

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