An overdue thanks to Mica, my beta-reader, who is a perfectly lovely person in every sense of the word. :)

Generation: Black Air 6
Forgotten Dreams
JBMcDragon

"Do we need to find you a wheelchair?" Pete asked mock-innocently as Nate crutched through the front door.

"Funny, Wisdom. You're a riot," Nate responded sarcastically.

"We just need to teach him to duck, that's all," Domino said, smothering her grin but not managing to take the twinkle out of her eyes.

"You and Wisdom oughta make a team out of it," Nate said good-naturedly. "Go on the road. No, really. Hit the road. Both of you. Please."

Domino laughed and popped up the stairs, slamming doors as she made her way into the room she and Nate shared. She set their bags roughly down on the floor before heading back down and into the kitchen, where various people had gathered. "How's Az?" Domino asked Amanda while walking through the doorway. Domino froze in the opening, a raven eyebrow climbing her forehead steadily. "And what is on the table?"

"Az is still unresponsive," Amanda answered, "and that is Logan's coyote pup he's putting back together."

"Logan's?" Domino glanced at Logan, who was sitting at the corner of the table nearest the window reading the paper, then back at Pistol, who was changing the puppy's bandages single-handedly.

"Yes, well. Pistols insists it hates him and he hates it." Amanda exchanged amused looks with Domino, who coughed to hide a laugh.

"I do hate it," Pistol said with less irritation then he could have. He taped the last bit of bandage, then let the puppy free, snatching it up by the scruff of its neck when it tried to catapult off the edge of the table. Pistol held the puppy at his eye-level, letting it dangle in the air. "I do hate you. And you hate me, right?" A pink tongue flashed out, just touching Pistol's nose. "Right."

Pistol tucked it under one arm and left the room.

Domino let herself laugh then, and sat in the chair Nate kicked in her direction. "How long has that been going on?"

"A few days," Logan said, smiling. "The coyote seems to be growing on him. Quickly."

"That's good," Nate said, accepting with a smiled thanks the mug of coffee Kitty offered. "He needs something to break through that shell of his. If a person can't do it, an animal might as well." Nate sipped the coffee, making a face as he scalded his tongue. Domino cringed, the pain seeping through their link before fading suddenly. Nate set the mug on the table, keeping one big hand wrapped around it. "Will he be able to keep the coyote once it's older, or do you have to free it?"

"It won't be able to be freed," Logan responded. "Its leg was practically crushed. We almost had to amputate it completely, and the vet doesn't actually know if the coyote will be able to use it all, much less well. We're waiting, now."

"Good," Nate said with a decisive nod.

Domino blinked and looked at him. "I'm sure I missed something. You're glad because it'll be crippled?"

Nate grinned sheepishly. "Okay, I admit that it sounded bad. But I meant good, because he'll be able to keep it."

Domino nodded. She didn't have to ask who "he" was.

"All right," Kitty said, taking her own coffee and sliding into a chair across from Nate. "Tell us what happened to your knee. And don't just leave it at 'a bungled mission' or something like that. I want details, man!"

Nate laughed and eyed his leg, straight before him. "Well, we had gotten out of everything just fine, and we were on the way back to the 'copter . . ."

***

"Got the dog, still?" Trace asked, eyes flickering upward as Pistol entered the pool room where Trace and Vault waited. Pistol deposited the coyote puppy amid the pool balls unceremoniously.

"Yup," Pistol answered. He picked up his cue, still slightly unfamiliar in his hands, and aimed, waited until the coyote stumbled out of the way, then shot. A red striped ball rolled into a hole with a clunk, and Pistol smiled smugly. Not bad, considering Domino had only taught them to play the night before.

"How long are you going to keep it?" Trace put a hand out to block the pup's stumbling run to the edge, then scooped it up with one palm under its belly and turned it around. The coyote tripped off in the other direction, pouncing on a ball.

"I don't know. It'll get tired of me soon."

Vault chuckled and ran a hand through his half head of hair. The dyed part was starting to grow out, leaving most of it black with an odd rim of brownish orange near his scalp. "No it won't. That thing thinks of you as its father. Actually, since you feed it, probably its mother." Vault grinned hugely, but it died at the evil look Pistol shot his way. Vault sighed and leaned on his pool cue.

"It'll get tired of me soon," Pistol repeated.

Trace rolled his eyes. "Hurry up and finish. My turn's next."

Pistol spared Vault a glance, then shot.

"Hey, Trace," Vault asked, making himself more comfortable when it became obvious Pistol wasn't losing yet. "Why aren't you going to learn to read?"

Trace shrugged and blocked the puppy from walking off the edge of the table. "Why should I?"

"Gee, I dunno," Vault answered sarcastically. "To read?" He felt eyes on him, glanced up to see Pistol giving him a dangerous look. Vault carefully wiped all emotion but respect from his face.

Trace glanced at Vault, then nodded toward Pistol. "Whatever I need to read, Pistol reads for me. So what's the point?"

Vault cocked his head, thinking, then nodded.

"Hey, dipshit. Your turn," Pistol said, walking away from the table with the coyote under his arm.

Vault stood and readied his cue.

***

Lynx stretched and rolled out of bed, landing on her knees beside it and struggling through sheets and blankets to clamber to her feet. The heels of her hands dug into her eyes, rubbing furiously to clear the last webs of dreaming from her face.

With a last deep breath she stumbled to the open window, reaching to slam it closed and keep the breeze out. Then she froze. If her eyes were telling her the truth, someone was outside messing with her horse.

Lynx heard a tiny sound that could have come from her throat, and then she was grabbing pants off the floor and a shirt off the top of the dresser, throwing both on haphazardly and running fingers through her short hair as she bolted down the stairs.

"Breakfast, Lynx!" someone female shouted from the kitchen as Lynx pounded down the hall.

Lynx ignored the call, slamming her shoulder against the back door and flinging it open. She ran across the grass, around the corner, slapping one foot harshly against the top rail of the fence and vaulting over it. Her ankle wobbled warningly, but held as she bolted across the pasture toward her horse and the three people around it. The bay gelding looked up as her body bulleted closer. His ears pricked up, and a man peered around the gelding's head to see what the horse was looking at.

Lynx let the horse stop her forward movement, crashing up against his shoulder before ducking under and around, coming face to face with a tall, middle-aged man. He was starting to go bald, a slight paunch and pale skin making it obvious that his was a desk job. "Who are you?" Lynx asked accusatorily.

The man smiled slightly, looking as though he was trying to decide whether or not to be insulted. "I'm Rick. And who are you?"

Lynx glared at him, her brown eyes shifting to the woman beside him. The woman was plump and unassuming, and the last person, another woman, was equally non-threatening. "Why are you looking at my horse?" She flattened herself against the bay's neck and fingered his lanky mane.

"Actually," a brown haired woman said, "it's my horse. You must be Lynx?"

Lynx didn't answer the implied question, but tangled her entire hand in the bay's black mane. "He's my horse."

"No, Bronx is actually my horse. But thank you for riding him for me. He looks great." The woman smiled, attempting to look disarming. Lynx didn't soften. "Anyway, we're selling them now, so you won't have to ride them anymore. It's gotten too expensive to keep the horses, because of the vet and ferrier bills."

Lynx didn't know what a ferrier was, and she didn't care. "This is my horse. You can sell that one," and she pointed to the other horse grazing in the pasture.

The man smiled then, uncertainly. "Well, actually, we're buying a horse for our daughter and we think she'd like this one."

Lynx opened her mouth to respond that this was her horse, but they could have the other one. A voice called out just then, cutting off Lynx's furious words.

"Lynx? Hon? What are you doing?"

Lynx turned to see Amanda picking her way carefully across the pasture. "They're trying to sell my horse."

Amanda glanced up at the people, and the adults all exchanged looks. "Lynx, come inside. We need to have a talk."

"Not until they leave," Lynx said, turning to glare at the three people. The woman who claimed to own the horses looked up at Amanda as if asking for help.

"Lynx, come inside. They won't hurt the horses. But you and I need to talk right now." Amanda's voice had chilled at the last two words, and Lynx knew that she would be in trouble if she didn't at least respond.

"I want to wait until they leave," Lynx said, but she inched toward the other side of the horse where Amanda stood even as the words spilled from her lips.

"I know. But come inside. They're not taking the horses right now."

The woman who said she was their owner nodded helpfully.

Lynx gave one last glare at the three people, then turned and walked back across the pasture with Amanda.

***

Kurt bundled Azul into a thick robe and picked the boy up out of the bathtub, settling the child onto his hip, against his body. Water chilled Kurt's face as Azul's hair dripped, soaking into the man's fur. Kurt opened the bathroom door and headed into his bedroom, then went out and down the stairs.

"Good morning," he called, maneuvering into the kitchen and opening the pantry one-handed.

"Almost afternoon, Kurt," Amanda said, smiling.

Kurt grinning impishly. "Azul and I were reading." He shifted the child on his hip, trying to settle him more firmly while getting out breakfast makings.

"Here, let me help," Kitty said, reaching out to take Azul.

"I've got it," Kurt said with a smile, moving to keep the boy out of Kitty's reach. A light flashed, and Kurt looked up, surprised.

"Just got it," Domino chuckled, holding up a camera. "That was just a great shot. It's big 'Crawler and little 'Crawler!"

Kurt chuckled in a rather put-upon manner. Azul's body, wrapped in Kurt's giant bathrobe, had relaxed against him. Azul's head was tucked on Kurt's shoulder, eyes staring vacantly into the distance, arms folded inside the terry cloth robe.

Kurt pulled free Cheerios and then went to get two bowls and milk. "Get up, Nate," Kurt said, looking over Azul's head at the man reclining in the kitchen chair.

"I'm wounded!" Nate protested, pointing out his heavily wrapped knee.

"Get up, Gymp," Kurt corrected himself.

"What, this is the only chair in the kitchen?" Nate asked mock-petulantly, crossing his arms over his chest and smothering a smile.

Kurt grinned. "No. Just the closest."

"I'm hurt."

"Get up, Hurt," Kurt replied cheerily.

Nate laughed and reached for his crutches. Domino was there in a moment, gathering them and helping Cable up and into a corner where he could lean.

Kurt put Azul down in the chair and set the bowls, spoons, Cheerios and milk in front of him. "Now that takes talent," he said, grinning, setting up breakfast. "Not everyone can carry all those things and a boy."

"Hey, Azul," Domino said, standing on the other side of the boy and helping Kurt set up the food. "You wouldn't believe what I saw. It was in a spiderweb, and it was small and white and round. It's called an eggsac, and that's where the spider babies come from."

There was no response from Azul, but Kurt looked up at Domino and smiled gratefully. "Here, Azul," Kurt said, setting a bowl of Cheerios before the boy. He opened up the bathrobe and pulled out one of Azul's arms, putting a spoon in Azul's hand before tugging the bathrobe around the boy's waist securely. "Eat."

Azul dipped his spoon slowly into his bowl and started to methodically eat his Cheerios.

Domino pushed Kurt into the other chair and handed him his food. "You look tired," she said, pouring milk for him.

Kurt chuckled and thanked Domino. "I am tired."

"It might help if you'd let us take Azul sometimes," Kitty said, kissing the top of Kurt's head before dropping into a nearby Pete's lap.

Kurt glanced at Azul, who was putting into his mouth a spoon that had dropped all its food, then shook his head. "I know. But I can't."

Kitty smiled, exchanging gazes with Domino. "That's why we love you, Kurt. You're a softie."

Kurt chuckled.

"I thought Logan said he was dressing himself?" Domino asked quietly, sipping coffee.

Kurt nodded once, golden eyes watching Azul closely. "If I set out his clothes, and tell him what to put on when, and I tie the laces and button the buttons and zip the zippers, he can put on his own clothes."

Domino frowned and leaned a hip against the counter.

"It's my horse!" came a clarion call from down the hallway.

"What's that about?" Nate asked, eyebrows rising.

Kitty looked up at Nate and shrugged. "I don't know." She stood and started for the doorway, but Lynx and Amanda entered just then.

"It's my horse, and they can't just sell it!" Lynx snarled. She grabbed the carton of milk sitting before Kurt and shoved it back into the refrigerator violently.

"Lynx, it's not your horse," Amanda said, stopping the girl in her tracks. "It belongs to those other people. You just get to ride it."

Lynx glared at Amanda, then pulled back and stormed from the room. "Liar!" the shout echoed back into the kitchen.

***

Walk into a room. Partner's still upset because of the car wreck that morning. I need new pants. These are too big. Take stock of surroundings. Two agents we're supposed to talk to are there. Another agent in the corner has a boy with him. Young boy. The boy's agent points to my partner. Boy looks up, at me. Brown eyes meet blue eyes. Something passes between us, and then--

Pete woke up shivering. He thrashed around for a moment, searching for Kitty, but she wasn't in bed. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. Dreaming. He'd been dreaming about something . . . Pete sighed. He couldn't remember it at all now.

Pete rolled out of bed and pulled his pants on, scrubbing his fingers through his thick black hair and pulling out tangles. He walked into the bathroom, gathering clothes for the day as he went, mind touching breifly on whatever thoughts happened to flutter into his mind. Nate and Domino had arrived the day before. Lynx had thrown a fit about the horse getting sold. They were out of shampoo.

Sighing heavily, Pete dropped his clothes on the floor and walked out into the hall, where extra bottles of everything were kept. He opened the hall closet and peered in, looking past towels to the upper shelves, then reached up with a long arm, snatching the shampoo and closing the closet. He turned to go back into his room, and saw Vault just coming out of his own, hair sleep-tousled. Pete hesitated, then gave a small nod. Vault returned it and headed for the stairs.

Pete watched him go, eyes narrowed. Something in his gut didn't like that boy. No, it was more than dislike. Something inside him screamed at him to get that boy out of the house. It was much like what he felt toward Pistol, only that he understood. That came from seeing the boy in action when still at Black Air, and because the kid had attacked Kitty. This thing Pete felt toward Vault, though, he didn't understand it at all.

Pete narrowed his eyes as Vault disappeared down the stairs. There was something about that boy . . . Finally, Pete turned and headed back into his bedroom.

***

Constance woke silently, as she had learned to do. She licked her lips, opening her eyes and staring up at the cream-colored ceiling above her.

Cream-colored.

It should be steel gray.

She blinked a few times, frowning in concentration.

It should be gray, and she should not be lying on something so soft.

There was a muffled sound from the room next door, and she turned her head slowly. Long black hair lay on the pillow beneath her head. The pillow was too fluffy to be correct, and there was a chair and warmly colored things in her line of sight. She didn't remember this at all.

Slowly, expecting a trap, she sat up and looked around.

There was a window in her room. Constance slid her legs from beneath the blankets, putting her feet on the carpet (there was carpet!) and standing up.

Memory came flooding back with a rush, overwhelming her senses. She sat back down and breathed deeply as pain sliced through her mind, whiting out her vision for a split second.

Constance closed her eyes, remembering now where she was and who she was with. Black Air suddenly seemed like a (nightmare) dream. Constance shook her head slowly as the rest of the fog surrounding her memories faded away. She shivered and picked her bathrobe up off the floor, wrapping it around herself haphazardly. If only she would stop forgetting things . . .

***

Trace heard the painfilled yip and sat up in bed, icy blue eyes flickering first one way and then the other. With less than a thought he took in the daylight coming through the window, heard noises in the room that was usually empty. That would be Domino and Nate, arrived the day before. His mind categorized them as no threat before he even truly thought about it. There was a thump from the bathroom, and he picked up his rifle and bolted for the door.

The bathroom was empty, and he opened the adjoining door into Pistol's room.

The coyote puppy was laying on the floor, looking pitifully at the bed he had probably been sleeping on only moments before. On top of that bed lay Pistol, thrashing amid blankets and sheets, ripping them off indiscriminately.

Trace propped his rifle up against the wall and took long strides to the bedside, scooping down to pick the puppy up and set it a bit away. With a quick glance he could see that Pistol was still sleeping, though his body thrashed and soaked the sheets with sweat.

"'Stole," Trace called, bending over and touching Pistol's arm. He pulled back as that same arm was flung up, hitting at him unconsciously. "Pistol. Wake up," Trace called again, ducking in beneath that arm and shaking his friend hard. The older man's skin was clammy and cold, and felt as though he'd just stepped out of a shower.

There was an indrawn breath, as of someone breathing after too long without air, and Pistol's eyes snapped open.

Trace could see from the constricted pupils and wild look that Pistol was still caught in the grip of nightmare, though he was now awake. Trace jumped on the bed, leaning across Pistol's body and trapping his hands before he could strike. "Pistol, it's me. It's okay."

"Spiders. There are--they--dark--"

Trace was almost thrown away as the other man bucked beneath him, fighting for all he was worth. "Pistol, you're safe. Safe. It's me. Trace."

"Spiders--Trace, there were spiders--"

Trace relaxed his grip as Pistol blinked and started to focus on him. The older man's violent movements finally calmed, though he was frighteningly pale and shaking all over.

"Trace."

Trace nodded and put Pistol's hand on his cheek. "Yeah. It's me."

Pistol's other hand came up, as though he had to see for himself that Trace wasn't going to dissolve. "You're not hurt?"

Trace shook his head. "We're in Logan's house."

Pistol took another few breaths before nodding, dropping his hands away from Trace's face.

Trace bent, scooping up the puppy that had found its way back to the side of the bed. "Logan's house. Safe. Unhurt." He shoved the puppy at Pistol's chest, and Pistol took it instinctively. Pistol looked down at the coyote for a long moment, then, as if he realized he was about to crush it, he loosened his grip.

Trace nodded and put his hand on Pistol's cheek, recognizing after long years of living with the man the need for contact. The feel of skin on skin, or fur, or blankets. Anything to root Pistol in the living world, and out of the nightmare realm.

Pistol tightened his hold on the puppy once more, bringing it up to tuck it under his chin. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, composing himself.

"You want to tell me your dream?" Trace had learned long ago not to refer to them as nightmares. Pistol insisted he didn't have nightmares.

"No." Pistol stood and put the puppy back on the bed, walking around to the bathroom.

Trace sighed in irritation and looked at the ceiling, sitting back on his hands. He waited a few moments, listened to the running water in the bathroom, and when Pistol came out drying his face Trace prodded him once more. "Did it involve people?"

"No."

Trace shifted his thoughts. Nightmares often involved people, but sometimes not. "Spiders?"

Pistol stiffened and shot a dangerous look over his shoulder. It would have quelled anyone else, but Trace knew that Pistol was one of the few people he would never have to fear. "Dark?"

The answer was hesitant, and overly casual. "Yeah."

Trace laid down on the bed and let the puppy crawl onto his stomach. The coyote was becoming a standard around Pistol, and Trace found that it wasn't nearly as annoying as he had first thought. "Pits?" Trace guessed, knowing how Pistol's mind worked, and knowing his fear of the Pit.

"Fuck off."

Trace smiled at himself. Sometimes he figured his friend out so quickly he wondered if he was psychic. Of course, he knew he wasn't. But it was fun to think about occasionally. "Could you move?"

"You're a shithead."

Trace nodded at the information Pistol was giving him. Involved the Pit, darkness, restrained movement. Spiders. Pistol hated spiders. Trace scratched absently at the puppy's neck. "What happened?"

Pistol groaned and dropped the shirt he held, flopping down on the bed and burying his face in the blankets. "I don't want to talk about it," he said into the bed. The coyote puppy hopped off Trace and walked to where Pistol was. It grabbed his hair and started to tug, growling furiously.

Trace smiled and picked the puppy up, removing its sharp teeth from Pistol's hair.

"Thanks," Pistol muffle-spoke.

Trace nodded, but said nothing. He waited patiently, stroking the puppy and getting it to calm down once more.

"I hated it," Pistol sighed finally. "I don't like dreams."

Trace refrained from pointing out that dreams and nightmares were two different things.

"I thought I was in the Hole again, Trace. And you were dead."

Trace kept stroking the puppy.

"And I couldn't move, and there were spiders crawling all over me. It was cold and dark and I couldn't get anyone to let me out, and I was hungry and thirsty and they were going to let me die." Pistol was whispering by the time he finished.

It was a recurring dream, one that was grounded in reality. Trace still remembered the event himself, though from a completely different point of view. He hadn't heard what had happened to Pistol until afterward.

Trace petted the puppy again as it butted against his idle hand. Pistol hadn't had that dream almost since they'd come to Logan's house. His stay at Black Air had disturbed him more than he let on. Trace wasn't really surprised. Actually, he was surprised that it hadn't done more mental damage then was obvious.

"But you're not there. You're here. And you're safe. And I'm safe. And Dog wants to be fed." Trace dumped the puppy on Pistol, who finally turned his head to look at Trace.

"What time is it?"

Trace glanced at the bedside clocked and cringed. "Six."

Pistol nodded. His voice dropped. "What if they come back?"

Trace's head snapped around and he eyed Pistol. That note of uncertainty was something he didn't often hear in Pistol's voice, and it always frightened him. "Then we'll beat them off. Just like last time. And then we'll take the others and leave here. We'll escape, and run, and they won't find us because we won't let them."

Pistol hesitated, then nodded slightly. "Right. You're right. And we should find a route to take, just in case that's necessary. We should find out a bit about this area, and how to get around in the world."

Trace cocked his head, noting the absence of the term "this world." Pistol really did like it here enough to fight for it, then, if he was already accepting it as his world. Trace nodded. "We'll get Logan to start taking us into town when he goes." Trace's mind reeled at that thought, but he didn't let it show. His brain couldn't begin to imagine what a town was like. "Right now, let's go eat breakfast."

Pistol nodded, scooped up Dog, and reached for his shirt.

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

Amanda knocked softly on Lynx's door, hoping the girl was awake. At eight-thirty, it seemed like the child was usually downstairs already. There was a squeal from inside, and then sudden silence. Amanda's eyes narrowed and she glared at the wood.

"Lynx?" she called, knocking once more.

A giggle was suppressed from inside.

Amanda opened the door.

The room had been gutted, everything pulled off the shelves, blankets ripped off the bed, clothing pulled out of the dresser, and all of it had seemingly disappeared--possibly underneath a tent of a sheet. As Amanda watched the last blanket was tugged under the bed, which seemed to be giggling.

Amanda walked slowly to the bedside, looking down. A loud "SHHH!" broke the silence. "Lynx?"

The duster that hung down around the bed moved, bouncing up and down. Finally a head emerged, twisting until a darkly tanned face looked up at Amanda. "Yes?"

"What are you doing?" Amanda asked, smiling.

Lynx's large brown eyes flicked around the room. After a long moment, she looked back up at Amanda. "Nothing?" she said uncertainly. There was another giggle from under the bed, and Enchantment's head of blond hair appeared, only to disappear almost instantly.

Amanda raised an eyebrow. "Is this a nothing that could be dangerous?"

Lynx shook her head, the cropped hair flying.

"Okay. Well, find me when you get dressed and come downstairs, okay? I want to talk with you about the horse."

Lynx nodded quickly and ducked back under the bed. There was another giggle, joined by a second, and Amanda shook her head and walked out of the room.

***

If there was one thing Domino could do without, it was mornings. Unless, of course, she woke to the melodious sound of Nate swearing in a furious whisper, as though he were trying not to wake her. That was usually worth getting up for.

So Domino swung her legs out of bed and sat up, looking through black hair to the bathroom. "Nate?"

The swearing stopped. "Morning, Dom. I didn't mean to wake you," came the deep voice from the open door.

Domino smiled slightly and stood, walking to the bathroom. "Nate, what's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing," Nate said nonchalantly.

Domino chuckled as she entered the bathroom and saw Nate, fully dressed, sitting in the bathtub with his legs hanging over the edge. His braced knee was stuck straight out, effectively hampering his movements and trapping him in the tub. "That's cute," Domino said finally, smothering her laughter.

"Shut up and help me out of here," Nate grumbled, struggling once more.

"Sure. But first, where did I put that camera?"

"Domino! Don't you even think it!" Nate snapped, horror written plainly on his face.

"Maybe it's in the nightstand," Domino mused, leaving the bathroom to go look.

Nate struggled harder, cursing at his braced leg, the bathtub and Domino by turns. Domino could hear him even over her own laughter, and she headed back to the doorway to watch as Nate fought to get out.

Nate glared up at her. "You are such a snot," he grumbled, finally managing through a feat of telekinesis and brute strength to lever himself up. Domino moved to one side as Nate grabbed his crutches and hobbled into the bedroom, almost catching a crutch on the doorframe and falling face-first into the carpet as Domino skittered away and dropped down onto the end of the bed. "You are such an asshole," he muttered half-heartedly. Truly, he couldn't ever seem to stay mad at her for very long.

Domino had fallen back on the unmade bed, laughing. There was a faint flush in her alabaster cheeks, just enough to make her skin seem even whiter. "Logan'll love this!" she gasped, still laughing.

"Don't you even think about telling him I got stuck in the bathtub," Nate growled, though through their link Domino could feel him fighting back the urge to smile.

She caught a vision suddenly, a picture of her, now, seen though Nate's eyes and passed unwittingly down their bond. Her black hair was fanned out across the bedspread, and she wore only his T-shirt, which barely reached to mid-thigh, and kept creeping up as she laughed. He loved seeing her in his T-shirts. There was something decidedly sexy about it.

Domino stopped laughing and eyed him. "You sure don't act like an injured man," she noted dryly, though grinning. "Except for the getting stuck in the bathtub thing!" she said, and the laughter started all over again.

Nate sighed heavily and hobbled out of the room. By the time Domino had put some boxer shorts on and followed him, he was standing on the first landing, looking down at the next two short flights of stairs while acting rather martyred.

It was then that Kurt appeared with Azul on his hip. "Let me help, mien freund," Kurt offered, smiling. He reached out with a hand, and they both disappeared and reappeared at the bottom of the stairs.

Domino followed, feeling Nate choking back the urge to fall over before smiling at Kurt.

"Thanks," he said, then followed the other man into the kitchen a few feet away.

Domino walked down the stairs and dodged around Nate as he stood in the doorway.

"Heard you got stuck in the bathroom this morning," Logan muttered from behind a newspaper.

Nate sighed heavily and glared at the print. "You need earplugs," he muttered before walking in and collapsing into a chair. "Goddamn super senses," he continued grumbling in an undertone.

Domino started laughing all over again, joined by a chuckle from behind Logan's paper, accompanied by the smell of cigar smoke.

"Hasn't anyone made coffee yet?" Domino sighed, looking around.

"Pete's not up," Kitty said by way of answer. "I make bad coffee."

"And Wisdom makes better coffee?" Nate asked doubtfully. No matter how often he saw proof to the contrary, the idea of Pete making anything edible seemed remote.

"Wisdom makes excellent food," Domino said, leaning against the counter and pulling her hair back into a loose knot at the base of her neck. A nearby rubber band from the paper served well enough to hold it in place. "It's Kitty we have to keep away from the stove."

Kitty smiled good-naturedly. "I worked hard to be kept out of the kitchen. It's not easy to ruin boxed Macaroni and Cheese, you know."

Nate laughed and angled himself so that Dom could sit down on his uninjured leg. She did so, leaning back against his chest as he settled a hand around her waist comfortably. "So that's the secret?" Domino asked, picking an apple out of the fruit bowl and eyeing it. "Burn things?"

Kitty nodded solemnly.

Domino twisted to smile wickedly at Nate. "I think you're going to have to cook for a while. Kitty's contagious."

Nate mock-glared at Kitty. "Thanks a lot," he said dryly.

Kitty giggled and looked away.

***

Kurt got up to close his bedroom door, blocking out the sound of Logan on the upstairs phone, arranging to buy the bay horse Lynx was so in love with. Kurt came slowly back to his chair, his eyes lingering momentarily on Azul's perfectly still form on the bed.

Kurt sighed and picked up the David Brin novel, flipping through to count the pages. Only twenty pages left, and the novel was over. Azul still wasn't responding to anything. Kurt cleared his throat and started the next chapter, reading clearly.

"The gas giant loomed ahead," he read slowly, his mind far from the words on the page. "The heavily laden Streaker lumbered toward it. "'They'll expect us to dive in close for a tight hyperbolic,' Tsh't commented." Kurt glanced up at Azul, his heart sinking as he looked at the boy. It had been nearly a week since they gotten them back from Black Air. And through all the care and love they'd been giving the child, he still refused to make any sign that he was aware of anything outside the horrors of his mind. "'It's generally a good tactic when being chased in a planetary system. A quick thrust while we're swinging near the planet can translate into a major shift in direction.'" Kurt stopped reading, looking at the page blankly. What were they doing wrong? Was there anything else they could possibly be doing?

More than anything, he wanted to see muddy footprints once more on the kitchen floor, or find that his drawers had been rifled through in a search for Oreos. Lost in his own thoughts, he was startled by the hoarse voice.

"Don't stop reading?"

Kurt jumped and looked up, yellow eyes widening as they looked into identical, but younger, yellow orbs.

"Please?"

Kurt's Adam's apple bobbed harshly, and he fastened his eyes back on the page. "Gillian nodded," he said before clearing his throat. "'That's what they'll expect, but that's not what we'll do.'"

Kurt finished the novel as the sun crested its peak in the sky and started down the other way. His stomach growled with hunger, but he ignored it. His eyes ached to look up and see if the boy was still aware, but he kept them fastened on the page. If Azul would be aware while Kurt was reading, then Kurt would read.

Finally, though, the book was finished. Kurt looked slowly up at Azul, and his heart lurched in his chest. The boy was again staring straight ahead, very still. Kurt swallowed, and then as softly as he could, he called Azul's name.

The young head turned hesitantly, as if it wasn't sure that was the correct response.

Kurt eased off his chair and over to the bed, where he perched on the edge carefully. "Azul? Are you all right?"

Azul blinked slowly, as though his body was just remembering how to do that. "Kurt?" he whispered, uncertainty in every line of his face.

"Ja, it's me," Kurt responded softly.

And then Azul had launched himself across the short space, locking his slender arms around Kurt's waist and burying his head in the man's soft fur. Whatever Azul said was muffled in Kurt's body, but the older man could make out the words "don't" and "please" and "hurt" several times over. Tears soaked through his fur quickly, and he wrapped his arms tightly around Azul and rocked the boy back and forth, finding his own breathing coming with difficulty.

"Azul, you're safe, it's all right," Kurt crooned, and found that he was crying in sudden relief.

"Did I hear--" came a rough voice from the doorway, and then suddenly Pistol was on the bed, reaching around to touch Azul and pet his back comfortingly. Trace was there almost as swiftly, and from then on Kurt couldn't keep track off all the people entering his room to touch and talk with Azul, who still cried and clung to the former Nightcrawler.

And then, suddenly, Azul was screaming. His body stiffened, and he clawed Kurt in his attempt to escape. Kurt twisted, turning to look at what had the boy so panicked.

Domino and Cable stood in the doorway, looking thoroughly confused. Kurt understood it not at all, but knew something was wrong. "Get out!" he snarled, baring his fangs in a completely uncharacteristic display of ferocity. "Get out now!" Fright leapt through him, the thought that Azul might panic and go back into that catatonic state taking hold in Kurt's mind.

When Domino and Nate only looked at him bewilderedly, Kurt whipped around and sliced the air with a hand. "Get out now! Out!"

Pistol seemed to understand, and he leapt for the door even as Nate pulled Domino away. The door slammed closed, a shudder wracking the entire room. Azul was still shrieking, panicked, sobbing and trying to crawl away from the door.

Kurt pushed Trace aside without a thought and gathered the boy into his arms again, hiding the child's head against the older man's chest. Azul struggled furiously for a few moments, and then seemed to hear the calming murmurs from the people around him. Finally, he relaxed and clung to Kurt, still crying but no longer in a panic.

"Don't let them take me again," he was sobbing into Kurt's shoulder, his fingernails digging painfully into fur and skin.

Kurt didn't protest, instead assuring Azul that it was all over, and he wasn't going to be taken anywhere.

***

Lynx bit the inside of her lip and eyed Amanda. Only a few hours ago Azul had finally "woken up," and he was sleeping soundly now, curled on the bed with Kurt on one side of him and Pistol on the other, while Trace kept watch in a chair by the window. Lynx would much rather have been there than here, but Amanda had requested Lynx's presence in the pool room.

"I talked to your horse's owner," Amanda said quietly. "They're selling him for--"

"He's mine," Lynx snapped, brown eyes flashing.

Amanda nodded easily. "I know you feel that way. But the law here says he's theirs, and you have to obey the law. But if you really want him to be yours, there is a way we can do that."

Lynx seethed in her chair, slouching down as far as she could into the brown leather. "What?" she asked finally, when it became clear Amanda wasn't going to continue.

"You can buy him. They're selling him for thirty-five hundred dollars. If you have that money, then you can buy him and no one else can take him away."

Lynx chewed on her lip furiously. "But I don't have money."

Amanda frowned and nodded.

Lynx chewed on her lip some more. "What is money?"

The question seemed to startle Amanda, but she recovered quickly. "It's . . . well, it's what we use for trade. If I want food and someone else has it, then I give them a certain amount of money and they give me food. Then they can use the money for something else."

Lynx continued to chew her lip, deep in thought. "How do I get money? I don't have anything to give people."

"If you want to get money, most people trade time for it."

Lynx sat forward, propping her elbows on her knees. Her hair bounced in waves near her face, softening the very serious expression. "Trade time how?"

"When I need money," Amanda explained carefully, "I trade my time to an airline. They tell me what to do--usually they tell me to get on a plane and help the people there with whatever they need--and they tell me how long to do it for, and they pay me."

Lynx nodded slowly. "You think I could get on the plane?" She paused before the unfamiliar word, but managed it well.

"No. But you could sell your time to people around here," Amanda said. "There are other things you could do. I'm sure Logan has chores he doesn't want to do, and I know there are things I wouldn't mind paying you to do."

Lynx frowned, toeing the carpet beneath her feet. "What if he says do something I don't want to do?"

"Then say no," Amanda answered.

Lynx nodded to herself. "I could do that. How do I know what to get paid?"

Amanda licked her lips, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and looked directly at Lynx. "We'll pay you what we think is fair, and after you learn how to judge things better you can start telling us what you want to be paid."

"I want to be paid thirty-five hundred dollars," Lynx countered instantly.

Amanda hesitated. "Well, that's a lot of money. You're going to have to earn it. Minimum wage is six dollars an hour. There are a lot of six dollars in thirty-five hundred."

Lynx scowled and flopped back in her chair.

"But since it is a lot of money," Amanda said, ducking her head to catch Lynx's gaze, "we're all going to help. For every dollar you earn, three other people will each put in another dollar."

Lynx was quiet for a long moment, her brown eyes narrowed as if her mind worked swiftly. "That means I get four dollars for every one dollar I earn, right?"

Amanda smiled and nodded.

Lynx bit her lip, chewed, pulled it free. "Do you have any jobs you want me to do?" she asked Amanda hopefully.

Amanda shook her head. "But I know Nate and Logan both do."

Lynx eyed the woman closely. "You guys already talked about this, didn't you?"

Amanda smiled and nodded.

"Humph." Lynx eyed her for a moment more, then decided it didn't matter. "Where's Logan right now?"

"He's in the den," Amanda answered.

Lynx stood without another word, heading for the door. She walked down the hall, one hand trailing along the wooden paneling, feeling the smoothness beneath her fingertips. She reached the den quickly and turned right, past the double doors. "Logan?"

He looked up from the table, where various pieces of a broken clock were strewn about.

"Do you have any jobs you'd like me to do? For money?"

Logan smiled and nodded, putting down a screwdriver. "Yup." He stood, stretched, then walked just past Lynx to stand in the doorway. He waited while she repositioned herself to look at what he was pointing to.

Logan pointed out a darker smudge on the paneling, marring the perfection of the wood. "This is body oil, from someone putting their hands on here while they walked," he said solemnly.

Lynx looked up at him from under her eyebrows, wondering if he knew she was the one who did that. But his face was shuttered, and she couldn't tell.

"I need someone to get soap and a sponge and clean all that off."

Lynx bit her lip and eyed him again. "Okay," she said at last. "And I'll get money?"

Logan nodded and leaned back against the stair rail behind him. "Yup. I thought I'd pay you ten dollars."

Lynx looked at the floor, fingered her lip. She saw Amanda standing at the other end of the hall, and sensed people in the kitchen off to one side. "Is that fair?" Lynx asked, looking closely at Logan's face.

"Yup," Logan answered solemnly.

Lynx scratched idly at her jaw, then nodded. "Okay. I'll do that." For just a moment she thought she saw Logan smile, but then it was gone.

"Soap and sponges are upstairs, at the end of the hall under the closet with blankets and towels."

Lynx nodded and went around Logan, heading up the stairs to get her supplies.

***

Logan knocked softly on the thick wooden door, then peered around the corner. The door was cocked open, letting him see inside the room to a queen sized bed, a slender boy leaning back against the headboard and watching the television, which sat on a shelf by the door.

Orange eyes flickered to Logan, then back at the TV. "Go away."

Logan licked his lips and stepped partway into the room, leaning casually against the doorframe. "I was going to go meditate. I thought maybe you'd want more lessons afterward."

The eyes didn't leave the television. "Nope."

"Vault--"

Orange eyes flickered to gray ones, held. "I know Pistol says it wasn't you. I know Trace says it wasn't you. But I don't much like you right now. And I don't want to do anything with you."

Logan flinched, but kept it inside where Vault couldn't see it. "I didn't do anything wrong. Those people from Black Air were shapeshifters."

Vault looked back at the television. "Go away."

"Vault, how can I even try to earn your trust back if you refuse to even speak with me?" Logan asked, frustrated.

"I speak to you. I'm speaking to you now." Vault crossed and uncrossed his legs.

"This isn't speaking. This is--"

Vault stood, turned the television off, walked into the bathroom.

Logan clenched his jaw, frustrated at the punishment he was being dealt for something he didn't do. With short strides, he followed Vault into the bathroom.

Vault stopped, turned. There was alarm in his eyes, and Logan could smell fear. "You really want to watch me piss?" Vault snapped, hiding his fear behind bravado and disdain.

Logan opened his mouth, longing to argue with the boy, to make him see the truth, but knew it was useless. Silently, Logan turned and walked out of the room.

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

Kurt wasn't sure when, precisely, he had fallen asleep. Azul had been sleeping soundly in his arms as the afternoon sun streamed through the window by the bed, falling across Constance's still form in the big easy chair.

The waking, however, wasn't nearly so peaceful as the sleeping.

Kurt was aware, first, of something large shoved against his face. It was really rather unpleasant, too, since that large thing was pushing.

Kurt pushed back, rolled slightly into a more comfortable position. Dimly, he felt Azul shift further into the hollow Kurt's stomach made.

And then whatever he had pushed away a moment before returned to hit him, hard, in the side of his head. Kurt opened his eyes as he struggled to free his feet of whatever pinned them, so he could respond to this unseen assailant. Eyes finally open, he glared down his twin bed at the body laying across his feet.

The long, heavy body that had no right to be there. And yet, as he took in the scene, he couldn't bring himself to wake the man-child and make him move.

Trace lay, his head on one outstretched arm, across Kurt's lower legs and feet. Blue eyes were closed, though his nose twitched in response to some unknown dream. Black hair spilled across his other shoulder, covered by a pale blue T-shirt, and bare feet hung well off the end of the bed.

Kurt twisted with difficulty, looking to see what had thumped his head. The assailant that had attacked him a moment before was Pistol's foot, and as Kurt twisted around he could see Pistol almost falling off the edge of the bed, his head near Trace's as though they shared secrets even in sleep (which left his feet--thankfully shoeless--up near Kurt's face). And though he was balanced precariously, he managed to curve himself so that Constance wasn't crushed between his stomach and Kurt's back, where the girl had settled. Her legs were stretched across Trace's midriff, hanging off the end of the bed, and one of her long arms was stretched languidly over Kurt's ribs. Azul was curled on the edge of the bed, only Kurt's arms around his waist and chest keeping him from rolling right off the side.

Kurt smiled at the peaceful--if crowded--scene and wondered if he could manage to go back to sleep.

Feet that were starting to tingle from blood loss told him no rather vehemently. Kurt wiggled his toes, trying to stir up blood without waking anyone, and promptly felt burning. As if that wasn't enough, Pistol took that moment to attack Kurt with his feet once again.

Kurt jerked, trying to dodge, and shifted Constance's body pressed so close against his back. She mumbled something incoherent and planted an elbow in Pistol's side, with forced him to roll away--and right off the edge of the bed.

There was an indignified yelp and Pistol sat up, yellow eyes wide in shock at his brutal awakening.

Kurt tried not to laugh at the young man's stunned expression, but the chuckle escaped him anyway. The rumble in his chest woke Azul, who yawned, stretched, and--in spite of Kurt's best efforts--rolled off the other side of the bed.

Constance, awakening to find herself holding Kurt like a giant teddy bear, shoved herself up into a sitting position using Trace's stomach as a base. Trace grunted and was pushed right off the end of the bed, while Constance started laughing and Kurt bent to make sure Azul was all right. Azul climbed back into the bed, looking rather stunned, and when Kurt sat up Azul crawled into his lap and hung onto his neck with both arms.

Constance, laughing, suddenly started to squeal. She leapt from the bed, landing on Pistol, crawled over him (as he yelped curse words at her and tried to keep her body away from certain portions of his anatomy) and jumped into the chair on the other side.

Kurt and Azul both looked down as something crawled from beneath the covers and came, tail wagging, into the daylight. Trace, peering over the end of the bed, grinned.

***

"There was a girl here while you guys were gone," Enchantment said softly, hanging on the door frame.

Pistol turned to face her, leaning against the sink. With his mouth full of toothpaste, he couldn't answer except with his eyebrows. Those rose in polite question.

"She was really pretty." Enchantment blushed and hid behind the wall.

"Mm hmm?"

"She had red hair," came Enchantment's disembodied voice.

Pistol made an interested noise and turned to spit his toothpaste out. He rinsed off his toothbrush, rinsed out his mouth, then dried hands and face on a towel and turned back around. Enchantment was standing in the door again. Pistol bit the inside of his lip and wondered what she wanted. She didn't often come to him, going instead to Vault, Lynx or Azul to talk. "What else?" he asked finally.

"She had green eyes," Enchantment said, and smiled shyly.

"Really?"

Enchantment nodded and traced the carpet with her toe. "And she talked all funny."

Pistol nodded and glanced down at his watch. Eight thirty. Enchantment was supposed to be in bed soon.

Pale fingers tangled themselves in the hem of Enchantment's nightshirt, which had, at one point, been Pistol's shirt. He wondered blandly how she'd managed to get it. "I think . . . I think she liked me?"

Pistol nodded. "You're a likable person."

Enchantment ducked back behind the wall again. "Logan got the mail today, and he said this had my name on it." An envelope was thrust around the corner.

Pistol took it slowly, reading the address carefully. The first word was, indeed, Enchantment's name, but he didn't fully understand what the following words and numbers meant. "Yeah, this has your name on it," he said finally.

Enchantment's face peered around the corner. "Is it from Rogue?"

Pistol's yellow eyes flickered over the envelope, then came to rest on the words Rogue LeBeau in the corner. "Yeah, it looks like it might be from Rogue. At least, her name's on there."

Enchantment's face disappeared again. "There's something inside it."

Pistol smiled wryly and turned the envelope over. It had been opened carefully, and within was a single sheet of folded paper that had blue lines on it. Written on the blue lines were many words. Pistol smiled as he realized why Enchantment was here. "Would you like me to read this to you?"

Her face appeared again, hopeful, and she nodded.

"Okay. You sit in that chair, and I'm going to sit on the bed, and I'll tell you what it says."

Enchantment's face lit up, and she ran to the chair. She scrambled up into it, then waited patiently while Pistol settled himself on the bed. The coyote glared up at him as his weight moved the whole bed, disturbing the pup's sleep. Pistol reached out and absently patted the creature, and it tucked its head back down.

"Dear Enchantment," Pistol read, "How are you? I'm fine. This morning I kept thinking about what a good time I had with you and Lynx, so I ate Chips Ahoy for breakfast. My daughter, Sydney-Eve, was ec . . ." Pistol frowned and glared at the word. "Ecstatic," he finally managed. "She thinks you must be pretty lucky to be able to eat chocolate milk and cookies for dinner. Yesterday I went and I played baseball with the other people at this school. My team lost, but that's okay because we all had a good time. Sydney-Eve says that she would like to meet you sometime, and hopes that you can visit here or she can visit you. I told her I'd think about it, but that I wasn't sure you wanted to be visiting people yet. Maybe later, when you're a little bit older, you can come visit with us. Remy, my husband, says that you should come here because he doesn't want to be stuck alone with the baby, Lazare! Well, it's bedtime now so I'd better go. Maybe, if you like, you could write back to me and tell me how you're doing. Then we could write to each other. I'll talk to you later! Love, Rogue." Pistol looked up, smiling at the slightly amazed look on Enchantment's face. He held out the letter, and it was quickly snatched from his grasp. Enchantment was gone in a moment, and Pistol settled back against the pillow.

"What's wrong?" Trace asked, walking into the room.

"Nothing. Why?"

Trace rolled his eyes. "You're scowling."

Pistol scowled. Harder, if Trace was right. "Someone named Rogue is writing to Enchantment and saying Chant should go visit when she gets older or some such shit like that."

"So?" Trace flopped down on the bed, moving the sleeping coyote pup out of his way.

"So I don't know if that's such a good idea. We don't even know this Rogue person."

"I met her," Trace said. "She was nice. Sort of . . . soft looking."

The coyote puppy, now awake, pounced on Pistol's face. He flinched and grabbed the pup, moving it away. It pounced again. "I still don't know about this."

Trace shrugged. "C'mon," he said, reaching out and hitting Pistol. "Me and Az wanna go outside."

Pistol sighed and heaved himself up, grabbing the puppy and carrying it along.

***

"Nine hundred ninety-seven, nine hundred ninety-eight, nine hundred ninety-nine, nine hundred ninety . . . nine hundred . . . ten . . . no . . . nine hundred a hundred. . . ." Trace sat up, black hair swaying into his neck. The house swung into view, lit dimly by moon- and starlight. "Pistol? What comes after nine hundred ninety-nine?"

"One thousand," Azul offered sleepily.

Trace nodded and laid back down in the damp grass, looking back up at the sky-diamonds. "Dammit. Now I lost where I was."

From next to him there was a muffled chuckle, and Trace turned his head. Pistol lay there, yellow eyes half lidded, head propped up on one arm so he could read his book. His eyes, even as sensitive as they were, had dilated until the pupils took up all but the smallest of golden rings, and glowed softly with reflected light. The coyote puppy was snuggled between Pistol and Azul, who lay on the other side of Pistol, head tucked up on the man's stomach. Azul's eyes were closed, and a slight breeze played with his black hair. Music seemed to play in the air, high pitched sounds cheeping with vibrant, shimmering notes. Something cooed from the treeline, and the horses dozed on their feet in the pasture behind them. "What do you think makes that cheeping noise, Pistol?" Trace asked, flopping back down into the grass. It prickled at his neck, pushing up in tufts against his shirt.

"I don't know," Pistol answered quietly.

Trace cocked his head, listening intently. It continued, coming from the grass, as if thousands of tiny little birds chirped at each other. Only it didn't really sound like a bird.

"Hey, guys," a quiet voice said, traveling with the footsteps that came closer. "What are you doing out here? It's dark and getting cold."

Trace smiled and looked up, seeing Kitty standing with her arms wrapped around her body tightly. Her long brown hair fell in thick waves to mid-back, and stardust gave her entire body a white outline. Trace looked down at his own arm, and saw that the light made it look as if it were glowing blue. He slapped Pistol and pointed to his arm. Pistol took his eyes from his book for a moment, grunted in recognition, then went back to reading.

"Could you guys come inside? I think Azul needs to go to bed," Kitty whispered.

Trace looked up at her again. She was practically shivering. Once more Trace slapped Pistol, then stood. Pistol sighed and rubbed his eyes, moving Azul carefully. Azul's yellow orbs flashed open in a panic, but he recovered quickly and stood up.

Trace led the way back to the house, Pistol brushing grass off his pants as he followed. Azul clung as near to Pistol as he could get, almost hiding behind the tall boy's body. Kitty brought up the rear, watching as the glow from the sliding glass door bathed all of them in yellow light.

Trace entered, then watched as Pistol and Azul came through. Azul broke away from Pistol, hurrying across the room until he reached Kurt, who sat on the couch. Without waiting for an invitation, Azul climbed up into Kurt's lap and burrowed into the man's shirt, as if he were trying to hide within Kurt's skin.

Kurt said nothing, just settled himself more comfortably and wrapped both arms around the boy. "You want to go to bed?" Kurt whispered into Azul's hair.

Azul nodded wordlessly.

"Can you sleep in your bed?"

Azul shook his head.

"Okay." Kurt put down his magazine and stood, cradling the boy against him. "We're going to bed," he said to the others, then left the room and headed up the stairs.

"That's not a bad idea," Amanda said through a yawn. She turned and eyed Trace as he tried to pick grass out of his hair. "You boys were out there for a long time."

Trace shrugged. "I was counting stars." He didn't wait to see if they believed him, instead heading for the stairwell himself. He could hear Pistol close behind him, muttering to himself too quietly to understand.

***

Walk into a room. It's big. White. Desk at the other end.

Partner's still upset because of the car wreck that morning. Not that he was involved. He's just upset. He's odd that way.

I need new pants. These are too big, and there's a hole in the pocket.

Take stock of surroundings. Two agents we're supposed to talk to are there. There's an agent in each corner, each with a boy. Young boys. The youngest boy's agent points to my partner--no, to me. Boy looks up at me. Brown eyes meet blue eyes. There's a whispered word to the child. He breaks the contact, looks up at his agent. He looks . . . uncertain. Can't be more than eight, if that. The agent's angry at him. Says something, still too quiet for me to hear. The other boy in the corner is standing so still. The child looks back at me. He looks ill. Something passes between us. I'm not sure what; but I don't really care, either.

I have vacation time coming up. Maybe I'll use it.

There's a shout of alarm, and I look, and Harry, he's screaming. He's screaming. And I'm much too worthless to help him. I can't do anything and this is wrong and there's so much--

Pete sat straight up in bed, the sheets tangled around his legs. He was gasping for air, trying not to scream, sweat pouring down his lean body as Kitty moved behind him, sitting up and wrapping her arms around him.

"Pete?" Her voice, so soft and now very worried. "Pete? What's wrong? Nightmare?"

Pete could only breathe, remembering not too breathe too much or he'd hyperventilate. He blinked, salty sweat dripping into his eyes from black hair. His chest expanded hugely, ribs showing along a muscled torso before the exhalation collapsed his chest once more. His heart pounded in his ears, blocking all but the sound of Kitty's voice.

When he was sure he wasn't going to die of an exploding heart, he turned and wrapped his arms around Kitty. They were shaking. His hands trembled like an old man's, uncontrollable.

"What was it?"

Pete shook his head, his face buried in her hair. The feeling of utter helplessness hadn't left him, but the dream itself was gone. Only despair, pain, shock, grief was left in its wake, running savagely through his mind.

"What was it?"

Pete shook his head again, and managed to mutter "Can't remember," into Kitty's hair. She must have accepted that, because she didn't ask again.

***

Constance's eyes flashed open as she heard the pain-filled cry. It was faint from here, and she listened intently for several minutes more. When there was no more sound, she swung her legs out of bed and padded to the door, then down the silent hall. Everyone had gone to sleep long ago. All the lights were turned out. The stair railing rose before her, and she moved to one side.

Two doors down she could hear the inhabitants of the room awake, and she paused for a long moment. It took several minutes before she could remember who occupied that room: Kitty and Pete. She frowned in concentration, for their faces wouldn't come to the forefront of her mind. Constance shuddered, suddenly cold in the dark hall. She couldn't remember exactly how she had met Kitty or Pete, though she could remembered their names.

Constance's blue eyes flickered around the hall, taking in the doors. One opened, and a sleep-rumpled man stepped out. His steel gray hair stuck out all over his head, and slate gray eyes squinted at her.

"Constance? Darlin'?"

Constance said nothing, instead backing away and fingering the rail of the stairs.

"You okay?" He stepped forward, and Constance stepped back quickly. He came to a hesitant stop, his eyes peering at her as if he could see all the way into her soul.

She nodded at him, his flannel pants tied around narrow hips and his chest left bare. Something in the back of her mind tingled, as though she should know him, but her mind was blank. "I'm going back to bed," she said at last, then turned and walked quietly back to her room. The man was still standing in the hall when she closed her door and locked it firmly.

Uncertain and confused, Constance walked backward until she stumbled against her bedframe and sat down hard.

***

"You can't remember anything?"

Pete's blue eyes shifted to Kitty's slender frame. She sat on the edge of the bathtub, long legs folded up and her toes braced against the floor. Brown hair, unbrushed, fell in unruly waves down her front and back, and her slender hands gripped the sides of the tub loosely.

"Nothin'," Pete answered. He tore his eyes away from the large expanse of leg he could see, revealed by his short dress shirt over Kitty's frame.

"But it was so . . . powerful."

Pete shrugged and shook his head. "I can't remember it," he repeated, and watched as his reflection carefully shaved.

Kitty shook her head slightly, to herself, and sighed. "It's hard to believe you could have a dream that potent and not remember a bit of it."

Pete didn't answer. He wasn't meant to, he knew. Kitty believed he couldn't remember it; but she always remembered her dreams, and found it hard to imagine forgetting them. "I don't remember any o' my dreams, love," he said, watching her image in the mirror. He wished he could think of something to say that would soothe her, but nothing came to mind. Truthfully, she was more upset over his nightmare than he was.

His mouth twisted downward, unhappy to see Kitty so worried over him. Pete jumped slightly when he felt a prick, and looked back up at his reflection. As he'd suspected, he was so busy watching Kitty that he'd managed to cut himself shaving.

Muttering beneath his breath about all the stupid things to do, Pete put down the razor and turned the faucet on. He glanced back up at his reflection, saw the blood welling brightly on his cheek.

"Pete!" Kitty said on an inward drawn hiss of sympathetic pain.

Pete blinked at his reflection, another voice superimposing itself over Kitty's. "Pete!" A shudder ran down his spine, and he couldn't seem to look away from the blood starting to drip down his face.

There had been another time, with blood . . .

Walking into a large room, walls, floor and ceiling all white. Like most of Black Air. The desk at the other end had no occupant, which was unusual.

Harry continued yammering about the car wreck that morning. He wasn't involved, but somehow it had disturbed him greatly all the same.

Absently, eyes flickering around the room, Pete remembered that he needed new pants. After losing all that weight from the flu, and the battle (with a nail and hammer) just before the flu that put a dime-sized hole in his pants, he was low on wear-able pairs. He'd have to stop by and get some on the way home this evening.

Blue eyes flicked about, first one way and then the other, noting everything in the small room. The two agents they were supposed to meet with were leaning against the wall on the left, talking quietly. One looked up and saw them, nodded slightly in acknowledgment, then went back to his conversation. Two other agents were there, agents Pete didn't recognize. Each stood in the far corners, each with a child. The first child, the one standing near the farther agent, looked about thirteen. He promised to be brawny someday, but wasn't yet. He looked up solemnly at the agent standing with him and Pete realized that the tension raging through the boy's body was hate. Pete breathed deeply and looked away, glad he wouldn't have to deal with children. The boy's gray hair and yellow eyes faded from his mind as Pete turned to look at the other boy, the one nearest him.

This boy was odd, obviously a mutant. Barely eight, if that. Small and delicate boned, with large eyes and brown hair. His eyes dominated his face, and slowly the boy looked up at Pete. The agent standing with the boy pointed to Harry, then shifted to Pete. Pete ignored the gesture, eyes riveted on the child's big brown orbs. Something in those eyes was compelling, something . . . as if he should know the boy. The boy looked up at him, brown eyes meeting blue. The agent bent to say something to the boy, and the eye-to-eye contact was broken. The boy looked pained, ill, as he looked at the agent.

Harry was starting to mutter about something strange going on. Pete had to agree. The familiar steel of his gun rested against his side, under his jacket, and calmed him slightly.

The agent was angry at the child, and just as Pete was getting ready to step in and see if he needed help (either the agent or the boy), the boy looked back up at him. Pete stopped and caught his breath. Like electricity drawn between them, something passed too quickly to understand. Pete thought about questioning it . . . and suddenly, couldn't bring himself to care.

He needed . . . he needed . . . a vacation. He was burned out. The last mission had been botched royally, and, as usual, it was Pete's fault. It was always his fault. He couldn't seem to ever do anything right.

The cold steel of his gun pressed against his side, urging him to use it. It wasn't as if anyone would ever miss him. He deserved to die. After all the people he'd killed, all the horrible things he'd done. And none of it did any good.

Lethargically, Pete turned his head as he heard a shout of alarm. The other boy, the one filled with hate, was lunging across the room with a feral expression on his face. Harry was grabbing for his gun, pulling it out as the boy reached for Harry's neck and dug claws in, ripping at flesh. The sound of gunshots rocked through the room, three, right in a row.

The boy stumbled back, blood spattering his chest.

Harry was screaming, blood flowing freely from the lacerations in his neck. He was screaming, looking up at Pete for help, for back up. . . .

And Pete knew then that he wouldn't be able to help. He could barely move, so filled with self-hate and lethargy and fear that his body seemed rooted to the spot as the boy came again for Harry, and ripped Harry open from stem to stern using long claws extending from his fingers.

Pete's breathing was slow and shallow, and as Harry screamed for help, panic coloring his voice, Pete wondered what death would be like. He couldn't do anything. He couldn't even help his partner. He should just die.

Harry went quiet and still, and the boy, those yellow eyes were still filled with what Pete could now recognize as self-hatred, backed away. The agent took the boy and left the room, stepping over the blood and body lying near the doorway. Pete looked down, unable to look away, and saw Harry's face looking back up at him. His face was whole, still, though blood spattered his cheeks and chin.

"Good job, kid," the other agent said, and the man and the boy started walking toward the door. Pete looked up once again at the child, who was fighting back tears. Brown eyes met blue ones; brown hair fell into those deep brown eyes, obscuring part of the boy's forehead, which, like the rest of him, was a dirty sort of orange color. A brown star shattered its limbs across the boy's eye and forehead, hiding in his hair.

The boy paused by Pete for a moment only, refusing to look down at the bloody body. "I'm sorry," he whispered before the agent grabbed his arm and ripped him out of the room.

And as soon as the boy was gone, Pete was struck by the horror of what had just happened.

"Grab 'im," someone snapped, and the two agents were racing across the room toward Pete.

Pete pulled back, horror and hate and fury raging through his blood as the screams of his dying partner echoed in his ears. And he had been unable to do anything.

His hand fumbled for his gun, but by the time he had it out the two agents were on him. They smashed his hand against the wall, pinning him there effortlessly as a new man in a doctor's coat walked forward.

"That was amazing," the man breathed, tapping bubbles out of a syringe.

"Bloody wanker," Pete snarled, and pulled away from the two agents. They shoved him back again, and his head collided painfully with the wall.

"Did you see? Did you see that? His empathy abilities are far more than I had hoped," the doctor said as he reached forward and pulled one of Pete's sleeves up. Pete struggled harder, but the other agents were leaning into his body and he couldn't do much. Hot knives flared, but without being able to move his arms he couldn't direct them.

"He managed to force Wisdom to suppress his will entirely! Wisdom, that was magnificent," the doctor crooned. Pete felt a prick in his arm, and a moment later his body started to tingle. The agents stepped away, and Pete fell to hand and knees on the floor. It was an effort to breathe.

"Have him mindwiped," the doctor was saying. "And . . . oh, that control was stunning! To think he kept Wisdom from running to his partner's aid. . . . "

Pete wanted to find out the boy's name, if indeed the child had managed to control Pete's will and force him to stand idly by while Harry was slaughtered.

Pete wanted to fight as the agents picked him up.

Pete wanted to escape before they could perform any mindwipe, because he liked his memories as they were.

Pete wanted to walk away, to leave Black Air now, before things got worse.

Pete blacked out.

And came to again, gasping for air on the tile floor of his bathroom, clutching the rug that had been put there to absorb drips. The doctor's voice was suddenly Kitty's, the agent's hands her own holding his shoulders. Pete released the rug but didn't otherwise move. He was trembling, his body soaked in sweat, blood from the cut on his chin still dripping sedately to the floor. His razor was laying nearby, glinting in the fluorescent lighting. Kitty was almost frantic, trying to get him to respond, talking so quickly he could only make out that she kept repeating his name.

"'Sall right," Pete finally managed, though visions of blood still danced through his head. "Kit, it's all right. I'm here." He sat up slightly to prove it, and Kitty slid down before him to look at his face herself.

She was terrified, Pete could see that much even in his current state. She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it when Pete shook his head.

"Tell me what happened," she said after a moment, running the fingers of one hand through his hair while leaving her other hand on his jaw. "Tell me, Pete. You just . . . you were standing there, and then it was like you couldn't even hold yourself up. You've been on the floor for five minutes!"

Pete closed his eyes, blocking out Kitty's frantic eyes. "I know," he choked out finally. "I . . . God, Kitty, I remembered." He opened his eyes, and saw immediately she didn't understand.

Brown eyes. Like the child's had been, only those had been so frightened, and so sad. Brown eyes, with brown hair and--

Pete sucked in a lungful of air, trying to calm his pounding heart. Orange skin, with a shattered star. Vault. Then who--?

Yellow eyes, filled with hate. Steel gray hair. Pete felt cold suddenly as he remembered those eyes glaring at Kitty, snarling for morphine just over three weeks ago. An older version, certainly. With more experience, more ruthlessness. At thirteen Pistol had gutted and murdered Harry, a trained field agent with Black Air. He had done it effortlessly.

Pete shuddered, and felt Kitty wrap her arms around him. He breathed deeply, burying his face in her hair, clutching her to him as though he were afraid she might be ripped away at any minute. Chills raced down his spine as he felt yellow eyes on him again, full of hate and anger.

"I remember," he whispered again, and closed his eyes against the memory.

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

The book Kurt is reading to Azul is called "Startide Rising" by David Brin, and is an excellent sci-fi novel. I recommend it.

Feedback! It's not just a good thing, it's a . . . well, a really good thing! JBMcDragon jbmcdragon@lycos.com

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