Dedicated to GirlySkin, Alex, Tangles, Phan (and, ALWAYS, Mica my wonderful beta-reader!) and all those other people who WOULDN'T LEAVE ME ALONE until I posted more chapters. See, MY plan was to just forget this series after I lost seven chapters. But nooooo, they had to go and prick me . . . *grins* thanks, guys. ;)

Note: The title is taken from a . . . um . . . I don't remember. Mica came up with it from a poem or something. *grins*

Generation: Black Air
Chapter 7
Open Your Eyes . . . And See
JBMcDragon

He was armed.

Not with a weapon. He didn't need one. Hadn't since he was a teen.

His fingers burned, itched with hotknives ready to flare at the first sign of trouble.

He knew his enemy, and what his enemy could do.

He stood beneath the shadow of a large, old tree, with heavy foliage and roots as thick as his waist. And he watched.

He watched a murderer play with children.

"Did you see? Did you see that? His empathy abilities are far more than I had hoped! He managed to force Wisdom to suppress his will entirely!"

Early morning sunlight played across orange features. Young features, eighteen years old. A perfectly straight nose, high cheekbones, small ears. Almost feminine in his grace, very aristocratic looking. He'd inherited it from his father. Pete knew that. Pete had known his father.

Pete had killed his father.

The murderer swung his leg over the rail of the fence and smiled brilliantly. Brown eyes glittered in the sunlight, somehow managing to carry shadows despite the beauty of the day. It was a face that had seen too much to still have the innocence of youth. He had a deadness about him, like a piece of his soul had been cut away, frozen, and put back.

Pete knew the look, for he saw it every time he looked in the mirror.

There was a shout, a yelp of glee. Pete looked up and saw Lynx riding her horse, yelling for Vault to watch. The boy, his leg over the fence, nodded that he was. He cheered when Lynx made her horse canter on cue.

Did murderers cheer?

Pete shook his head slowly, to himself. What was this boy? Something to watch and fear, or just a child who had gotten lost while growing up?

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.

The boy paused by Pete for a moment only, refusing to look down at the bloody body. "I'm sorry."

Did murderers apologize? Or was it all a con, so that if he ever did get his memory back he wouldn't find and kill Vault?

Or, worse still, was this some sort of plot by Black Air? For Logan to see Pistol and Trace their first day out, to track them back to Black Air, to call in all the Special Agents Black Air had once had, gather them all in one spot with the murderers Black Air had trained from babes . . . and then what? Black Air would kidnap them all, get them all back? Let Pete and Kitty and Kurt think they'd escaped, so the small group would feel invincible before the final blow?

It was possible. Anything was possible. But was it probable?

Lynx, on her horse, galloped toward a barrel she had found and laid on its side earlier. The horse went flying over the barrel, but Lynx lost her grip. She tumbled with a squeal, landing hard on the grass, her upper shoulder and back taking the brunt of the fall.

Vault was over the fence in an instant, fear written all over his features. He wasn't pretending. He didn't know that anyone but he and Lynx were out there, and no one could act that well. Pete had been trained to read people; even performers often looked fake to him.

Vault truly cared about whether or not Lynx was hurt.

Did murderers care? People who watched in cold blood as a man was slaughtered, people who forced others to stand idly by and do nothing. Did they care?

Vault cared. Pete had seen the boy, when the child thought no one was really watching. The kid cradled Enchantment as though she was porcelain, supported Azul, encouraged Lynx. Pete had seen times when he looked downright fatherly, and other times when grief was smeared across his face so strongly it couldn't be hidden.

With a shudder, Pete remembered seeing Vault late one night. After getting back from Black Air. Before Azul woke. Seeing him sitting in the hallway outside Pistol's room, sobbing silently. Crying with his head in his hands, desolatly, as though there were no hope left in the world.

Vault hadn't noticed when Pete had spoken, nor when Pete had put a hand on his orange shoulder. There had been no response of any sort--as if he were in a trance too deep to register Pete's presence.

That had been a long night, and, in the end, Vault had fallen asleep still sobbing. Pete had called Jean in the morning. She had confirmed that empaths would pick up any nightmares anyone else would have. In a household like theirs it might have been Vault picking up the emotions of the refugees around him. He may very well have been in a trance.

But it also could have been Vault.

Did murderers care? Once someone was trained to kill, did they change?

In the field, Vault was helping Lynx back to her feet. She didn't want to be cradled or coddled; she wanted to go after her horse. Vault looked distinctly worried as Lynx ran after the bay, sniping about it being stupid and flea-bitten.

This was the boy who had emotionally bound him, kept him from saving Harry's life. But it was also the boy who was frightened of guards and agents, who cared for the people around him.

Pete started walking, using the shadows as cover, making his way slowly and silently back to the house.

Vault was dangerous. But Pete was no longer sure he was a murderer.

***

He stepped into the room silently, blue eyes flickering, taking in everything in a glance. Books lined the shelves on the walls. Heavy leather recliners sat, unoccupied, in the corners. There were a few glass tables, and some end tables scattered about. The windows on the opposite wall let one view the field where the horses grazed, and Pete could see Lynx gallop wildly across the emerald green grass. Sunlight poured in, pooling across a pair of denim-clad legs that were propped up on a footstool, crossed at the ankles. A hand moved in sleep, shifting slightly before curling around the furry reddish body that slept rolled into a ball on the man's lap. Rough hands were gentle around the small creature, dwarfing it. Large wrists gave way to massive forearms, which disappeared beneath the rolled sleeves of a red flannel. The flannel covered broad shoulders, and a barrel chest that rose and fell rhythmically.

Pete watched the man, monitoring his breathing from afar. Grayish brown hair fell in the sleeping face, and his nose twitched. The blunt features, too worn to be handsome, were utterly relaxed.

Pete stood just inside the doorway, watching the murderer. Barely an adult, his face still unlined. Pete had seen people sleep. They always looked younger than they were. Kitty looked downright baby-like. Even killers, like Creed, looked innocent in sleep.

Pistol still looked harried. The man's brow was furrowed, as though matters weighed so heavily on his young mind that they plagued him even while he dreamt. A muscle in his neck twitched, ticking before finally settling down.

What did murderers dream of?

Pete leaned one shoulder back against the door, crossing his arms in front of his narrow chest. He'd seen cold-blooded killers sleep. People who no longer had a conscience. They always looked calm.

Pistol twitched, murmured something, and settled down again.

Pete stood very still, wondering. Could someone be a murderer without losing themselves completely? Was that even possible? If you had been trained to kill, did you understand that what you did was wrong? If you didn't, then you were no more than an animal. Dangerous and uncaring. If you did, though . . . and if it bothered you . . . what happened then?

Pete stepped to the side, preparing to slide out of the room.

The coyote pup in Pistol's lap woke, jumping up and twirling around, excited to see Pete but unable to leap to the floor because of the hand that held it.

Pistol was suddenly awake, and for a sleep-befuddled instant looked panicked. He leapt out of the chair, bowling over the footstool, knocking the puppy to the carpet. fright coursed through golden eyes and he struck a defensive pose. Then he blinked, and looked at Pete. Pete watched as the man's wall fell back down. A sheet of ice blanketed over yellow eyes, closing off all emotions.

Pete smiled slightly, nodded, and left the room.

There was emotion there. The boy wasn't cold-blooded; Pete had seen fear.

***

"What do you want to do?"

Pete glanced up at Logan, shook his head in irritation and looked away. "I don't know. I don't even know if they're going to do anything, but . . ." His sentence trailed off, and blue eyes glared furiously at the fireplace in the mostly cream-colored sitting room. Mid-afternoon light poured in from the window behind Pete, casting a long shadow over the pale carpet and blood-red bricks of the mantle. Above him, Pete felt more than heard Logan shifting about, finally resting his bulk down on a chair catty-cornered to Pete's own.

"Damn," Logan sighed.

Pete nodded in silent agreement. The images of his partner's blood splashing across his black boots was still clear in his mind, as were the visions of Pistol's hate-filled eyes and Vault's sickened fear. And, superimposed over those, images of Pistol looking up at him, frightened for a moment, and Vault outside with Lynx, running to make sure she was all right.

"How long ago was this?"

Pete sighed, sat back, rubbed his eyes. "Ten years ago? Just before I left Black Air. A year before I joined Excalibur."

Logan nodded. Pete could feel the man's eyes on him, but didn't look up.

"Are you saying we need to send them away?" Logan asked quietly.

Pete hesitated, and found the first image he remembered wasn't blood, or his partner, but the fear he'd seen for just an instant in Pistol's eyes.

Pete shook his head, and sensed Logan's approval. "I think if they were gonna do anythin' it would have happened already. But it doesn't make me feel any better." His mouth twisted downward sharply. "I'll sure as bloody 'ell be watchin' 'em a lot closer."

Logan nodded once. "I'll make sure everyone knows. Not just about Vault and Pistol, but that at eight Vault was already being trained to help kill. The youngest of our kids is nine."

Pete felt himself pale, and took a deep breath. He opened his mouth to say something, and was interrupted by a knock on the sitting room door. He glared up at it as Logan called for them to enter.

The heavy wooden door opened slowly, and first Pistol, then Vault walked through. Vault closed the door quietly after himself, and Pistol took a seat.

Pete tensed, and glanced at Logan warily before letting his eyes slide to Pete. Logan's eyebrows were raised at Pistol, his steel eyes casting Vault an assessing glance before looking away.

Pistol and Vault both ignored Logan completely, looking instead at the lanky Englishman now sitting straight, arms crossed, in his chair. Vault lounged by the door, one shoulder leaning against the wall as he stared sullenly at his feet. Pistol sat, elbows on knees, hands clasped together in a very business-like manner. Yellow eyes looked into blue ones unflinchingly. "I heard you two talking. We," Pistol cast a glance toward Vault, "didn't think you'd remember. We apologize."

Pete opened his mouth, then closed it once more. He looked at Logan, saw the man was equally as unsure of what to do as he was. "You're sorry for killing my partner," Pete asked quietly, "or sorry for not telling me you did it?"

Pistol cocked his head, as if contemplating the answer. "I'm sorry for not telling you," he answered after a moment. "I don't apologize for killing your partner."

Pete stood, saw Logan stand too and hold out a restraining hand.

Pistol remained seated, calmly looking up at Pete. "If I had not killed that man," he said softly, "they might have killed Trace. If Vault hadn't helped . . . " Pistol shrugged slightly. "I didn't know him then. I never asked what they held over him."

Vault shifted uncomfortably, and Pete's eyes were drawn to the boy. At eighteen, Vault looked suddenly very like that eight-year-old child Pete had seen before; closed in on himself, uncertain, ill.

"Tell me you didn't do it because you enjoyed it," Pete said when the boy wasn't forthcoming with any information.

Vault looked up, and his eyes were tortured. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He closed it and shook his head, then went back to the study of his shoelaces.

Pete nodded shortly. He thought perhaps he should have been angrier, but he had finished grieving for Harry many years before. The fact that the boys had come forward, instead of pretending like it hadn't happened, made him feel a bit better about the two, although he wasn't sure why. And knowing why Pistol had done it helped; he could understand the boy's reasons.

A person would do a great many things to keep from having pain inflicted on them. "How often did you do that?" he asked finally.

"Often," Pistol answered simply. "I did it often. Vault didn't. Not until he was older."

"And then?" Pete asked.

Vault remained silent, and after a moment Pistol shrugged.

"To me?" Pete asked, and the nagging doubt that he might have been mindwiped more than once surfaced not for the first time that day.

"No," Pistol answered quickly. "I never did anything to you or anyone near you after that."

Pete hesitated, then nodded.

There was a tense silence for a long moment, and Vault cleared his throat. "Where does this leave us?" he asked softly, without looking up. "Are you going to throw us out now? Pistol said if we told you, then you might not."

Logan shook his head slowly. "No. We knew when you kids all came here the first time that some of you had killed. That fact has remained unchanged. We still know you've killed. The only difference is now we know how, and to some extent, who."

Pistol looked up, watching Logan intently. "We've abided by your rules since we've come here," he said. "None of us has killed anyone. We do what you think we should, what you say is 'right' and 'normal.' Or, at least, we try. Are things going to change dramatically between all of us now that you know what we've done?" His mouth twisted upward, wryly. "Are you going to start questioning our every motive?"

Logan thought for a long time before answering. "Yes," he answered at last. "We won't be able to help it. But, given time to gain trust back--for all of us," and he looked directly at Vault, who wouldn't meet his gaze, "I hope we'll all be able to live without questioning each other constantly."

Pistol nodded and stood, then waited while Vault ducked out the door. When the other boy was gone, Pistol stopped and turned back, looking at Pete. "I'm sorry about your partner," he said at last. "But maybe you can stop acting like either Vault or myself is going to eat you or Kitty."

Pete snorted. "Not bloody likely," he muttered.

Pistol chuckled, the truth appealing to his twisted sense of humor, and walked out the door.

Pete lit a cigarette and took a long breath. "Shite. I'm never going to be able to look at them without wondering again."

"Try, Pete," Logan growled. "And see if Kitty'll hack into the Black Air computers again. They might just have files on when and how often you were mindwiped."

Pete suppressed a shudder at the thought of lost memories, then nodded and left the room.

***

Pistol stretched tight muscles and cringed. He was incredibly out of shape. His bout with his old trainer had shown him that, if nothing else. The talk with Logan and Pete a few hours earlier, and then the subsequent explaining of what was going on to the others, had left him emotionally drained.

It seemed, lately, that it was a common state for him. He didn’t like it.

Pistol leaned against the stairway railing, looking down onto the first floor. He could see, near the front hall, the kitchen door, the family room door, the sitting room door, and the door to the library. The little cupboard-like thing that used to hold the vase before Azul had broken it was by the sitting room door. Directly below was the bottom of the staircase; it wound down and then turned, doubling back on itself.

The scent of fresh air came from Azul's room, and right beside it Pistol could hear voices. Kurt and Azul, arguing over whether or not they should go downstairs. Pistol listened for a moment to be sure that Kurt wasn't simply forcing his will on Azul, but there was no such thing going on. Kurt was arguing very calmly that it would be good for Azul to go down and see the others, and Azul was arguing back that he didn't want to see the others.

Pistol smiled slightly as it became obvious Kurt's rational logic was giving way to Azul's emotional logic. After all, how did one fight emotion?

Across the stairwell a door opened, and Lynx, covered in cobwebs, came out of a room, a television in her arms. Enchantment trailed behind, keeping the cord off the floor. Pistol let one eyebrow climb as the girls looked at him.

"Mine broke," Lynx explained, then started lugging the television from the furnished but unoccupied bedroom to her own room.

"What happened to it?" Pistol asked as they rounded the corner of the stair railing and started toward him.

Lynx turned, going to her room. She paused outside her doorway and considered his question. "My pillow knocked it off the shelf and onto the floor."

Pistol wondered if he should ask how the pillow managed to knock the television off the shelf, but then noticed how Lynx was struggling with the weight of the TV. "You need a hand?" he asked, leaning against the rail.

"No. Thanks," Lynx grunted, and both girls disappeared into the bedroom.

Pistol chuckled and noted that Lynx had gained weight and muscle since coming here. Then his smile vanished. He had certainly gained weight, but he'd lost muscle and speed. Pistol turned back to the railing.

Below, Trace walked by, hands full of apples.

"Hey! Trace!" Pistol called, leaning over the rail slightly.

Trace stopped and looked up.

"Wanna play?"

The sudden grin on Trace's face was enough of an answer. The apples were hastily set aside, and Pistol bolted down the stairs, jumping the last few. Before his feet had even landed, Trace spun around and kicked him in the jaw hard enough to send him reeling.

Pistol slammed back against the wall, and let himself slide to the floor.

Trace would expect him to try and regain his feet, so he wouldn't just yet.

A fist plowed into the wall where Pistol's head would have been had he tried to stand right away, and Pistol grinned savagely at his correct assumption. He kicked out with both feet, hitting Trace's shins and knocking the man off-balance.

"I want to play!" came a female cry from the kitchen doorway, and Constance raced across the few feet and planted her shoulder in Trace's ribcage.

Trace, already off-balance, yelped and fell hard across the bottom of the stairs.

Pistol re-gained his feet, noting that Constance was rounding to attack him while Trace re-grouped. Constance, however, had very little training to her thirteen years, and Pistol managed to upend her with little effort.

Trace attacked in the moment it took for Pistol to knock Constance out of the way, and both boys slid on the wood floor past the kitchen door and Amanda's shocked face, slamming up against the front door. "You're slow," Pistol grunted as he reached behind himself and gripped the handle.

"So are you," Trace said back, then laughed as Pistol managed to open the door and spill them both out into the dirt.

"What is going on?" Logan roared from inside the house, and after the two boys came Logan, Amanda, Kurt and Constance.

"They're playing!" Constance chirped, then aimed a slender finger at the tussling men.

Trace saw it first, and rolled out of the way. Pistol wasn't quite in time to avoid the blast of heat, though, and he smelled his flesh burn before his brain realized the enormity of the searing air and twitched his body spasmodically out of the way. his mouth opened, but logic kicked in and forced instinct out, and he managed not to scream. "I am going to fucking kill you," he snarled at Constance, who was laughing in the doorway.

"Two against one! Pistol's it!" Trace shouted, and as Pistol lunged for the still-laughing Constance, Trace tackled his legs. Pistol found his mouth full of dirt, several feet away from his intended target.

"Enough of this," Logan snapped, and raced down the steps to separate the two boys.

Pistol and Trace, however, had other ideas. They had already regained their feet and were closely entwined, legs and arms flashing too swiftly for eyes to easily follow as they struck and retreated, the whole while dodging Logan as the man approached.

"You wanna play, Logan?" Pistol asked, grunting as Trace's foot connected painfully with his stomach. The seared skin was almost gone, sloughed off and replaced with new flesh by his healing factor.

"No, I want you to stop killing each other and tell me what's going on," Logan snapped.

"Fuck off," Pistol said, and ducked a kick aimed at his head. "You don't want to play, then go jack off."

Logan growled in a sound very reminisent of Pistol's snarl, and, much to Pistol's surprise, stepped for and slipped into the same martial art form they were using.

Logan was good, Pistol had to admit. Not as good as Pistol in his prime, but at the moment he wasn't in his prime, and Logan was starting to soundly beat him. And, more importantly, drive the two boys away from each other.

Ten minutes later Trace was laughing as Pistol hit the ground and groaned, Logan standing over him making sure he didn't get up. Again.

"Would you stop now and listen?" Logan growled, breathing heavily.

Pistol nodded.

"What is going on?"

"I thought you wanted him to listen," Trace said, and Constance giggled.

Logan ignored them both and glared furiously at Pistol.

"We were just playing," Pistol answered, a smile tickling his mouth. "That's all."

Logan stepped away, allowing Pistol to rise. "Playing? You put a hole in my wall!"

"That was Trace," Pistol said reasonably, and stood. He brushed his hands over his pants, dusting away dirt, then fingered the new tear in one knee. Yellow eyes flickered over the dirt patch around them, wondering why the flowers were all growing so near the house and nowhere else. Not that they were growing anymore; Trace, Logan and Pistol had effectively ripped most of them up.

"I don't care who did it," Logan snapped. "It was done. Why were you trying to kill each other?"

Pistol glared skyward and wondered if everyone in the world was this dense. "We were playing," he stressed. "Are people not allowed to play here?"

"That was fairly vicious playing, Pistol," Kurt cut in from the doorway.

Pistol glanced up and saw everyone but Lynx, Enchantment, Kitty and Nate in the doorway, or just outside on the steps. A quick glance toward the big upstairs hall window showed the two adults leaning out, watching. "That wasn't vicious," Pistol said, and looked back down at the hole in his jeans. Absently, he wondered if it would be possible to patch them back up.

"That wasn't vicious?" Kurt said, disbelief in his voice.

The same voice, younger and unaccented, answered. "No. They didn't have knives or anything. It was just a tussle."

"Logan, do you have a first aid kit?" Amanda asked quietly.

Pistol glanced over and saw her by Trace, holding one of his hands gently, her other hand on his chin. He sent Trace a questioning glance, and Trace shrugged. The boy brought his free hand up, wiping blood and hair out of his patch eye, and smiled in a slightly confused manner.

"Is it just a head wound bleeding, or does he need stitches?" Logan asked, seeing the same thing Pistol did. Pistol frowned and looked back at Trace. Nothing seemed really awful to him; certainly not bad enough for stitches.

"I don't know," Amanda said, and stepped aside so Logan could look.

Trace shared an amused look with Pistol, then bent his head so Logan could see the cut.

"I think it's pretty shallow," Logan said after a moment. "Let's see the rest of him. Constance, you okay?"

Constance nodded and rubbed her ribs. "Just a little bruised. Nothing big."

Logan nodded, looking back at the boys. "Pistol?"

"Healing factor," Pistol answered, shifting in boredom from foot to foot. All of this fuss over a tussle was utterly ridiculous.

"They do it all the time," Azul was saying to Kurt. "Really. Me and Chant and Lynx aren't allowed to tussle with the big kids, unless it's a controlled one. They were just playing."

Kurt knelt so he was at Azul's level. He wrapped an arm around the boy's waist almost unconsciously, looking at Pistol. "You do this often?"

Pistol shrugged and nodded. "Sure. What else're we going to do?"

"Play something gentle?" Kitty suggested from above.

"Are you almost done?" Pistol asked Logan, irritation edging his voice.

"Trace, come with me please," Logan said, then turned and eyed Pistol. "You too."

Pistol glanced again at Trace, who was following Logan docily. "What's the crisis?" Pistol asked in an undertone, walking into the house after Logan.

Trace shrugged as they walked toward the downstairs bathroom. The others slowly dispersed, talking amidst themselves.

With three large men in the bathroom, it seemed suddenly crowded. Trace sat down on the toilet seat while Logan pulled a large first aid kit out from under the sink.

"You kids do this often?" he asked quietly, wetting a cotton pad and turning back to Trace.

"Sure," Pistol answered.

"Why?"

"Why not?" Trace countered cheerfully. He cringed as Logan hit a particularly sore spot in the cut on his head, and fell quiet.

"You enjoy beating each other up?"

Pistol frowned. "We don't beat each other," he snapped, and ran blunt fingers through dirty hair. A leaf dislodged and fell to the floor softly.

Logan hesitated in his movements, then picked up a white bottle and squeezed something liquid from it to another clean pad. "Bad word choice," he said calmly. "Do you enjoying fighting?" Carefully, he dabbed at the slash that traveled well into Trace’s hairline.

Pistol leaned against the wall and eyed the small forest picture hanging there. "I guess. It's good for training, and it's something to do."

Out of the corner of his eye, Pistol saw Logan nod. "Mostly, is it good for training, or mostly is it something to do?"

Pistol scrubbed absently at the prickles of hair growing beneath his skin. "I guess," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully, "that it used to be both. But now we have something to do, so mostly it's for training." He crossed his legs at the ankles and eyed the contents of the first aid kit.

Logan nodded again and picked up Trace's hand, finished with his head. "I'll help you spar--play--in the yellow room," Logan said quietly, "if you'll agree not to do it in the rest of the house. I understand that you want to be able to defend yourselves, but I don't want you ruining my home in the process."

Pistol shrugged.

"This is gonna hurt a little," Logan said to Trace.

Pistol straightened, eyes sharpening. He saw Trace tense, pulling his hand back toward his body in an unconscious protective gesture.

"Not that much," Logan soothed, and carefully took Trace's hand. He felt along each of the bones, then nodded and released it. "Nothing's broken," he said dismissively. "You're lucky. Don't go hitting anymore walls."

Trace was eyeing his swelling knuckles. "Shit," he muttered. "That didn't hurt at all."

One of Logan's eyebrows quirked up, but he said nothing. "If you want to practice fighting, come to one of the adults. No more of this 'playing' stuff," Logan grumbled.

Pistol nodded and walked with Trace out of the room, leaving Logan to pick up the first aid things.

***

Pistol leaned over the side of the box, peering in. The coyote puppy still lay sleeping, taking one of its seemingly endless naps. It was always either eating, sleeping, shitting or playing, Pistol had figured out. And when it slept, you let it sleep.

"How’s your head?" Pistol asked as he heard the bathroom door behind him open and smelled Trace walk in.

"It's okay. Nothing big."

Pistol nodded and turned, picking up a book that laid on the nightstand. "Your knuckles?"

Trace shrugged and flopped onto the bed beside Pistol, picking up the remote control.

There was the lightest of knocks at the closed bedroom door, and both boys looked up in surprise. "Come in," Pistol called, already knowing it was Vault.

The boy walked in slowly, peering around all the corners as if he wasn't sure he should be there. He shuffled inside and closed the door behind him, leaning on the handle as though it was his only escape.

"What?" Pistol asked, setting his book aside, binding up.

"I was thinking . . . " Vault trailed off, his brown eyes flickering from one spot to another. Pistol could smell as well as feel the unease oozing from the boy; his own skin started to feel twitchy in response to the empath's powers.

"You're emanating, Vault," Pistol growled. "Stop it."

Vault's eyes widened, and he nodded. The twitchy feeling left as suddenly as it'd arrived. "It's about this thing with Black Air," Vault said, and stepped haltingly forward into the room.

Pistol gestured to the easy chair, and Vault walked forward in four long strides and sat. "What about it?"

"Black Air won't be coming back," Trace added, his head turned as he lay so he could see Vault.

Pistol glanced over at his friend, seeing the younger man's long legs dangling off the end of the bed, his head resting on one up-thrust arm.

"I know you guys can tell that it wasn't Logan and Domino and Cable," Vault said in a rush, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees. "But the rest of us, we're having a really hard time being sure of that. I don't even feel safe in the same house with Logan anymore--obviously, I'm having a hard time keeping that under wraps." His eyes dropped to his feet, embarrassed.

Pistol grunted in acknowledgement; it explained the twitchiness.

"We were hoping . . . Pistol, the girls said you turned over leadership to Logan. We were all hoping you'd take it back. We don't trust him."

Blandly, Pistol wondered how much of it was Vault not trusting Logan and unconsciously spreading those feelings, but he didn't say that. Instead he nodded slowly. "I can do that. Would it make you feel better?"

Vault nodded.

"All right. Then know also that Trace and I have already discussed various escape options, and will be exploring more shortly."

Again, emotions that weren't his flooded his body. This time, though, there was relief and an overwhelming sense of trust. Vault nodded. "Thanks. Azul is doing better by the minute, Lynx is distressed because they're selling her horse, Enchantment is . . . she still feels resigned." Vault shrugged. "She really hasn't changed since coming here. I don't know why."

Pistol nodded, and Vault left the room.

Trace sat up slowly.

Pistol hadn't picked his book back up, yet, and sat staring at his hands. "I enjoyed my vacation," he murmured.

Trace smiled ruefully and nodded. "This means a lot more work, again," he pointed out.

Pistol nodded. "That's okay. I was sort of expecting it. And with Vault on our side, and all around better access to the kids, it'll be easier than it was at the compound."

Trace nodded. "What's first on the agenda?"

"You go talk to someone about going into town," Pistol answered after a moment. "I'll talk to Lynx, check on Azul, and see what's up with Enchantment."

Trace nodded again and stood, watching as Pistol did likewise. "It's probably better that you're back in charge anyway," he sighed after a moment, and scratched his ribs. "The others don't know what to watch for in the kids. They don't have a clue."

Pistol snickered.

"You going to tell Logan you're taking over?"

Pistol shook his head. "Why declare war when I can manipulate from behind?"

Trace grinned and headed for the door, setting the remote down on the shelf by the television.

***

Pistol pulled himself up the ladder, his head entering the dimly lit interior of the attic. "Enchantment?" Dust and moth balls greeted his nose, and as his eyes adjusted he could see old furniture, crates, boxes, an old mattress, footprints in the dust, papers, cobwebs and a small lamp. The lamp was old, a golden sort of yellow, and cast an uncertain light through the large attic. On the mattress between the lamp and the window sat Enchantment, a piece of paper in her hands.

She looked up in alarm as Pistol climbed farther into the room, and Pistol could smell the fear level rise.

"Easy," he murmured soothingly, and stood. He crashed against the roof, and bent again almost double as he swore violently about low ceilings and stupid houses. Not once did he mention that he'd forgotten to check the height.

Standing upright was out of the question. Sighing, he finally walked hunched from the waist up, his shoulders and head bent sharply to keep from slamming into low beams. Enchantment was stifling a giggle.

"Hey, Chant," Pistol said, much less soothingly because his head still throbbed. He shuffled to where she sat, then kneeled down. "Vault asked me to take over again. That okay with you?" It was the same question he'd asked Azul and Lynx earlier, and he got very much the same response.

"Okay."

Pistol nodded and glanced out the window at the lowering sun. He would need to feed that dog, soon. Right now it was with Trace downstairs, playing on the pool table. That wouldn't last long, though.

"What do you have, there?" Pistol asked, and indicated her paper.

Enchantment held it out to him hesitantly. "Another letter to me. . . "

Pistol smiled and took it, glancing over the contents. "Do you want me to read it to you?"

Enchantment nodded, her entire face brightening.

"Dear Enchantment," Pistol read in his low, rumbling voice. "How are you? I'm fine. I know I only wrote to you yesterday, but when I asked Kitty if she thought it would be all right if I wrote to you a lot she said yes." Pistol frowned and made a mental note to ask Kitty about that, then went on. "Today the funniest thing happened. Remy, my husband, was baby-sitting for me and Jean and Ray, friends of mine, and when we got home he'd been tied to a chair and left! Upon closer inspection, we found he'd been tied with jump rope! Jean's girls, Brigette and Chiya, had done it with the help of my daughter, Sydney-Eve, and Bobby's daughter, Jess. The baby, Lazare, was upstairs with them, perfectly happy, and Remy still won't tell me how the girls managed to do it! Jean has three children; Tommy, who is twenty-five and is working to be an actor, Chiya, who is fourteen and Brigette, who is nine years old. Tommy and Chiya were adopted, but they're just like family, now! Jess is seven, but Sydney-Eve, my daughter, is only four. Somehow, though, Chiya, Jess and Brigette found some way to make her stay quiet about how they got Remy all tied up! I should go now, but I hope you're having a good time where you are. I'll see you in a week or so at the reunion! Love, Rogue."

Pistol looked up at Enchantment then, surprise and suspicion written all over his face. "What reunion?"

Enchantment pulled away from him instinctively and shrugged. "I don't know," she whispered.

Pistol watched her for a moment, but she was telling the truth. He smiled slightly and handed her paper back to her, then got off the bed and shuffled back over to the ladder. "I'm going to go find out, all right? I'll talk to you later."

Enchantment ignored him, instead fondly smoothing the wrinkles out of her paper.

***

Pistol took the coyote puppy from Trace, tucking it against his side, his hand under its ribs. The puppy squirmed and yipped, then started to gnaw on Pistol's hand. Pistol ignored it and headed for the study, where he could smell Kitty. Trace followed after him, asking questions that went unanswered.

"Kitty?" Pistol asked, striding into the room and stopping before her.

She looked up from her computer screen and smiled slightly in acknowledgement.

On the couch, Pistol saw Pete tense. Amanda sat on the other end, fairly oblivious to what was going on as she gave quiet instructions to Lynx on how to mow a lawn.

"What do you know about this Rogue person writing to Enchantment?"

Kitty looked confused for a moment, and shrugged. "Just that she is. Enchantment and Rogue seemed to get along; we thought maybe if Rogue wrote to her then it would get her interested in something other than the television."

Pistol considered that briefly, and nodded. The coyote squirmed and let out with a series of furious yaps. Pistol bent, putting him on the floor where he promptly attacked Pistol's bootlace. "And what is this reunion thing?"

Kitty looked blank, and Pistol wondered if she was faking. Behind him, he heard Trace shift from one foot to the other.

"I didn't know there was a reunion coming up," Kitty said, shrugging. "Is it here already?"

Pistol stepped forward and put both hands down on the small woman's desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pete stand slowly. With a half smile toward the Englishman, Pistol stepped back and leaned against the wall.

"What's a reunion?" Trace asked from behind them.

"It's . . . where people who know each other well but don't get to see each other very often get together and visit for a while," Kitty supplied helpfully.

Trace nodded and sat down on the arm of the chair. "Lots of people?"

Pistol cocked his head slightly, listening. He knew as little about it as Trace, but didn't want to give the impression he was ignorant. Ignorance was dangerous.

"Well, sometimes. For us it's lots of people. As many of the people in the X-family show up as possible--usually most, if not all of them. Plus their kids. It's quite a gathering." Kitty smiled cheerfully. "Fun, really. We all go back to Westchester and converge on the old mansion. Everyone has to share rooms, because there are so many people."

"So when, exactly, were you going to tell us you were all leaving? Or were you just going to up and go one day?" Pistol's voice was sarcastically dry, his arms crossed casually over his chest in contradiction to his tone of voice.

"We wouldn't just 'up and leave you,'" Kitty said, obviously offended.

"We only got the invitation this morning," Pete interrupted, coming to stand with his hands on Kitty's shoulders. "Not everyone knows the dates, yet. Logan has it still."

Pistol nodded and bent, reaching for the coyote pup. The creature danced out of reach, tail wagging. Pistol snapped his fingers twice, impatiently, and the tail drooped before the puppy came closer. Pistol scooped the dog into his hands, then stood and carried it out of the room.

"Where now?" Trace asked as he followed along behind.

"Logan's room," Pistol answered, taking the stairs two at a time. "I need to talk to him about this reunion thing." He stopped suddenly, sensed Trace stop just behind him. Pistol twisted and looked back at the alabaster boy. "Would you go brief the others about this?"

Trace nodded and turned, heading back down the stairs to where Lynx had been.

Pistol continued up, shifting his grip on the dog so it was half-braced on his shoulder. It licked his ear absently, then looked about from its higher perch.

"Logan?" Pistol called, rapping on the door at the back of the hall. He didn't wait for an answer before entering, smelling that Logan was cleaning the bathroom. He wrinkled his nose at the stinging scent of alcohol, but went forward. "Logan, what's this about a reunion?"

Logan stepped out of the bathtub, shaking something white and foamy off his hand with a scowl. "The X-Men reunion's in a week. Just got the invitation this mornin', Scotty was late gettin' 'em out this year. He specifically invited all of you kids, too."

Pistol leaned against the door, crossing his legs at the ankles. "Is it here?"

Logan looked up at Pistol from under bushy silver eyebrows. "No. Westchester. New York. The old mansion. We'll have to fly."

Pistol shook his head. "We're not leaving this place. We were just ripped away days ago, and now you want us to uproot again? Bull shit. No one's going to agree to that. We don't even know these people."

Logan put several bottles into a bucket, followed by several rags. "The X-Men are friends, Pistol. You're all going to have to leave here sooner or later, better to do it with people who can be trusted."

"We don't know they can be trusted," Pistol shot back.

"If they couldn't be trusted, they would already have turned us in," Logan pointed out.

"Maybe they did. Maybe that's how Black Air found us."

Logan gave Pistol a tired glare. "If that had been the case, we would all be caught and no one would be able to escape. The X-kids are better than that."

Pistol opened his mouth to argue further, but was stopped by Logan's raised hand.

"Don't take my word that they can be trusted. Don't take Kitty's or Pete's or Amanda's or Kurt's. Stay here and hide. But if they can't be trusted, wouldn't it be better to meet them and evaluate them for yourself? So you know what you're up against?"

Pistol had to admit that sounded right, but he still didn't like it. Suddenly, he wished Trace was there. Trace had a good head for things like this. "I'll talk to the others," Pistol said at last. "We'll think about it."

Logan nodded. "We aren't going to make you do anythin' you don't want to," he said gruffly.

Pistol nodded, shifted his grip on the coyote, and turned to leave.

"Have you named him?" Logan called, indicating the pup.

Pistol looked back, confused. "You said it was a dog."

Logan opened his mouth to respond, then grinned. "That I did. But you're a human, and you still have a name."

Pistol thought about that, then gave Logan a disbelieving look. "Sure." He turned and left the room.

***

Stars were winking into existence as Pistol sat with the rest of his family outside, on the pasture fence. Azul was curled in Vault's lap, the boy's head resting beneath the young man's chin. Vault sat cross legged on the grass, both arms loosely draped around the huddled form.

Enchantment sat on Vault's left, head resting against his arm, both her hands entwined in his soft shirt. Lynx sat on the other side of Enchantment, ripping grass up in fistfuls and examining the ends. Occasionally, she would find a stem that met whatever her requirements were, and she'd bite down on it. Most of the time, though, she just threw the grass into the light breeze.

Constance sat between Vault and the fence, legs curled, body propped up on one arm. Her blue eyes were rooted to the lawn, and she hadn't moved since Pistol had started telling them about the reunion.

Trace stood on Pistol's right, leaning heavily against the fence, arms crossed over his slender chest. His icy eyes flickered from one person to the other, noting all changes and tiny reactions to Pistol's words.

Pistol sat on the upper bar of the fence, feet hooked on the lower one, both elbows resting lightly against his folded knees. His body was still, though he spoke with motions of his hands as well as his voice. Now, with everything explained and laid before the children in the simplest of terms, Pistol waited.

His yellow eyes flickered downward, toward the dog playing in the midst of the semi-circle, then upward toward Trace. Trace's eyebrows flashed upward minutely, using the code they had developed over the years.

No one was thrilled by what Pistol had said, by the idea of leaving this place. That, Pistol knew without Trace confirming it. Trace's eyes flickered to Enchantment, and Pistol looked closely at the girl.

She still sat in the same position as before, eyes still downcast, fingers still tangled in cloth. Pistol hadn't seen her react at any time during his talk, but apparently Trace had.

"Enchantment? Do you want to go?"

Enchantment jumped and looked up, eyes wild. "No," she whispered at last. "But I'll do whatever you say."

"Why don't you want to go?" Pistol asked. He could smell her fear level rise, her heart thundering in her chest. Panic point was close, and unless he got a reason from her quickly she would close up, too frightened to say anything.

"There will be strange men," she managed to say, her throat already closing around the words. She opened her mouth to say something else, but noise wouldn't come. She twisted and buried her face in Vault's arm. Azul turned slightly in Vault's lap and patted Enchantment's back reassuringly.

"That's very true," Pistol said slowly. "But there are strange men everywhere." Pistol glanced back at Trace. The man's eyes flickered to Constance, and Pistol turned to watch her. "What about you, Constance? What do you think?"

Constance looked up slowly, very carefully choosing her words. "I think," she said after a moment, "that it's better to know your enemies. I think we should go."

"No," Vault said immediately. "If we know them, then they also know us. Logan said these things happen every year, right?" Pistol nodded. "Then we should wait for the next one. Wait until we've recovered from Black Air, wait until we're sure we're not going to be ambushed or something. If we're going to go into unknown territory, wouldn't it make sense to be at full power?"

Pistol considered Vault's words, then nodded.

Trace cleared his throat, and all eyes looked at him. Everyone knew that Trace wouldn't speak until he'd thought of everything, and when he spoke he was always paid attention. Even Pistol listened closely, trusting his friend's judgments explicitly.

"I think that Constance is right," Trace said, one hand coming up to brush his fingers along his jaw. "But I also think Vault is right. Enchantment had a good point."

The girl looked up, blushed, and buried her face in Vault's sleeve.

"There are too many people, too many uncontrolled factors. We should know our enemies, but we shouldn't go blindly into a trap with our defenses down and at low power. We need to know more about society, about people in general, about the reunion, how many people will be there, their powers, what the layout of the house is. I think that we should go, but with control."

"What do you suggest?" Pistol asked into the silence that followed.

"Pistol, you and I should go into town. To see people, how they interact, what is expected. We'll make a deal with Logan, who wants us to go to the reunion. We'll agree, but only if we get our own space in the mansion. He said everyone shares rooms? We only share rooms with those people we know and trust--each other. We are allowed a buffer zone between us and the strangers there. The strangers are not allowed to come into our zone, and we may set up whatever security we want. We get complete blue prints of the mansion. We get to choose where we sleep. We also get printouts on all the people who will be there, their powers, their skills, their histories. We go in armed."

Pistol nodded thoughtfully. "And if any of these aren't agreed to, we don't have to go," he told the group.

“How do we know we’ll get correct information?” Vault asked, frowning.

“We don’t,” Trace answered. His pale blue eyes watched the younger man steadily. “We trust in our skills, and check as best we can for anything that doesn’t seem to correspond with other things said.”

Vault scowled. But even he, after a long moment, nodded his agreement.

Pistol bent and picked up the dog, who had fallen in a heap by his feet. "Everyone can go, then. Trace and I will talk to Logan."

Lynx jumped up and ran off instantly, heading toward the lawn mower even though it was early evening. The others were slower, and Pistol didn't stay to watch them go. He climbed back over the fence and started walking toward the house, the puppy dead weight in his arms.

"Pistol?" a sleepy voice said to one side.

Pistol stopped and turned, watching Azul rub his eyes.

"You'll protect us, won't you?"

Pistol smiled slightly and nodded.

"'Cause they let me be taken back. I don't want to go back again."

Pistol didn't have to ask where 'back' was. Black Air had been on everyone's minds. "You won't go back. Here, hold this dog," he said, and put the sleeping bundle into the clone's arms. Then, bending, he scooped up Azul and carried him into the house.

***

"Azul?"

He looked up from where he lay, half-asleep, on Kurt's bed and smiled slightly. "Hi, Chant," he said in a quiet murmur.

Enchantment stepped farther into the room, fingers dancing with the hem of her shirt. "I'm glad you're awake."

Azul's smile widened. "Me too."

"I . . . " Enchantment licked her lips and glanced around, to see if any other men were nearby. There were none: only Azul. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. "I made a friend," she whispered, holding onto the door handle behind her back.

Azul propped himself up and motioned for her to come closer.

Enchantment smiled and ran to the bed, jumping up on it happily. "She writes to me, and Pistol reads her letters for me. I . . . I thought maybe you'd help me? I want to write a letter back to her. Kitty said she could address it."

Azul grinned suddenly, teeth flashing whitely and small dimples creasing young cheeks. "Do you have paper and stuff?" he asked, sitting up and scooting forward.

Enchantment produced the required materials from her pockets; several sheets of notebook paper and a stub of pencil.

"Okay," Azul said, taking them and glancing around for something to write on. He picked up a book and settled his paper on it, then grinned. "I'll write what you say."

Enchantment smiled and nodded.

***

Logan listened calmly to the list of demands, then got a pencil and paper and asked to hear them again. As each one was specified he wrote them down, occasionally asking questions to clarify something he was unsure about.

Once they were all on paper, he told Pistol that he would work hard to get everything they had asked for, and he would call Scott tonight to find out if it was all possible.

Several hours later, Logan found Pistol and told him that it was possible, and Scott had agreed to it. Logan handed Trace a stack of papers--Pistol's hands were full of puppy and bottles of milk--told the boys they were going to town in the morning to get some supplies, and left.

Pistol looked forlornly at the pile of papers, then disentangled one arm and picked the first one up.

Scott Summers, Cyclops

the heading read. A physical description followed, and a brief summary of the man's life up until joining the X-Men. Then followed a detailed summary of everything that had happened, including training, acquired skills, marriage, and children born (and died). A line or two explained his powers, and the page ended.

Pistol's head was spinning. "This guy has had like twelve kids," he muttered. Trace chuckled. "And he married his current wife's clone, when his current wife was dead."

"I thought you said she was his current wife?" Trace asked.

"I did. She's alive again."

Trace looked confused, then shrugged and rifled through the papers. "Happy reading," he snickered, and plopped the whole stack of them on the bed.

Pistol groaned. "What was I thinking, Trace? Now I've got to research these people, keep all the kids in line, figure out what's wrong with Chant, make sure Az feels safe, and I need to check on Black Air, make sure they aren't coming back any time soon, field off the adults here . . . and things are about to change again. The rules are all going to be twisted once more as soon as we go to that new place," he said, and even to his ears he sounded plaintive.

"And you're not sleeping well," Trace added, sounding very sympathetic.

Pistol didn't answer that one way or the other; he didn't need to.

"You'll be okay," Trace soothed after a moment. "You always are."

Pistol nodded glumly and picked up the next paper.

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

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