Story notes: The last Ultimate X-Men I had access to was #53, where Gambit came back, Rogue went with him, and Logan left. So, placed right after that. Keep in mind that means this was written *before* Mojo showed up. I haven’t read that yet (though Tange laughingly told me I got the name right. Woo!). This assumes it never happened, since I wrote it before. Also, I know Shatterstar doesn’t have two hearts, and I could have taken that out. But I liked it. And he *is* supposed to be Longshot’s genetic offspring, and Longshot has two hearts, so . . . *grins*

Many, MANY thanks to Tangerine, who beta’ed. :)

"I want that one."

Rita squinted at the television screen. "That one? Wouldn't you rather have the one with the claws? It'd make for a better fight . . ." When the silence continued, she looked over at her boss.

Who was staring at her.

"Yes," the man said finally. "It would make for a great fight. So how are you going to catch the one with the claws?"

She turned back to the screen. Stared at the little man roaring and tearing his way through a van, despite the fact that he'd just been hit by twenty or more bullets. "Right," she said. "The other one."

**

"Does anyone else want ice cream?"

There was a chorus of 'me's’ from the den. Peter shook his head, wondering why he bothered to actually ask. He eyed the bowls, then shrugged and pulled out a handful of spoons. Bucket of ice cream--the cook, intelligent woman that she was, had stocked a five gallon tub of neapolitan--tucked under one arm, Peter headed back into the den.

"Oh, cool!" Kitty said.

"I claim all the strawberry!"

"You can't have all the strawberry . . ."

"I can if I eat it before you do!"

Peter ignored the babble, passing out spoons and opening the tub. He set it on the coffee table, then reclaimed his seat on the couch--Kitty had taught him the importance of 'dibs'--and watched as everyone dove for the kill.

Nights like this reminded him of home. Only with less ice cream. And he never got feathers in uncomfortable places.

"Dude. Are you molting?"

". . . Shut up."

"Can I keep one?"

"Uh, sure. If you want."

"Stop flapping, Angel, and there'll be fewer feathers," Scott pointed out.

The wings went still. That only lasted for a few minutes. It was all right. Somehow, it seemed normal now to be constantly brushing wings away, giving a casual "Don't worry" or "it's all right" whenever Angel realized he had sprawled them across someone's lap or was tickling someone's ear. He obviously wasn't used to keeping them to himself, but Peter supposed that, living alone, he hadn't had much practice.

There was the distinct sound of misplaced air, and the room smelled of brimstone.

"Aw, Kurt!" Kitty said, diving for the window. "Don't do that!"

"Jeez, it stinks," Bobby muttered.

"Sorry!" Kurt said, sounding not in the least sorry. "I got the movies!"

"We're running low on chips."

"I'm not going to get them. I got the movies." Kurt flopped to the couch on Peter's other side, reaching across to tell Angel some tidbit about a pirate game neither of them would admit they'd been playing, but both kept talking about.

"Kurt! You're the fastest!"

Kurt sighed. "We should have pushed harder to recruit that Beaubier man," he muttered. Then he vanished again, to another howl about the smell. He returned a moment later.

"Kurt! Stop teleporting in here! It stinks!"

"Then don't ask me to get the chips," Kurt returned. He flopped back onto the couch, tail whipping out of the way just before he sat on it.

"Someone want to call Ororo in? Before we start the movie?" Bobby shouted.

"Not me," Kurt answered. "I got the movies and the chips."

"I'll do it," Peter answered, smiling. He levered himself up off the couch, realized he'd forgotten to call dibs when Kurt immediately scooted over, and headed out the door.

Ororo stood outside in the wind, arms wrapped around her body.

"Storm?" Peter called softly, uncertain if she wanted to be disturbed.

She turned her head, waiting.

"We were going to start the movie."

"Oh. Right. Thanks, Peter."

But she didn't move, and after a moment's hesitation he stepped up beside her. "Everything all right?"

She smiled slightly. "Just enjoying the night."

There was a rattle of laughter from inside, and the sound of voices lifted by juvenile excitement over nothing and everything.

The wind blew softly. Ororo's hair twisted back behind her, the few strands left long tangling. It seemed clear out here. In part because it didn't stink of brimstone, Peter had to admit.

"All right. I'm going in." Ororo started toward the door, then paused. "You coming?"

Peter took another deep breath. "I'll be there in a minute. Tell them to start without me."

Ororo nodded and stepped inside. The noise increased as the door opened, then was muffled once more.

Peter watched the moon, hands in his pockets. The night was turning crisp. Winter didn't want to let go.

Something hit his chest and he brushed at it absently. Then he realized it stung. He looked down, expecting some sort of bug.

A dart. He blinked, frowning, already starting to turn metal--then he got dizzy. Peter staggered, and fell.

**

Jean looked up, missing the popcorn she'd been trying to throw into her mouth. "Ororo? Is Peter coming?"

"He said he'd be along in a minute," Ororo answered, closing the door to the den.

Jean hesitated. She'd thought she'd felt--

Nah.

She picked the popcorn off her chest and tried throwing it again. "Got it!"

"You so used your powers," Bobby snorted. "Watch me." He threw, snapped his teeth closed, and nearly choked as it shot right down his throat. Alison pounded him on the back obviously harder than was necessary.

"Yeah, great job snowman," she snorted. "Someone start the movie already."

**

He awoke to shouting. There were few things in the world that sounded quite like a screaming, yelling, insanely excited crowd. Even half drugged, he could recognize it.

"And on this side--" a loudspeaker blared "--we have the Juggernaut!"

Peter's eyes snapped open. White ceiling. He rolled to one side, and saw a cell door leading out into a sandy area. Frowning, he managed to slide off the cot and land on his knees (not as good as his feet, but better than his face) and crawled to the door.

It looked like something out of "Gladiator." What he could see of it, anyway. And that wasn't the Juggernaut. It was a very large man, battle scarred and toughened, with a very big pike, but it wasn't the Juggernaut. Peter's gaze swept the arena--no other word for it, really--and he saw a teenager with florescently red hair swing two swords, one in each hand, waiting.

The crowd had lost its mind. His cell trembled from their foot stomping. Looking across the arena, he could see other cells like this one--all sunk underneath the stands. They seemed to be trembling, too.

The screaming rose in volume and pitch as the two people in the arena closed. Peter stepped away when their weapons clashed, flinching at the screech of metal on metal. The man with the pike broke off, twisting and lunging back again. The crowd shrieked as the teenager ducked. There was blood on the pike.

They were going to kill each other. Peter grabbed the bars of his cell. He couldn't just sit here while--

Nothing happened. He looked at his hands. Flesh still, not metal. The crowd screeched. Peter tried again to turn to metal. Nothing happened.

A roar brought his gaze up. The man was circling the teenager. The boy knelt in the sand, bleeding heavily. He couldn’t stand on one leg. The sand around him was speckled red. One of his swords lay, dull, ten feet away. The man lifted his pike and--

"No!" Peter shouted, pressing against the bars. They paid him no attention.

The teenager threw himself up, into the pike, letting it fall down, tearing open the skin of his arm. He didn't seem to notice. A flash of steel glimmered, and he slammed his other sword into the man's belly, angling up through his chest. The point ripped out the heavily muscled neck, smeared with arterial blood.

The man looked surprised. Then he fell.

The crowd was writhing, screaming, chanting something Peter couldn't make out. In the stands, armed men were pushing people back into their seats, pulling them away from the rail so they couldn't jump into the arena.

The teenager stood, very slowly, dragging his sword out of the body. He sank the tip into the sand and leaned on it for a long moment. Then he stood unsteadily on his own two feet, lifting the blade over his head. Peter could only see his back. Even from there, the movement didn’t look terribly celebratory.

Over the loudspeaker, the voice that had woken Peter came back on. "Another win for--Shatterstar!"

Someone threw himself into the arena. Three men jumped after him, wrestled him to the ground, and hauled him out a door in the side Peter hadn't even seen. It was then that Peter realized what it was the crowd was chanting.

Shatterstar. Shatterstar. Shatterstar.

**

Shatterstar, from what he could see, had been put in a cell next to him. They hadn't gotten him a doctor, despite the fact that he obviously needed one. Peter shouted at the armed men until someone in the cell on the other side of him told him not to worry. He sidled over.

"Why not?" he asked, leaning against the wall, forehead braced against the bars.

"Shatterstar'll be fine. He always is. Saw him get a finger cut off, once."

Peter winced. "It grew back?"

"No. But it healed over in just a few minutes."

Peter winced again. "Where is this place?" he asked, sticking his fingers through the cell bars.

"Mojoworld. Sounds dumb, huh? Last thing you'll ever see, buddy."

He couldn't decide if the speaker was a young male, or a deep voiced girl. Either way, it was information.

"I have--" he hesitated, then spoke anyway. "I’m a mutant. Why can't--"

"Oh, don't even bother trying. They have some sort of shielding thing. Rumor says it's like a brain-wave disruptor, or maybe some anti-mutant Sentinel technology. One kid thinks it's something they put in the food, but that doesn't really make sense because we get our powers back when we go into the Ring."

"The Ring?"

"The arena."

Peter looked out at it. The stands were empty now. People moved through them, picking up garbage, sweeping. More men were on the sands, raking them back into order. They'd even cleaned up the bloody sand and replaced it with new. They'd dragged off "Juggernaut's" body some time ago.

"What is this place?" he asked quietly.

A moment of silence that still somehow seemed to insult his intelligence. "It's the Ring."

"Yes, but what is that? I've never heard of it. One minute I'm standing in my yard, the next--"

"Oh. You're one of the unlucky ones."

Peter was flabbergasted. It seemed to him they were all pretty unlucky. "What?"

"Most of us at least knew we were coming here. Half of us were street fighters anyway. Didn't quite expect this, but hey . . ."

His question still hadn't been answered. "What is this?"

"Fighting."

He wished he could see this person, just so he could throttle them.

"I mean, people get bored with life or whatever. They come here. Bets are placed on who's gonna win. Tickets are really expensive. This is a big operation."

Peter shivered. He sank to the concrete floor, curled in the corner near the bars. "Who runs it?"

"Dunno."

"Mojo."

Peter started and looked toward the other cell. "Shatterstar, right?" he called.

No answer.

"Who did you say runs this place?"

"Mojo." The tone was flat.

"Do you know anything about him?"

No answer.

"Don't bother talking to him, man," the voice said, back near Peter's ear. "He says random things and then clams up again. Other kids, they think he's just been here too long. See enough friends get killed, know what I mean." Then, softer, "Kill enough of 'em yourself . . ."

Peter shuddered, remembering that slender body lunging up toward the much bigger one, flat determination in every line of his face.

"What is your name?" he asked the person beside him. Maybe he could at least tell if they were male or female . . .

"Marrow."

So much for that idea. He sighed. "I'm Peter."

"That's a crappy stage name."

Peter frowned. "Stage name? This isn't an act."

"Please. We get perks if we put on a good show. Shatterstar always makes it look like he's losing before he wins, 'cause the crowd loves it. They send him stuff. Pay more money for tickets to his shows, which the brass loves. He has his own television. Right, Shatty?" Marrow yelled. "I've seen it when I'm out there, man. Damn thing's the size of your fist or something, but it's a TV."

There was no answer from the other cell.

"So. What's your stage name going to be?" Marrow sounded excited.

Peter could only stare in disbelief where he thought the person might be resting. "We don't have to do this," he said finally. "We don’t have to fight. We can stop--"

"Get real. Most of us don’t have homes to go back to, anyway. At least here, we have fans."

"I'm not going to fight. I'm going to find a way out--"

Marrow snorted. "Right. Of course. First time someone comes at you with a knife or a bo or a stiletto, you'll fight."

**

"Annnnnnd we have a special guest for you today, ladieeeeez and gentlemen!"

Peter stared out at the arena. According to Marrow, there were three shows most days. The morning fight never got a very large crowd. It was where the youngest, weakest, and newest seemed to cut their teeth. No one died in those, unless it was an accident.

The second fight of the day was busier, but not busy. It also wasn't to the death, though this time the battle had been ferocious.

The final show consisted of three fights, each more furious than the last. The crowd grew for all of them. The teenager, Shatterstar, still stood in the arena after the last one, panting and bedraggled. Cuts and bruises were healing as Peter watched, and the young man buried both blades in the sand while he caught his breath. He pulled off the shirt that was torn past usefulness anyway--to catcalls, which he ignored--and tugged the band out of his hair. Down, it fell nearly to the backs of his knees. Then he shook it out and pulled it back up again.

Someone armed brought him water, and he took it and drank.

"Yessiree, never let it be said that the Ring doesn’t keep you entertained!"

The patter, Peter guessed, was to give the boy a chance to recover. He wondered if Shatterstar always fought twice.

The teen wiped sweat from his face, then picked up both swords and started doing flashy stretches. Peter hadn't thought a person could make stretching flashy, but Shatterstar managed it. It helped that he was a very attractive young man.

As if it were a signal--which it very possibly was--the announcer said, "Ladieeeez and Gentlemen! Boys and girls! I present you with--Colossus!"

His cell door rose into the ceiling, leaving the arena open to him.

The crowd hushed. Then it began screaming. Peter could see his face, projected onto a screen above the arena. He looked like it wasn't going to be possible to get him out of his cell. Which was also how he felt.

He crossed his arms and glared.

Shatterstar hadn't looked at him once, which was fine. He wondered how long it would take for the announcer to realize he really didn't plan on coming out.

Apparently, not long. "Ohhhh, our little X-Man is shy. Let's give him a hand!"

Something sizzled. Peter turned.

"That, my little friend, is an electrical current! You can leave, or it'll throw you right out!"

Peter tried to turn metal. Failed. He cringed even before it hit him.

It threw him out of the cell and knocked the air from his lungs. The cell closed. He laid on the sand, gasping and waiting for his heart to start beating again.

A face appeared above him. Silver eyes, one of them with an orange star around it. Red hair fell in Peter's face.

"Are you all right?"

He hadn't been expecting the toss. Peter gaped in response and tried to breathe.

The head nodded. "It gets better." Then it disappeared. The crowd cheered.

"Better move, Colossus," the announcer said. "Because in five seconds our little Shatterstar is going to start chopping you into bits."

He could see the teen moving out of the corner of his eye, circling him a good twenty feet away, swords flashing as he whipped them around his body.

"Three. Two. One."

Peter turned metal just as the swords came down on his face. He caught them flat between his palms. One of the blades snapped. Which left two others. He focused. Two? Two. One of the swords had been double-bladed. Wasn't anymore.

He yanked, expecting the boy to let go. Instead, Shatterstar went flying over his head and landed in the dirt on his other side. Peter released the blades and stood.

Shatterstar eyed him warily, already on his feet.

"We don't have to fight," Peter said.

Shatterstar jumped at him. He held up an arm to deflect the blow, and the swords glanced off his armored form. Shatterstar backed away, frowning.

"We don't have to fight," Peter repeated. "Shatterstar, you and I are probably the best warriors here. We could get out. Together, we could free the others and we could all escape this place."

Shatterstar circled. He jumped, aiming normally deadly blades for Peter's eyes.

Peter closed his eyes and waited for the man to stop. When he opened them, Shatterstar was glaring at him, still circling.

"Shatterstar!" the announcer said. "Do something!"

Shatterstar stopped. Then he knelt, putting both blades in the sand and humming softly.

Peter relaxed a bit. Surely the man would listen. "If we open the cage doors and let the other mutants out, we can leave here. My friends will help us." He hoped they were already on the way, but had seen cerebro fail enough times to be skeptical. "We can leave. We don't have to stay in this place. You don’t have to keep killing."

Shatterstar stood. He picked up his blades, whirled them once, then charged. Between one blink and the next, Peter realized the swords were glowing. They whipped up, then down, and smashed into him.

He thought the earth exploded. It threw them apart, smashing him back against his cell. He managed to stay conscious, barely. Lord, if the man came at him with another attack like that he wouldn't survive--

Peter pulled himself to his feet and stood, swaying. Shatterstar lay motionless on the other side of the arena, his head smashed against the wall. Blood streaked it.

Peter ran for him. He reached the body, the only sound in the stadium that of his feet slipping through sand. He dropped to his knees, then hesitated. Up close, the smell of burned skin was overpowering. The boy's flesh was red and blistering, starting to crack and ooze along his arms. Very carefully, Peter lifted and cradled the teenager's head, pulling his body away from the wall. He couldn't feel a pulse.

Peter turned human. There--thready, but getting stronger. "Get a doctor!" he shouted into the silence. He aligned the boy's head, neck and spine, hoping his healing factor worked as well as Logan's. Something was obviously broken. Something other than the pieces of sword that lay scattered around them.

A doctor appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. He checked Shatterstar's pulse, looked in his eyes, then stood and peered up at the screen above them. "He's out. Colossus wins!"

The crowd was silent for a beat more. Then it began to cheer.

Peter stared at the doctor, horrified. "This boy needs medical attention."

The doctor scoffed. "He'll be fine. He'll heal. Might take a bit longer, this time . . ."

Peter lurched to his feet, his hand wrapped up in the doctor's shirt, yanking him up. "He needs help." He dropped the man, looking up and around at the people still cheering. Half heartedly, he noticed. Their hero had fallen, after all. "What is wrong with you?" he roared. "This is a boy's life!”

The words were swallowed into the noise of the crowd.

Peter knelt beside the small body again, realizing suddenly that this wasn't even a full-grown person. He was only as big as--as Kurt. Muscles built around a frame that hadn't filled out yet, that hadn't stopped growing. Arms and legs slightly too long, a face that hadn't turned angular but still had shreds of baby fat. He couldn't be more than seventeen.

"Stand up, man! Cheer!" the doctor was saying, tugging at him.

Peter shrugged the man's hands off. "What is wrong with you?" he roared. "This is not a game!"

Shatterstar's chest shuddered suddenly, then started to rise and fall.

"Oh, hell," the doctor muttered, and disappeared through a door.

Peter started to follow, to leave, to escape, but-- He couldn't just leave the boy lying there, broken and half-alive . . .

Then he felt a peculiar sting, and realized they'd just drugged him again. He fell sideways, over the other man's legs.

**

The arena was cleared by the time Peter woke, safely back in his cell. Shatterstar was still lying in the sand.

"Tell me someone has seen to him," he said, his voice a croak. He cleared his throat, winced at the pain it caused in his head, and slowly started to move.

He hadn't been so sore since before his powers had manifested. He couldn't decide if it was the boy's blast that had done it, or the drugs they'd pumped into him. Again. Stupid of him to stay flesh like that. He should have known better. Next time, he would.

"He'll be fine. Kid's nearly impossible to kill," Marrow said. "That's why they call it a win if someone just knocks him out." The voice was silent for a moment then, consideringly, "Maybe if you chopped off his head . . . and then separated it from his body . . . "

Peter flinched.

The sand-cleaners had left a ring around Shatterstar, leaving all the little bits of blade there, too. Metal glimmered in the stadium lights.

"There must be a way out of here," Peter said.

Marrow sighed. "Give it a rest, would you?"

"Those doors--"

"I don’t know anyone who's gotten past them, so don't ask. Shatterstar might know. He has been here longer than anyone else." The voice snorted. "As if he'd tell you, though."

Peter watched the form. All he could really see were the bottom of the young man's feet. One of them twitched.

"Why doesn't he talk to people?" Peter asked.

There was silence, though he could hear movement from the other cell. "Word is, he used to. One of the old timers said Shatterstar used to talk to anyone who would answer back. Guess he made too many friends he watched die."

Or killed himself, Peter added silently, remembering the comment from before.

He sat, thinking. He needed out. The person with the most information to get out was Shatterstar. The best fighter, and therefore his best ally, was Shatterstar.

Don't be dead he thought at the body.

Shatterstar groaned and started to move. The last sweeper dropped his tools and fled.

It was another fifteen minutes before Shatterstar was on his feet, staggering around the arena and picking up pieces of broken sword. He would gather two or three large shards, take them back to his cell, then go for a few more. Every time he came close, he glared at Peter.

"Sorry," Peter said finally.

"You broke my swords, you stupid beast," Shatterstar muttered, glaring at him out of hard silver eyes.

"Sorry," Peter repeated.

Shatterstar picked up the dropped rake and raked through the sand, carefully putting tiny slivers of metal into his palm every time he found one.

"Can he rebuild the swords?" Peter asked curiously.

"Nah. He'll have to pay the armorer to do it. But the more pieces of them he can find, the quicker the guy'll have it done, and the less it'll cost 'Star."

Eventually, Shatterstar gave up on finding any more slivers and went back to his cell. It shut with a clang.

Peter sat on his cot and stared out at the arena. "I didn't mean to break your swords," he said after a while.

There was no response.

Peter frowned and leaned back on his hands. Before him, the sand level started to drop. It slid out of the floor with a swishing noise, exposing a grate that closed back up when even the dust was gone. Then the doors opened, and people started lugging in bags of dirt.

"What’s going on?" Peter asked, watching.

"Anytime someone shatters a sword like you two did, they have to clear the whole thing out. Don't want our pretty little feet getting hurt by stepping on something. Might make whoever bets on us grouchy."

Peter stood and walked to the edge of his cell. The grate was closed again. He knelt and reached through the bars, tapping the arena floor. Hollow. "Where does the old sand go?"

Marrow snorted. "I dunno."

Peter watched for a time more, then finally leaned against the wall between his and Shatterstar's cell. "Shatterstar?" he called. "Where does the sand go?"

He could hear the teenager muttering, but there was no answer.

"The doors? Where do they go?"

More muttering.

"Do you know?"

An arm stuck through the bars suddenly, holding a long sliver of metal. "You broke my swords! Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost to fix?" The arm and sword disappeared.

"I didn't mean to," Peter said. Then he gave himself a mental shake. This man had been trying to kill him, and he was apologizing about a broken sword?

"Shatterstar, we don't have to fight," he said.

"Oh, give it a rest!" Marrow moaned from the other side. "Some of us like fighting! Right, 'Star?"

Shatterstar was muttering to himself again. "Where did this piece go?" Peter caught. He shook his head and walked back to the side where Marrow was. "Marrow?"

She grunted, "five--what?--six--"

"What did Shatterstar used to talk about?"

"--eight--dunno--nine--"

Peter sighed and sat back on his cot. After a while, someone went to Shatterstar's cell, and walked away with the metal pieces carefully laid out in a sword-shape on a board.

"Where did you get those swords?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

There was a long moment of silence. Then, stiltedly, Shatterstar said, "The armorer made me swords. Then I designed those ones, and he made them."

"The double-blade is interesting," Peter said, shifting off the cot and to the front of his cell, hoping maybe this was a way to get the boy speaking.

"It is harder to handle," Shatterstar said finally. "But the people like it. It also assures a death strike, because it does so much more damage."

Peter winced. "I live at a school," he said finally, "for mutants like us. We learn how to defend ourselves without killing."

No response.

Peter sighed and leaned against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. "It is a small school," he said, more to talk than for anything else. He didn't expect anymore responses from Shatterstar. "There are only--oh, less than fifteen." He frowned. There weren't that many, really. He counted on his fingers. "Angel, with his wings. Beautiful--they practically glow in the sunlight. Though he's molting right now."

"Molting?"

Peter stopped. Shatterstar was listening? He breathed softly and answered, "His feathers are falling out, to be replaced by new ones. It happens twice a year."

No response.

"It means there are feathers everywhere right now. Kitty--she is the youngest--was upset because she found a feather in the refrigerator a week ago."

From the other side of the wall, there was a catch of laughter.

"And then there is Ororo. She controls the weather. It's nice. You can just look outside to see what her mood is like."

No response.

"I was outside last week, and apparently she and Bobby had some sort of fight. It had been sunny, and then all of a sudden I was drenched. She'd called up a storm, just like that, and hadn't even realized she'd done it."

Another breath of laughter. Peter suspected that Shatterstar was trying not to be heard.

"And then there's Bobby, of course. Bobby is another of our young ones, though he's been with us from the beginning. He's seventeen. And headstrong. And impetuous. And likes to pull pranks on people, though he's stopped freezing the hot water tanks."

Peter searched his mind for any other entertaining stories. All he could think of now was how much he missed them. He pulled a knee up, wrapping both arms around it and resting his chin on top. In the arena, men were spreading sand.

"Is that all of them?"

The voice was close. Peter looked toward Shatterstar's cell. A few red hairs drifted.

"There are others," Peter said slowly. He started counting again. "There's the professor. Me. Angel. Kurt. Jean and Scott--they're dating. Ororo. Kitty. Bobby. Rogue and Logan both just left . . ." he didn't count them, "and . . . I think that's everyone." He was silent for a while, then said, "We don't kill each other. We fight together, to keep each other safe." He thought of Hank, but didn't say anything. "We guard each other's backs, and we talk and--" what else did they do? "We're like family."

There was silence for a long time. "I don't understand."

Peter stared at the red hairs. How did you describe family? "It--"

"It doesn't matter." There was the sound of movement, and the hair vanished, whipped away. Footsteps walked across Shatterstar's cell. "I have things to do."

**

They put Shatterstar in just one fight the next day. Peter understood, suddenly, why the young man had been so upset about losing his swords. They gave him an advantage; a reach he didn't otherwise have. Many of the seasoned warriors here, Marrow said, were older, filled out, and much more muscular than Shatterstar was.

Shatterstar was being beaten.

Peter cringed as the other fighter pounded the small frame. "Is it just me," he asked Marrow, "or is Shatterstar moving slower than usual?"

"He's moving slower," the voice answered. "I think breaking his neck yesterday's still wearing on him."

Shatterstar lost. They carried him back to his cell, his face covered in blood and shards of bone.

"Let me help him," Peter asked the guards. They ignored him.

"We have to leave here," he said to Marrow, softly. "We're all going to die."

"No shit. That's why we come here. For a short, beautiful life."

He stared at the wall in horror. "This isn't beautiful!" he shouted. "This is bloody and--it's practically slavery!"

Marrow didn't answer.

Peter sat in his cell and wondered what would happen. Assuming the place was psychically shielded, and he thought they'd be stupid if they hadn't done that, the X-Men wouldn't be able to find him. Locked in this cell, he couldn't use his abilities. If he was taken out again to fight, he might be able to break through one of the doors. . . . He'd seen the efficiency the armed guards had moved with, but his metal form would probably protect him.

He still had no idea where "out" was, though.

He leaned against the wall between his cell and Shatterstar's, and listened to the labored breathing of the one man who might know where ‘out’ was. Shatterstar gurgled with every in- and exhalation.

Peter cringed. Somehow, even knowing this man killed people on a regular basis, he felt bad. It didn't seem real. The boy was too young. And, if Peter was honest with himself, knowing those other people would have killed Shatterstar somehow made it easier.

There was a faint cough. Wet. Peter winced. He could imagine how much pain that would cause. He wracked his mind for anything to help.

"I have a sister," he said, quietly, "named Illyana. She is much younger than me. She is the youngest of us. A few years ago, before I left the farm, I had a bad fall. There were rocks embedded in my skin, and we knew they would have to be cleaned out. I was in a great deal of pain, and she sat beside me the whole time." He smiled, remembering. "Arguing. Baiting me. Making me so furious I wanted to throttle her neck. Then, when it was over, she smiled and said, 'Doesn't hurt so much when you're angry.' And she left."

He heard the wet breathing speed up, shake in painful laughter.

"I miss my family," Peter murmured. "Both my real family and my adopted one. The X-Men. We could protect you, Shatterstar. You don't have to fight like this. You could be part of the school--the professor would take you in--and you could be part of my adopted family.

"Help me get out."

There was no answer from the cell beside him.

Peter sighed and rested his head. "I will do it without you, if I have to," he said. "But it would be easier with help."

"I can't leave." Shatterstar's voice was barely a croak, and Peter cringed, remembering the way the man’s jaw had hung when they’d dragged him in. "I owe Mojo too much."

Peter closed his eyes. "I think your debt has been paid in blood, many times over. Wouldn't you like to have a friend you don't have to worry about killing?"

There was only silence.

**

Shatterstar didn't fight the next day. Marrow did, and was vastly annoyed when Peter admitted he'd slept through it. For that matter, he was a bit annoyed with himself. His chance to tell whether Marrow was male or female, and he'd slept through it. He was getting good at ignoring the fighting, though. It both disturbed and relieved him.

Shatterstar fought the day after that, still sword-less. This time, he won. The crowds cheered. He, however, only stumbled back to his cell, no fist raised in triumph. Before he vanished entirely, he gave Peter one long, hard look. Then he was gone, and wouldn't answer any of Peter's calls.

"What just happened?" Peter asked Marrow finally.

"That was one of the oldtimers 'Star just killed. They probably knew each other."

Peter cringed. "Come with me, Shatterstar," he murmured again. "Never kill another friend."

There was no answer. Late that night, though, he woke to go to the bathroom, and heard--crying? Muffled.

“Shatterstar?” Peter called softly.

No answer.

“We can stop this. I swear to you, the X-Men can protect you from Mojo. You don’t have to do this. I can break out of here, if you will only tell me where to go.”

Silence.

“You can have friends you don’t have to kill.”

**

The next day, Colossus' door opened. Shatterstar stared at him from across the arena. He had his swords back.

"Don't do this," Peter said, stepping out onto the sands. "We can go now. I have the strength to get through those doors. I can be a shield to keep tranquilizers and bullets away, if you can just tell us how to get out. My friends will find us once we're out. They'll come."

Shatterstar swung his swords and lunged. He jumped as Peter turned metal, the swords coming down around steel head and shoulders. They skidded off harmlessly. There was panic in those silver eyes, Peter realized.

"We can protect you. You could come with me," Peter repeated.

Shatterstar spun away, dropping to a crouch and leaping again. He twisted midair, over Peter, swords raking across his metal face. "It's not possible," he snarled, landing and digging his swords into Peter's back. Metal shrieked and the swords twisted away. Peter just stood there.

"It is possible," he shouted, trying to be heard over the crowd. "Trust me! Anything must be better than killing your friends off, one by one, afraid to make more because you might have to kill them too! How many years have you been here? How many years of your life do you owe Mojo?"

The crowd roared. In the arena, there was silence. Peter turned, tracking the swordsman.

Pain and fear chased themselves across Shatterstar's face. Then they cleared. "The floor," he said.

"What?"

"They're waiting for you to try the doors. Punch a hole through the floor."

Peter raised both fists. Shatterstar sprinted toward him. The crowd roared, the sound reaching a crescendo. Peter smashed his hands into the sand, through the metal floor below. It screeched and tore and Peter dove in, covered by sand for an instant, feeling Shatterstar land on top of him.

The crowd above them was ecstatic. Peter doubted they'd realized what had just happened.

The two men moved, disentangling themselves, coughing up sand. The spill was already slowing.

"Where now?" Peter asked, wiping grit from his eyes so he could see.

Shatterstar pointed with a sword.

There was an entire network of tunnels under the arena, Colossus realized. They twisted and turned, backtracking. Occasionally Shatterstar would point, and Peter would smash through a wall into yet another tunnel.

"How do you know all this?" he asked once.

"I spent two months down here when I was fourteen," Shatterstar answered, his jaw set. Peter wanted to ask why he'd been down here, but didn't.

They heard the armed guards long before they saw them. "Keep going," Shatterstar said. "Noises are deceiving down here. They're not close yet."

When they did get close, the only warning Peter got was Shatterstar spinning his blades. Then they rounded a corner, and were met by thirty armed men. Shatterstar screamed and dove into battle, slashing and hacking at people. Peter grabbed him and pulled him out of it, then smashed his way through the wall again and on they went, Colossus pushing Shatterstar in front of him.

"I can fight them!" Shatterstar screamed, raging against the grip on his shirt. Peter was just glad the tunnels were too narrow for Shatterstar to jump around or over him.

"They have tranquilizers. Eventually, even your healing factor wouldn't be able to withstand them, and I need you conscious to get us out of here!"

It didn't calm Shatterstar. "Running from battle is--"

"The smart thing to do right now!" Peter interrupted, grabbing the teen and hauling him on. He could feel the ping of darts and bullets as they hit his back, the armed men still following. But he could deflect them. Shatterstar couldn't. "Get us out of here! Then you can fight!"

That worked. Shatterstar started running through the tunnels, splashing through water, swords held as if they lent him speed.

Then Peter saw daylight up ahead. "Go!" he shouted, sprinting as fast as he could in his metal form.

"They will be waiting for us," Shatterstar yelled back.

"It doesn't matter!"

Shatterstar stopped at the grate, hacking at the bolts with his swords. Peter pushed him aside and tore the whole thing out of the ground. Then they were out.

Three darts hit Shatterstar and he stumbled, dragging himself back up to his feet. Peter picked him up and ran, flinging his thoughts as far as he could.

Jean! Professor! Help!

They were in a desert. Looking one way, he could see nothing. The other way, distantly, was a city. He started toward it.

Jean! Professor!

He kept running. The form in his hands was struggling again, so he let Shatterstar fall, half expecting the little warrior to turn and go back for the men still shooting at them. Instead, Shatterstar raced forward.

Peter could hear the chop of a helicopter. Then it was there, and the ground exploded around them as bullets hit. Peter grabbed Shatterstar, trying to shield him with his body.

"Can you throw me up there?" the teenager shouted. "Throw me up! Throw me! I can take out the men in the iron beast!"

Shatterstar was practically rabid; his silver eyes had dilated so far they were almost black, and his whole body was trembling. Peter hesitated. Then he picked Shatterstar up and threw him at the helicopter. At least he'd be out of range of most of the bullets.

Jean! He didn't know how far the psychic shield extended. Professor! He kept running.

Above, he saw Shatterstar catch hold of one of the landing struts. The little body swung dramatically, then twisted and ended up inside the machine. A moment later, it started to fall.

Shatterstar jumped when it was thirty feet from the ground, landed hard, rolled. He got up, fell, got up again, and then Peter was there, scooping him up in one arm and tucking him like a football. They had to go.

Somehow, the maniac hadn't lost his swords.

Jean! Prof--

Here, Peter. Where are you?

He couldn't tell, from that brief touch, which one it was. I don't know--the desert. America, still.

We have you. We're on our way.

There was another helicopter, and men in tanks and trucks approaching ahead. Peter turned; there was an army equally as large in that direction. Professor--the building we've been kept in is shielded. We're near a large city--

I have your location. We'll find you.

"I'll fight them!" Shatterstar screamed, writhing. Peter lost his grip and the man took off, swords flashing silver and red in the sunlight.

He chopped down an entire unit before another squad pumped him so full of tranquilizers that he looked more like some sort of spined animal than a human. He staggered, dropped, rose, dropped again. They shot him several more times. He stayed down.

The tanks surrounded Peter. He stood, hands up, chest heaving. Hurry.

Give us three hours.

Three hours seemed like an impossibly long time. Peter waited motionless while the men and machines inched warily up to him.

"Turn human," one of them shouted.

"Only if you swear you will not kill me or my young friend there."

"Shatterstar?" the man sounded surprised. "Kid, we'd be in more trouble than you are now if we killed Mojo's prize fighter. Turn human."

Peter turned human. He was shot full of drugs the instant he did.

**

He woke slowly to the sound of Shatterstar cursing. Peter opened one eye.

They were in a cell in the middle of a dark room.

"--And then I will take your mother and--"

"Shatterstar," Peter ground out. His mouth tasted like lead.

Shatterstar looked at him.

"How long have I been out?"

"--cut off her head and spit down her throat!" Shatterstar finished, screaming out at the blackness. Then he turned back to Peter. "A long time."

Peter sat up slowly and looked around. They were alone. "Who were you yelling at?"

"The cameras."

That made a strange sort of sense.

"Your plan did not work."

Peter smiled. "It did. You'll see."

Shatterstar seemed to perk up. "It did? Really?"

Peter only nodded and looked significantly at the cameras.

"How did it work? What happens now?" Shatterstar asked, either not understanding or ignoring the look.

Peter sighed. "Just wait. A few hours at the most." He leaned back against the iron bars. And waited.

**

A few hours later the door opened, and a silver-haired woman in a cloak walked into the room. "Mojo is here to see you," she said in a throaty voice.

Peter looked at Shatterstar. Shatterstar had gone white. "The Spineless One," he murmured.

Elevator doors opened, and an obese man in an electric wheelchair came out. "I am very disappointed in you, Shatterstar," Mojo said.

Shatterstar dropped to his knees, head down. He was trembling. Peter took a step closer to the boy, glaring at Mojo. "You have no right to keep us here," he said.

Mojo laughed. "I have no right to keep you here," he corrected, pointing a chubby finger at Peter. "But Shatterstar I can do whatever I want with. He is my son."

Peter's eyebrows rose. He looked from the slender, long, red-headed youth currently trembling on the floor, and then back up at the overweight, stubby, sallow-skinned man. "Oh yes," he said flatly. "I see the family resemblance now."

Mojo's smirk vanished. "Don't be obtuse," he snapped. "We're not related. I adopted him." He smiled smugly.

Somehow, Peter doubted that it had been entirely legal, even if it was also the truth. "What are you going to do with us now?" he asked, arms crossed over his chest. He knew he looked intimidating. He'd used it to his advantage many times before.

Mojo opened his mouth to answer.

The building rocked on its foundations. A moment later, white light rippled down everything metal. It all went dark.

Peter?

He smiled in the blackness, and his teeth glimmered as they suddenly turned metal. Jean.

Sorry we took so long. You're right; this place is shielded. Pretty well, too. Do you know where you are?

He knelt, a hand on Shatterstar's back. "Where are we?"

Shatterstar was blinking in the sudden dark. His eyes were silver disks, almost as metallic as Peter himself. "Uh. Downstairs. We're--down."

Not terribly precise, but Peter doubted Shatterstar had ever given directions before. Down, Jean. That's all I know.

Down it is, then! Did you know there's hundreds of people here? Some mutants, some not.

And not all of them will take kindly to being 'freed,' he thought back, remembering Marrow. Be careful.

Righteeo.

Peter realized Mojo was shouting. Had been shouting, in fact, the whole time.

"I would recommend letting us go now," Peter said, loudly. "My friends are here."

Mojo was practically jiggling, he was so angry. "You can go. Shatterstar stays."

Shatterstar bowed his head. He wasn't even holding his swords anymore.

"Shatterstar goes with me," Peter growled, picking the swords up, picking the boy up, and setting him on his feet. "He is not your slave, and this is not a negotiation."

Mojo just stared at him. Even in the dark, Peter could feel those beady little eyes on him. "I don't think--"

A red beam of light shot down the elevator shaft, and a moment later there was a yellow cloud of brimstone.

"Good to see you Peter!" Kurt shouted. Another teleport and the teenager was inside the cage.

"Take him, too," Peter said, stepping away before Kurt could teleport him out.

Kurt nodded, slapped a hand on Shatterstar and another on Peter, and then they vanished. And appeared.

Shatterstar promptly threw up. Then he asked for his swords.

They were back in the desert, mutants and humans everywhere. Armed men were lined up in front of Storm, lightning dancing around them. They had their hands on their heads, and were looking studiously at their feet.

"Is that everyone out of the building?" Jean asked as Scott came striding out.

"That's all of 'em."

"There was a man and a woman in the room with Peter--" Kurt started to say.

"They're gone," Jean said. She frowned. "I don't know where."

"Right. Storm?" Cyclops called.

Storm smiled. Lightning split the sky with an echoing roar, and smashed into the complex, leaving it a smoking wreck. She did the same to the weapons lying on the ground, dropped by the armed guards.

"All right, folks," Cyclops said, pitching his voice to carry over the murmurs. "You're free. A one-hour walk that way," he pointed to the city, "will put you in Las Vegas. From there, I assume you can find your ways home?"

Most people nodded. Others just looked at each other or the sky, shellshocked.

"Anyone need help with anything?"

No one stepped forward.

"Scott," Peter said, feeling Shatterstar start inching away. "This boy has no other home. I told him--"

Scott glanced at Shatterstar, who pulled himself up and looked defiantly back, a sword in each hand.

"Right," Scott said. "He can come with us, then."

Peter smiled and clapped Shatterstar on the shoulder. "I told you they would take you in."

Shatterstar was too busy looking at everything to respond.

"At the very least, we'll see if we can't contact his family," Scott said over Shatterstar's head.

Peter cringed. "I think Mojo was his family."

"Right." Scott looked back out over the people. "Last chance, folks. Anyone else need a hand?"

A few people shook their heads, staring. Some others had already started wandering toward the city.

"Good. Let's go."

They walked into the jet--Peter gave Shatterstar a shove to get him inside--and strapped in.

"How long were you there, uh--" Jean looked at Peter.

Shatterstar.

"--Shatterstar?" She didn't stumble over the name.

Shatterstar was busy looking out the window as the ground pulled away. "I don't remember not being there," he said simply.

Jean looked at Peter. He shrugged. She winced and looked forward once more.

**

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