Shatterstar stopped dead in the doorway. "You work for one of the Spineless Ones?" he yelped.

Only Peter blocking the exit kept him from bolting, and that only because Peter turned metal so Shatterstar couldn't cut through him.

"Spineless Ones?" the professor asked slowly.

"I don't think he meant it like that," Peter said, grabbing Shatterstar by the scruff of his shirt and picking him up off the ground. "'Star," he growled, giving the teen a shake just for good measure. "Stop!"

Shatterstar hung, glaring at Peter. "You lied."

"The professor isn't spineless," Peter said. "He's just in a wheelchair."

"He called the professor spineless?" Bobby squeaked from the stairwell. "Man, I knew I should've been down here sooner!"

"Shatterstar, I have a spine," Xavier said, apparently taking it in stride. "As did Mojo. It just doesn't work quite right."

Shatterstar peered suspiciously over his shoulder at the professor. "You are not in league with Mojo?"

"No."

Behind Xavier, Bobby was giggling. "Kitty!" he called, "You'll never believe what the new kid just called the professor!"

"Maybe we could all stop standing in the doorway," Angel said from outside, "and let some of us shower?"

"Sweaty, Angel?" Jean laughed.

"No, actually, I was thinking the red-headed ragamuffin. He smells. In fact, you're not smelling so great yourself, Peter."

Peter glared at Angel. "For someone who wants to get past me . . ."

"You can put me down now," Shatterstar muttered.

Peter put him down.

"Shatterstar, why don’t you let Peter show you to your new room?" the professor suggested, backing away. "Then perhaps we can talk, and see if we can't find your family."

Peter started up the stairs, glancing back to make sure Shatterstar was following. He was, but still looking suspiciously over his shoulder at the professor.

Colossus, Xavier called. See that he gets some new clothes?

Peter nodded. He couldn't tell if Shatterstar stunk or not--he'd gotten used to it--but if he did, his clothes were probably half the problem. After all, it wasn't like they'd had showers or a wardrobe in their cells. "You can bathe in here," Peter said, pushing open a door to a bathroom as he walked by, "and I think Kurt or Angel might have clothes you can wear . . ."

"AH!"

Peter was armored even before he'd turned. Shatterstar stood in the doorway of the bathroom, staring, both swords drawn. His mouth was open, his eyes wide.

Peter walked slowly up and peered in.

Shatterstar was looking at himself in the mirror. He turned his head this way and that, the swords finally starting to drift toward the floor.

"That's me."

Peter looked at him. Then at the reflection. He moved farther into the bathroom, smiling. "Yes."

Shatterstar walked toward the mirror, dropped both his swords, climbed onto the sink and sat, inches away from his image. "I'm so . . . small."

Peter heard a muffled laugh, and glanced at the door. Angel, Kurt and Kitty were all standing there, watching. He shot them a dirty look. "Not really," he said to Shatterstar. "How old are you?"

Shatterstar was peering at his chin. "I don't know."

"Well, I'd guess you're maybe sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Nineteen," Kitty suggested.

"Seventeen," Kurt said.

"Somewhere in there," Peter said, loud enough to be heard over the rest of them. "So you're about normal sized."

"With bigger muscles," Kitty pointed out.

Shatterstar looked at his biceps. Then he looked at Peter's biceps.

"Not as big as mine," Peter said. "But I'm older."

Kurt crept into the room, bending toward the swords. Shatterstar whipped around, glaring. "Do not touch."

"Sorry," Kurt said, retreating.

Shatterstar went back to the mirror.

"It's not like you're too small," Kitty said helpfully. "I mean, you're still really--um--" she blushed.

"Katzchen has a cruuuuush…" Kurt sang.

"On stubby over there? I do not!" Kitty snapped back, shoving him.

Shatterstar frowned. "'Stubby'? I am not stubby. I am as tall as--" he looked at Peter. Looked at Angel, who was about his size. Looked at Kurt who might just be taller. He sighed, suddenly deflated. "I am stubby."

"You're not stubby," Peter said, trying not to laugh. "You're a normal size for your age. Look, you are nearly the same height as Angel and Kurt." The latter of whom was still in a shoving match with Kitty. "I'm sure you're taller than Bobby."

"And if Logan was here," Angel piped up, "you'd be taller than him, too."

Shatterstar's eyes narrowed, and he watched the fighting images in the mirror. "Then why did she call me 'stubby'?" He slid off the sink, picking up one of his swords.

Peter stuck out an arm, suddenly alarmed. "We don't fight each other."

Shatterstar looked pointedly at Kurt and Kitty, shoving each other in the hall.

"We don't hurt each other," Angel clarified.

Kitty phased just as Kurt tried to grab her and teleport. He vanished. She stuck her tongue out. "Besides," she said, "I meant your hand." Then she seemed to realize what she'd just said. Her face turned red.

Shatterstar looked down at his hand, and the stub where his pinky had been. "Oh," he said, and dropped the sword so he could climb back up on the sink. Then he stopped. "Wait," he said, "you don't like me because I am missing a finger?"

Kitty was still blushing. More so when Angel glared at her. Peter glared at her, too. Kurt reappeared and shoved her. She staggered. "No!" she said. "I just . . . I meant . . . Someone help me out here!"

"What's going on?" Scott asked, appearing. "I thought we were getting the Mr. Stinkies washed and dressed."

Peter sniffed himself. Now he was starting to notice the smell.

"She called me stubby!" Shatterstar roared. Peter caught him just as he lunged off the sink. He armored up a moment after that, a bruise already forming.

"It just slipped out!" Kitty cried. "I didn't mean to! It's Kurt's fault!"

"What?" Kurt yelped.

"He was teasing me!"

"All right, break it up," Scott said, giving Kitty a gentle push down the hall. "Kurt, Angel, would you get Shatterstar some clothes?" Scott peered around the corner at Peter. Peter looked up. "You got this covered?"

He nodded.

"I will engage her in a battle, and then--" Shatterstar started.

"No battles," Scott said. He looked at Peter again. "You can play babysitter until Shatterstar and the professor talk?"

"Yes," Peter sighed, setting Shatterstar on his feet and hanging onto his shirt. "But I need to shower, too."

Scott thought about it, staring hard at Shatterstar. Peter shifted his grip, grabbing hold of the ponytail when he thought Shatterstar might just slip out of his shirt.

"Hey!" Shatterstar yelped, lunging forward and then yanked back by his own hair. "If you weren't metal--"

"Why do you think I am metal?" Peter pointed out.

Scott smiled. "Right. Shower in the lockers downstairs. That way, you can keep an eye on him."

Peter cringed. He hated the locker showers. They were so . . . open. Still, it did make sense. As much as he appreciated Shatterstar's help escaping, and felt bad that the guy had been some sort of gladiator slave, he didn't trust him not to search Kitty out and run her through.

"And you--" Scott said to Shatterstar, "should learn not to base your sense of attractiveness on what a sometimes-air-headed fourteen-year-old says."

Shatterstar straightened. "I know I am attractive," he snapped. "My fans said I was very attractive. Even the men thought I was stunning. Right, Peter?"

Peter's eyebrows rose. "I didn't read your fanmail," he said dryly.

"Oh. Yes. Well. It's true." Shatterstar folded his arms over his lean chest and glared at Scott.

It didn't seem to affect Scott much.

"They sent me things. They loved me. They said I was the best."

"I'm very glad for that," Scott said blandly. "Now please go shower, because I'm saying that you smell."

"Come on," Peter grumbled, letting Shatterstar's ponytail slide through his fingers until the teenager could pick up his swords. "Let's go get clean."

He kept hold of Shatterstar's hair all the way down to the lockers, using it as a leash. It came in rather handy after a bit, when he realized Shatterstar's attention span was shorter than a gnat's, and he kept trying to wander into other rooms.

"I have never seen an arena this big. Or like this," Shatterstar breathed.

Peter tugged him into the lockers. "It's a house, not an arena, and that's just because you haven't been to very many places." He hesitated. "Have you?"

Shatterstar shook his head.

Peter had to show him how to work a shower. He didn't say anything when the young man stepped under the spray, fully clothed. It couldn't hurt the clothing, which, now that his nose was remembering how normal things smelled, was pretty rank.

Peter stripped down and bathed happily, realizing only then that there was fine dust in every crook of his body. It itched. He scrubbed until his skin was bright pink, and then realized Shatterstar was watching him closely, imitating everything he did. So he made sure to wash his hair really well, too.

It took Shatterstar longer to wash his hair, but that was expected.

"Clothes are out here!" Angel called.

"Thank you!" Peter shouted back. He stood under the spray and waited while Shatterstar worked lather through hair that, soaking wet, looked really heavy.

The teen didn't have much body hair other than that. There were marks and calluses, mostly from the sword harness--the swords, he noticed, had been set within easy reach but out of the water--and his skin was very pale. Peter wondered if he'd ever seen the sun, before they'd broken out.

"All done?" he asked finally, when Shatterstar had rinsed the last of the soap away.

"My eyes sting."

"You got shampoo in them," Peter said. "Just rinse it out. And next time, don't flip your hair around so much."

"People like it when I flip my hair around," Shatterstar muttered, face in the water.

"People aren't watching you in the shower."

"You were watching."

Peter looked away. "Yes. Well. Normally people aren't watching you in the shower." He toweled off, stepping into the locker area and finding a neat pile of clothes on the end of one of the benches. He pulled on a T-shirt, underwear, and jeans that either Angel or Kurt had obviously brought from his room, then waited while Shatterstar dressed.

Shatterstar’s borrowed T-shirt was too small, stretching over a chest broader than Kurt's, and the jeans were too long, meant to fit Angel’s slightly taller frame.

Shatterstar looked horrified.

"What's wrong?" Peter asked. They weren't perfect, but still . . .

"I can't move in these!" Shatterstar said, twisting suddenly in what was obviously a series of fighting patterns.

"You don't need to fight. We won't be fighting anyone right now. We'll get you something that fits better--what are you doing?" Peter yelped.

Shatterstar was stripping out of the pants. He dumped them on the floor, wearing a pair of briefs and the shirt, and did his fighting pattern again. "That's better."

"You can't go out there naked!"

"I'm not naked. I am wearing these funny little--" words seemed to fail him as he plucked at the briefs, "--and this." He yanked at the T-shirt. "That is plenty. I am completely covered. Believe me, I have fought naked and this is not it."

"You can't go--you fought naked?--Nevermind! You can't go out there in underwear and a shirt!" Peter picked the jeans up and thrust them at Shatterstar.

Shatterstar folded his arms over his chest and glared. "No. It is not safe. This shirt is bad enough. In fact--" and he began to strip the shirt off as well.

"Stop that!" Peter yelled, grabbing the man's arms and pulling them away. "Leave your clothes on!"

"These are not my clothes," Shatterstar pointed out. "My clothes fit. I should just put them back on . . ." He tugged free and started looking for them.

"Kurt and Angel took them to be cleaned. Listen, just for right now--"

Shatterstar was pulling off his shirt again.

"Would you please stop that!"

"I do not see why this bothers you so much," Shatterstar said, his voice muffled by fabric. Then the shirt was off, dropped on the bench. It slid to the floor. "It seems to me that you might be trying to make me wear clothes that will hamper me, so that I cannot fight as well."

He looked at Peter suspiciously.

Peter sighed and sat down on the bench. "I'm not trying to hamper you," he said finally. "But in this house, people wear clothes."

"I'm wearing clothes."

Peter didn't look at the teenager, knowing full well he was still only wearing briefs.

"Where did my sword harness go? My swords are here, but I left my harness with my clothes . . ."

"It probably also went to get cleaned," Peter ground out. "It stank."

"Oh." Shatterstar picked his swords up. "I'll just have to carry them."

Peter refrained from pointing out that he'd been doing that, anyway. "Would you please, at least, put pants on?"

"No."

He could hear his teeth grinding. "All right," he said, carefully patient. "We'll just walk you through the mansion naked."

"I am not naked, but if it would make things better--"

"No! No. Just . . . wear the briefs." Peter took a deep breath. Then he stood, looked at Shatterstar long enough to grab a hank of wet hair, and marched out of the locker.

He managed to make it most of the way through the mansion by glowering. A lot.

"You see?" Shatterstar said once. "I am very attractive. People look at me."

"That's because you're naked," Peter muttered.

Shatterstar sighed, the epitome of patience. "No. I am not naked. I think you have some problems with clothing definitions. You also do not need to hold onto my hair like it's . . ." he trailed off.

Peter tugged on the hair. With a yelp, Shatterstar moved away from the den, where Ororo and Bobby were playing X-Box, and continued walking. "Apparently," Peter said, "I do need to hold onto it."

"Hold onto what?" Shatterstar asked.

"Your hair."

"Oh. I don't think so. I am not trying to run away or--it's her! She called me stubby!" The swords whirled and Shatterstar jumped.

Peter turned to metal and tightened his grip. The hair yanked Shatterstar back with a yelp, and the next thing Peter knew there was a sword at his throat. He looked at Shatterstar, unimpressed.

"You do not need to keep holding onto my hair!" Shatterstar shouted.

"Obviously, I do," Peter answered. "You may not kill her for calling you stubby."

Peter? Is there a problem?

He thought about saying, "Yes! Come get this nutcase!" But didn't. No, sir. We'll be right there. Then he focused again on Shatterstar, who was watching Kitty with narrowed eyes, and tugged him down the hall.

"The professor," Peter said, opening the door to the office. He shoved Shatterstar inside and closed it. The professor could take care of himself.

"What happened to the clothes we got for him?" Kurt said, at the head of the pack that had gathered.

"He said they were too tight," Peter ground out. He was beginning to regret taking this particular mutant in.

**

"He had to fight his own friends? Poor guy," Kitty sighed, tearing her sandwich into little bits.

"He's still really weird," Bobby said.

"Oh, give him a break." Kitty glared at the other teen. "I mean, he grew up a slave! He's like . . . like . . . um . . ."

Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Oh, please. You feel bad for him, too."

"I do not. He's a freak! You shouldn't like him, either. He wants to kill you!"

Peter rubbed his forehead, catching Scott's eye over the top of the two younger ones' heads. Scott smiled wryly and gave a small shrug.

"And he has the most gorgeous hair," Kitty was rhapsodizing.

"Mutant hair," Peter muttered.

"Huh?"

"Mutant hair." He rubbed his fingers together, remembering the feel of it. Like mink. And it was always moving, even when there was no breeze. It was almost creepy.

"It is really red," Kitty said slowly. "I mean, you only get that color red out of a bottle. It's like, practically orange."

"He could have gotten it out of a bottle," Alison said, wandering into the kitchen and poking through cupboards. "He did say his 'fans' sent him stuff, right? Isn't that what you said, Kitty?"

Kitty shrugged and took a bite of sandwich. "I guess," she said around her mouthful.

The door of the office opened. Everyone was silent, pretending not to listen. They could hear slow footsteps go up the stairs.

Alison headed to the kitchen door and watched. "Man's got a nice ass."

"Dazzler," Scott said reprovingly.

She didn't come away from the door. "What? You know it's true. You've probably looked."

"I have not--"

They heard the familiar whine of the professor's wheelchair, and Alison stepped away so he could enter.

"Want a sandwich?" Kitty asked him, lifting hers.

He smiled at her, but Peter thought he looked utterly exhausted. Peter understood. Shatterstar could do that to a person.

"No, thank you, Kitty. I've searched Shatterstar's mind. He doesn't have any recollection of who he was or where he came from. I went back as early as two years old, to some of the badly formed memories there, and even then he was at Mojoworld."

"What kind of a name is Mojoworld?" Peter asked.

"The man who owned it--Mojo, he calls himself--named it. It's essentially a casino." The professor rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I also inserted as many social norms into Shatterstar's consciousness as I could. He knows major laws and a good deal of what is considered acceptable behavior. I most likely missed a large number of the smaller things, and since he's never had anyone to learn from--"

"He had a television," Peter said.

"Only for the last few weeks. Not long enough to learn much, I'm afraid. Just give our young man some time." Then Xavier smiled at Kitty. "And he won't be trying to hurt you anymore. He'll probably spend the rest of the night in his room. I gave him a lot to think about, and I'm sure he has a headache."

Peter didn't think Shatterstar was the only one. The professor was still pressing the bridge of his nose.

"Peter, if you would keep an eye on him . . . ?"

"Me?" Peter yelped. "Why me?"

"He knows you. And, frankly, he knows he's not supposed to harm anyone, but his instinct will still be to fight. At least he can't cut or overpower you."

"He wouldn’t be able to cut or overpower Kitty, either," Peter started.

"But she wouldn't be able to stop him from doing something he shouldn't."

"Bobby--"

"Hey!"

"Can still be sliced, even in his iceform. Peter. Please."

Peter grumbled, but subsided.

"Besides," the professor said, "Shatterstar thinks of you as a friend. A rather strange and pacifist friend, but a friend."

Great.

"As for the rest of you, our new school assignment--" there were groans all around "--is learning how to track down information. We need to find out where this young man came from."

**

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