Growing Up A Superhero (16) A man, short though with the air of someone used to being obeyed, shouldered his way through the mass of humanity that had gathered for the parade. He shifted the battered felt cowboy hat on his bush of steel gray hair, brushing as much of it out of his face as he could with large, blunt hands. Vendors called from their stands, selling hot-dogs, glass trinkets and momentos. A child somewhere fell, bursting into tears almost instantly. Men grouped together talked about the ball game of the night before, while a group of sparrows fought over their crumbs. The man's senses picked it all up, for although one couldn't tell just by looking at him, he was a mutant. One of those rarest of rare creatures who could do things no "ordinary" human could. And so it was that he heard the barely murmured words, "Here he comes. Got him in your sights, 'Stole?" The man's head snapped up, his nostrils flaring as he looked around for what the voice might be referring to. Down the street the parade came closer, the mayor in a car right in front, waving. And, seen only by this one man's too-keen eyes, a red dot glowed brightly on the mayor's sweaty forehead. Wolverine followed the light through the air until he could see the sniper sitting mostly hidden behind an outjut of a nearby building. A scan of the crowd told him, for he was seasoned at stopping situations like this, that he could neither reach the sniper nor the mayor in time. Not even if this mob of people parted before him like the red sea. His gray eyes flashed back and forth, his ears searching for any sound, his nose checking on any unusual smell. Because of the mass of people he couldn't tell what the sniper's own scent was, couldn't home in on it. Something left loose and swinging caught his eye, and Logan traced the line up to where it was attached to a building. A shoe. It was a shoe with a swinging lace, caught on a fire escape. With one swift move Wolverine was over there, his hand on the shoelace as he pulled the boot free and swung it in a large circle above his head before releasing it. It flew through the air, past the short expanse of space before landing solidly on the side of the sniper's face. The man went down, surely not unconscious but at least diverted for the moment. Logan shoved through the crowd, reaching the fire escape and vaulting upward quickly. As his head cleared the top he saw the sniper running, gun in hand as he bolted across the gravel roof and leapt to the next one nearest. Wolverine gave chase, his short legs moving like light as he sprinted after the boy--for the slightness and shortness of the figure left no doubt that he was much younger than Logan. Of course, most people were younger than Logan. "Trace, come in," the sniper panted, unaware that even at this great distance the man chasing him could hear every uttered word. "What?" came the rather irritated voice over the two-way comlink. "Mission blown. Get to the rendezvous point," 'Stole said, grunting as he leapt over a chimney and kept running. His slightly pointed ears pricked as he heard the footsteps of the man behind him near, the panting suggesting that he was older but in good shape. 'Stole raced faster, unwilling to get caught. Who knew what they would do to Trace? Wolverine's eyes widened as he recognized the colors the boy wore on his sleek bodysuit--the pattern unmistakable to someone who knew. That was Black Air. Logan redoubled his speed, hearing a motorcycle's engine roar below as it raced near. The figure before him reached the end of the row of buildings, but not once did he hesitate. The man flew from the edge, spinning through the air and disappearing. Logan stopped at the border of the roof, looking down to see what had happened to the boy. He was running below, limping heavily but running, and even as Wolverine prepared to jump after him the motorcycle flew around the corner and came screeching to a halt before the boy. There was barely a hesitation as the boy leapt on and the bike went racing off, neither figure helmeted. But it wasn't the fact that they were going so much faster than he, and that his Harley was three blocks away that stopped Wolverine. It was the flash of skin and leftover scent he'd caught from the other figure. Dressed in Black Air colors, he'd seen a bit of almost ash white skin and black hair, complete with a large black circle on the side of the person's face. And the breeze carried just a hint of the personal scent of someone he knew. "Domino?" he said in utter disbelief. But the figure had looked male, and now, as Logan stood where the boy's very hands had touched the wall to leap over, he realized that the boy's scent was also familiar. It was his own.
***
"Dom," Logan said gruffly, tapping impatiently at the desk. "Pick up your damn phone." As if in answer to his rather rude command, the phone was picked up. "If this is another sales add--" a female voice growled. "Domino, we need to talk." She recognized the voice instantly, the tone a moment later. "Something's wrong." It wasn't a question. "Meet me at Harry's. Tonight." He didn't bother to specify what time, knowing that she would meet him around ten. That was what he had always liked about Domino. She remembered important things--like set meeting times. At ten after ten her Jeep pulled up outside of Harry's and she walked in, leather jacket strapped tightly around her waist. There was a catcall from the end of the bar, but she ignored it as she strode to where Logan sat, hunched over a beer and reading long since faded messages in the polished wood of the table. "Hey, old man," Domino said, sliding into the seat across from him. "You been working for Black Air recently?" Wolverine asked without preamble. Domino shook her head. "Why would I? They screwed me over last time. You remember. You were there." Logan grinned briefly in memory. It had been twenty-one years. She'd been still a punk kid. He had been thoroughly impressed by her guts at walking out on them, so had saved her life when they ordered the hit, because few people left Black Air alive. Of course, he'd never told her that. "Yeah. I remember." He stretched and sat back in the booth, leaning comfortably against the old leather padding. "Saw someone today sporting Black Air colors. Smelled a helluva lot like you. White skin. Black spot. Black hair." Domino's brow creased, and she shook her head. "Wasn't me." "Didn't say it was. It was also a man, and too young, I think." Harry came over just then, wiping his hands on his apron. He'd stopped sending other people to the tables the kids from the school sat at long ago--they tended to get scared off. "Getcha anything, Dom? Anything else, Logan?" Logan shook his head no, then waited patiently while Domino ordered a drink. "It wasn't a clone or a shapeshifter, if it was a man," Domino said finally, looking back at Wolverine as Harry walked away. "No. You have any relatives that look like you?" Domino once again shook her head. "None that I know of, at least." She didn't mention that even if she did have some that looked like her, she probably would never have heard of them. They were quiet as Harry brought Domino her drink and left. For a long time the only sounds from their booth was that of the creak of the leather as they shifted, and the clink of glasses on wood. "What do you suspect, old man?" Domino asked finally. Wolverine shook his head. "I think I'll talk to Wisdom before I leap to conclusions." Domino's eyebrow cocked. "Before you leap to conclusions, will you give me a hint as to what they might be?" Wolverine eyed his glass for a long time. "It's been a while since either of us were at Black Air, Dom." Domino remained quiet, knowing that sooner or later--and she hoped sooner--he would say what he was thinking. "Plenty long enough to raise kids o' ours." Domino watched him. "You've got to be kidding." The look he gave her told her plainly that he wasn't. "Logan, I know I never donated ovules. Did you give sperm?" Logan chuckled, and shook his head. "Darlin', did you even pay attention to the needle prick when they gave you that physical after your first few missions? I did. They drew blood, and kept it. I also saw that they only gave their best agents physicals. Take a little of this DNA, a little of that DNA, mix it all up and you've got a combo of your best people, raised however you want to make them the perfect machines." If it was at all possible, Domino's already white face had gone whiter. "Oh shit." Wolverine nodded. "My sentiments exactly."
***
"What was that about, Pete?" Kitty asked, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around her lover. His hands rose to slide along her forearms, his head turning and kissing her. "Nothin'." Kitty's eyebrows rose. "It's two am. That was Logan. Two am and Logan don't make "nothin'"." Pete grinned. "Ah, it's nothin' big." His black eyebrows wiggled and he leered at his love. "Let's forget it and go back to bed." Kitty laughed, shaking her head as she came around and sat down in his lap. "Let's not." Turning, she started typing on the computer, bringing up the phone file to find out what had just been said. "Hey, now," Pete said, reaching forward and pulling her hands away. "That's not fair!" "A girl has to snoop some way," Kitty argued innocently. Pete laughed. "If you must know, he was askin' about Black Air. Wanted t' know the proceedings for excellent agents." Kitty frowned. "It's been almost ten years since you've been there," she said slowly. "Why would he ask you?" Pete grinned, nicking her under her chin. "'Cuz I was there more recently than he was. An' I've got friends there still." Kitty nodded after a moment, uncertainly. "Is everything all right?" Pete sighed heavily, putting one arm under her shoulders and the other under her legs. "It would be if I were back in my room with my luv," he groused, picking Kitty up and carrying her away. "Pete! Stop that!" Kitty laughed. Pete grinned. "Yer right. I aughta be doin' somethin' else to you. . . ."
***
He really hated computers. He forgot, often times, how much he hated them. At least, he forgot until his wife was gone and then had no choice but to use them himself. It was much easier when she was around and he could just tell her what to do, and she'd do it for him. But this time, he didn't want her involved. Nothing against her, mind you, but he didn't want to worry her unnecessarily. Pete browsed through file after file, thankful that he still had friends in Black Air who were willing to risk their jobs to send him classified information. More thankful that he had friends that had just been fired from Black Air, but their clearances not yet removed. . . . Logan had called only that morning, or night, depending on how you looked at it, asking Pete about possible clones, or genes taken from certain agents. Pete remembered that, but not until Logan mentioned it. It was common for Black Air to take blood from their best agents and use the DNA, mixing it with other agent's DNA in case their operatives ever decided to leave. Or were killed. That way they had children who, possibly, had the same abilities or thought patterns--or whatever it was that made the agent so special--and those children could be raised to believe whatever Black Air wanted. He'd forgotten that when he'd left Black Air. Hadn't been subjected to it much, and hadn't thought anything about it. After all, they only did it with their very best, and only without that person's knowledge, and most of the time something went wrong and the children died. Pete had seen one of the children once. Where he lived, and how they kept him. It had made him sick. He knew that they had figured out that the accommodations had something to do with the mortality rate and had changed things--but Pete hadn't ever really paid attention. It didn't concern him. He was only an agent. A dry smile twisted lips that held a cigarette. But it was the agents who were affected. It was they who had little dopplegangers running around. "Bingo," he said quietly as a computer screen full of information came up. That was it. A list of the current living children of the Black Air operatives. The list of the dead ones was ten times as long, the list of attempted children that hadn't even made it out of the pseudo-womb six times as long as that. But it was the living ones Pete was concerned with. Those were the ones that someday would be assassins, murders, mercenaries. Those were the ones that would provide a fight if left with Black Air. Pete shook his head slowly, then picked up the phone to call Wolverine.
***
It took no time at all for Pete, Domino and Wolverine to meet through three-way calling and decide that they had to get any children out, and shut down that particular operation. They would have done it before, but it hadn't been brought to their attention and so they'd not even thought about it. Now it was done more out of preservation than anything else--they didn't need Black Air producing hundreds of little murders. In three days they met in England, gathering in Pete and Kitty's flat. Kitty and Cable had been told what was going on, and they gathered with their respective lovers, Pete and Domino. "Here's the rundown I've managed to get on the kids," Pete said, one arm around Kitty where she sat next to him, the other holding two pages of white typing paper. "The oldest is Pistol. Pistol's a twenty-three year old man who is a composition of Logan, and three other people I don't recognize. This says he's "volatile, unresponsive to commands and is friends of fellow clone-ite, Trace."" Pete stopped, looking up. "Is 'clone-ite' a word?" "Keep reading," Kitty said, poking him. Pete smiled. "Trace is a twenty-one year old male, comin' from you, Dom, and one other person I don't recognize. Says he's sickly, and they don't expect him to live long. This long was a surprise." Pete's expression shifted then, becoming carefully neutral. "Next oldest is eighteen, and male. Name's Vault. Comes from a particularly brutal agent I knew, Shrine. This says he's starting to become rebellious and cause trouble. Says--an' I quote--'extra measures may need to be taken to make him obey'." His face and voice stayed neutral, though Kitty felt his arm tense behind her as he read the next entry. "Last one alive still is Constance. It's a girl, and she's mostly mine. At the moment she's thirteen, and this says she's showing 'potential.'" Pete rubbed his eyes, setting the paper down. "There's another small problem. While doin' this diggin' I found a reference to wot 'appened about nine years ago." "What happened?" Domino asked quietly. "Pete was kidnapped by Black Air," Kitty said softly, remembering this herself. "In a rescue attempt, Amanda, Kurt and I were all caught too." Wolverine took his cigar out of his mouth, watching the smoke rise from the tip. "They used you three to make kids?" he growled. "Not quite," Kitty answered, glancing over at Pete. "They made clones," Pete muttered. "All three are nine years old." "Shit," Logan growled, standing up and pacing the room. "So we get them all out," Cable said, speaking for the first time. Kitty nodded. "That's the idea. There are no other children of any sort--they've all died for various reasons. If we can get in, get the kids and destroy the machines it'll set BA back a few years. We'll have to watch them after that, but at least it'll put a stop to things at the moment. We're also meeting Kurt and Amanda--they insist on helping, since it's their clones, too." Wolverine nodded. "That's fair. Hope we're all ready." ***
Generation: Black Air (b/f) ***
"Every two days," Pete said as Cable, Logan, Domino, Kurt, Amanda, Kitty and himself sat around the dinner table, "they put the kids together in one room. That would be our best chance of breaking them out. We won't have to run around finding the li'l buggers." Kitty shot Pete a dirty look, which he blithely ignored. Wolverine nodded slowly, tipping his chair back on two legs. "Yup. Watch for these two--" he pointed with a blunt forefinger to the two oldest children, "--they're good. They almost managed to assassinate the mayor the other day." The group as a whole nodded. "Right then. Shall we?"
***
Trace was shaking as they sat in the small room. A couch was on one wall, a bunk-bed on another. There was a television sitting across from the couch and the door, and across from the bunk beds was a mini-bar. Fluorescent yellow light shone down on the small room with its impersonal feeling. There was a door near the television that opened into another room which had a double bed and adjoining bathroom. It was easily more impersonal than the first room. "Trace?" 'Stole whispered, kneeling next to his best friend. His only friend. The only person he was allowed enough contact with to call a friend. Although, 'Stole knew of no such word. It wasn't in his vocabulary. He could swear in five different languages and make a sailor blush, but the words he had heard his guards say never included "friend." "Trace? Are you all right?" Trace looked up at 'Stole, into those golden eyes with their slit pupils that he had never learned he should fear. "I'm gonna be sick." His breathing was too fast, he was shaking too hard. 'Stole moved away, walking across the short expanse of the room, behind the mini-bar. He squatted to look down at the small refrigerator, opening it and peering inside. A needle lay on the top shelf, and he grabbed it and carried it back to where Trace sat on the floor, his almost white eyes glazed, his alabaster skin carrying a sheen of sweat. The black circle that covered his temple and bisected his eye was in sickening contrast to his ashen white skin with its gray overcast. Greasy, straggly black hair fell in the boy's eyes, trembling with the force of his shaking. Without wasting time Pistol grabbed the boy's arm, wrenching it closer and plunging the needle into the quivering white skin. After only moments Trace's shaking softened, then stopped all together. "Better now?" 'Stole asked quietly. Trace nodded. He watched 'Stole stride back across the carpet, into their "kitchen." Trace was uncertain what a kitchen was, or what it did, but 'Stole said that he had read about it in a book once, and that it had food in it. By default, since there was no other place in their rooms where food was kept, they called the mini-bar the kitchen. Of course, Trace was never sure then if they should call the bedroom the kitchen when 'Stole left food on the nightstand overnight. Trace leaned his head back against the wall as the drugs took affect, fogging up his brain. He knew 'Stole stood over him, watching to make sure he was all right, but it seemed too much trouble to summon the energy to say anything. It was a long, long time before he looked back up at 'Stole. The lights had dimmed, and 'Stole was sleeping on the couch. "'Stole? Pistol?" Trace said quietly. Pistol came awake almost instantly, eyes adjusting to the dark. "Yeah?" "The air smelled funny when we were out there." Pistol smiled. He could still taste the tang of sweat, human, tar, pollution all mixed into a cacophony of smell. "I know." "Too bad we couldn't stay out longer," Trace whispered weakly. "Yeah." But if they had ignored their orders, they would have paid in blood. Pistol knew with grim certainty that Trace may very well have been killed, to teach he and the others in training that no matter what the circumstances and what was going on, they didn't disobey the guards. They finished their mission and returned home. Pistol wasn't sure how the guards knew if they were to bolt, but he was sure that he didn't want to find out. "I've never seen that many people in one place." Pistol nodded. "Have you ever read about that?" There was silence for a moment, then Pistol shook his head. "I did once. It was called a "war" and there was a lot of fighting." Trace nodded. After a moment 'Stole leaned his head back down on the armrest of the couch, laying on his ever-so-slightly pointed ears. Trace was taller than 'Stole, and far thinner. 'Stole wasn't short, exactly, but by no means was he tall. His shoulders were broad and his waist narrow, and he moved with a confidence Trace had never felt. The quiet of the night was broken by a cry outside the locked door. "LET ME GO, YOU GODDAMN FUCKUP!" Pistol was up and glaring at the door in moments, Trace up and behind him as though the bigger boy was his personal shield. There was the sound of beeping--the alarm being turned off--then bolts and latches were thrown. The male voice kept screaming, yelling obscenities and impossible things the guards should do with interesting objects. The door opened and an older teen was thrown in, blood on his face and shirt. He tripped, landing on his hands and knees just inside the room, then the door was closed and the alarm re-set. Neither Trace nor 'Stole made any move to help the boy up, and after a moment he used the side of the couch to claw his way to a standing position. "Hey," he said, holding one side and ignoring the blood dripping off his nose. "You have to clean it up if you get blood on the carpet," 'Stole said bluntly. Vault nodded. "I know." He reached up with one orange hand, touching his nose and pulling his fingers back to see the blood there. With disgust he wiped it away, smearing it across his face. Slowly he walked past the two boys to the bathroom, grabbing toilet paper and cleaning the mess off his nose and mouth. "You okay?" 'Stole called. "Yeah," Vault answered. He stopped, eyeing his reflection in the mirror. His orange skin was stretched taut across high cheekbones, around a strong jaw and over small ears. Golden eyes looked back at him from the mirror, one of them set near a birthmark--a darker orange patch of skin in the shape of a star. Normally part of the star was hidden by his dyed black hair, but at the moment half his head was shaved, and the whole star could be seen. The other half of his head was covered in straight, chin length hair. "What'd you do?" 'Stole asked, walking in. He motioned with his eyebrows at the hair Vault had so recently lost. Vault went back to washing his face, grinning. "Used my razor to try and shave my head." "Why?" 'Stole asked, leaning against the doorframe. He seemed to fill the entire room. "Because my guard--John--said he hated men with shaved heads." Vault grinned. 'Stole snorted, shaking his head. "So he beat you for it before you could even finish? That was stupid." Vault shrugged. 'Stole watched the man-boy for a moment more, then turned and left. In Vault, he saw himself a few years ago. Seeing just a hint of what was outside these walls they never left, reading books that he was given until pages started to fall out, because some of them had a hint of what life outside might be like. Watching television, even though it was all things set long ago or far into the future and none of it had any bearing on today. Angry at the guards, at the walls, at life in general. Anxious to do anything to piss any of them off. Of course, Pistol had learned quickly that to piss them off meant to get in trouble, and that was something he didn't want. If what they did didn't bother you, it just got worse. Vault would learn, too. "Is he okay?" Trace asked, laying on the couch. "Yeah." Trace had never rebelled, as far as Pistol knew. Trace had always been ignored by the higher ups, expected to die. It was good, because they didn't pick on him to be so harsh. It was bad, because they didn't pay attention if the guards beat him up too much. Trace didn't really seem to care where he was, or what he was doing. Pistol knew he felt wretched most of the time, and that he was always short of breath. Trace had never bothered learning to read or write, and didn't care about what they saw on television. Not like Pistol and Vault did. There were mutterings outside the room, and a moment later the alarm was disarmed and a girl pushed in before the door closed again. "Must be time to socialize," she said dryly, moving to the kitchen and opening the refrigerator. Pistol smiled. Every two cycles of the lights--twice turning dim and getting brighter--meant that they all were able to gather in Trace and Pistol's rooms and talk together. Other than the occasional training session when they fought together, it was the only time they saw each other. The girl grabbed a soda and stood, opening the can with a hiss. Her jet black hair fell from a pony tail in waves down her back, and her blue eyes were bright against her pale skin. The baggy shirt she wore tucked into tight pants only accentuated the fact that she was starting to look like a woman--curves and all. "I tried to get one of the guards to teach me to read," she said to Pistol as Vault walked back into the room. "And?" "He would only do it if I slept with him. So I said no." She took a long drink of her soda, clenching her eyes and making a face when the bubbles burned her throat. "Oh. Keep looking. Sometimes they'll teach you for other things. The man that taught me wanted blackmail material for some guys in return, and that wasn't too hard to get since he'd let me out of my room." Constance nodded. "Okay. Long as I'm here, will you start teaching me?" Pistol glanced over, lifted one shoulder in a non-committal shrug. "Sure. Get a book." Constance went into the bedroom to get one. The door opened again and the three nine year olds were brought in: two girls and a boy. "What's wrong, Chant?" Vault asked as the door closed. Enchantment looked up, pushing short blond hair out of her green eyes. "It's--it's--" she stopped and looked back down at her feet. "Nothing." Vault frowned and glared at the closed door where the guards had been moments ago. "Did they hurt you?" "It's nothing. Please don't worry about it." Vault was going to press the matter, but a silent cue from 'Stole told him to be quiet. By default, since he was the oldest, best trained, and protected the group as much as he could, Pistol was the leader of their small "family." "If you want to tell me anything, just let me know," Vault said finally. Enchantment nodded and settled down on the bottom bunk bed to sleep. Or at least pretend to. The other two children were ignored, as neither of them seemed to be suffering in any way. Lynx, her brown hair also cropped short, was detached from the small group in a way only loners could be, and Azul, who was three toed, three fingered, had a tail and was covered from head to foot in short, dark fur, went into Pistol's room to find a book. He had learned to read at an early age, through determination and willingness to do whatever it took. "How do you get a room of your own?" Azul asked, book in hand as he came back out to the living room. "I mean a room that has a couch and stuff, instead of just iron walls and bars." "Do what they say, and get good at it," Pistol answered calmly. Azul nodded, then settled down at the end of the couch to read. Trace eyed him for a moment, then curled his feet up so that he wouldn't kick the young boy. They sat, talking sometimes, ignoring each other occasionally and once fist fighting, through the "night" period of the lights. Toward the time when Pistol's internal clock told him "dawn" would be breaking soon the alarm went off, and he glanced around to see if anyone had tried to open the door. No one had. Pistol snarled in irritation, the loud sound hurting his overly sensitive ears. Long seconds went by before the alarm shut off, only the flashing lights remaining as a warning. The door opened and two armed men stood there, doing a swift head count to be sure all the children were contained still. "Put these on," one of them said to Trace and Pistol, throwing them the bodysuits they had worn on their previous--and first--mission out the other day. Trace stood, donning the uniform while the guards waited impatiently. Another one arrived, entering the room and standing by the door. "All the rest of you," she said, motioning with her gun, "in the other room. Now." The five left hurried into the bedroom, where the female guard followed them in. The door locked from the outside, and she posted herself near it as a sentry. "No one goes in the bathroom," she said swiftly. "No one comes near me. Everyone stay on the bed, and we'll tell you when it's safe." Used to taking orders, the five only nodded silently and sat. Azul leaned back against the headboard and kept reading his book, while Vault reached under the mattress and pulled out a card deck. A moment later he was teaching Constance and Lynx how to play, while Enchantment slept.
***
"There are intruders," one of the guards said to Trace and Pistol as they pulled on boots and gloves. "They're murders, here to kill Azul, Lynx and Enchantment because they're clones. There are three that we've seen, and possibly more." "You just want us to kill them before they get here, right?" Pistol said, straightening and looking at the guard. He nodded. Pistol reached over and slapped Trace's arm, getting his attention. "Just like the game." Trace nodded in understanding. They played games for their training--often times they were let loose to run around the lower levels while playing these games, sent to hunt and catch a particular person or group. "Only this time we kill them." Trace nodded again. "Good. Now go," the guard said, opening the door to let the two boys out. He stayed inside, making sure that if anything went wrong in the bedroom and the woman was overrun, he would be here--by the only door--to block the children from getting out. The alarms were set, the door locked, and three more heavily armed men set to stand outside the door. Trace and Pistol slipped silently into the shadows.
***
Kitty cursed herself mentally for tripping the alarm. She had had no idea that phasing through a wall would cause the sensors to go off. This place didn't look that heavily guarded. She realized now that it was a ruse, so that people like she would set off the very alarms they didn't expect. Now she hid, stuck in a vent while below her three guards stood quietly. Her feet were braced on either side of the opening, for she had been unable to get the grate back in place, and her legs were starting to tremble. If only they would move. . . . Domino had been able to scurry off up the vent, and Kitty had stayed behind to be sure no one followed. Hopefully Dom would find Wolverine and Pete, and tell them of Kitty's predicament. Or, better, not tell them and just take them to where the kids were. Either one would be good. Kitty's back was cramping, her neck going into spasms when--finally--the three men moved away from the opening, walking down the hall. With a sigh of relief, she dropped to the floor and ran silently away, toward the cloning system that needed to be shut off.
***
Kurt clung to the ceiling, watching as the men gathered and dispersed, always one staying behind to watch the camera monitors. The video in the corner had yet to spot him, since it wasn't really trained on the ceiling. On one of the viewing screens Logan came into sight, walking silently. He stopped, looking up at something only he could see. Then another figured stepped into the light, hunched and standing low to the ground. Kurt's eyes widened as the two watched each other, silently, waiting for the other to make the first move. Then Logan jerked on the camera, and fell to the floor. Blood spread out on the tile below him as he lay unmoving, a hole in his neck. Another figure dropped to the ground, hidden until then by large ventilation shafts running along one side of the wall. The figure was slight, and had alabaster skin with a black circle bisecting one eye. He carried a gun, small and light, and after speaking a few words with the other man they both turned and left. Kurt waited, breath held, for Logan to move. Finally, as though he could hardly stand it, Logan's arm twitched. Shortly thereafter Wolverine sat up, rubbing his neck. They're out for blood, Nightcrawler thought to himself, relieved that Logan had been the first one to meet these "children." At least he had a healing factor. Silently Logan turned and followed the two figures down the hall.
***
The cloning area had been reached, that much Cable knew. Between Pete's memories, Kurt in the camera room and the rough layout they'd managed to get from one of Pete's friends, things were going smoothly. Cable's link with the entire make-shift team told him that Kitty was fine, sitting in a vent in the cloning control room and waiting to make her move. At the moment, there were too many people to do anything. Kurt had located the group of children from the camera room, once that man had been taken out and the door locked. No one was bothering him too badly, since Pete was creating as much havoc as he could in the opposite side of the compound. His hotknives were coming in handy, since they were able to be shot far and often. Logan was trailing the two children who were outside the room hunting them--an unexpected surprise--Amanda was outside with Cable, waiting for them to get out so that she could teleport them away, and Domino was making her way toward the rooms the children were being kept in via shafts and vents and whatever else she could find, while Kurt gave her directions. Nightcrawler waited on standby, so that if anyone needed him he'd know through Cable, get what the area looked like through the cameras, and then teleport there. Otherwise, he would join Domino when she finally met up with the kids. Cable did a run through again, tapping in with everyone to make sure no one was in dire need of assistance. No one was.
***
Pistol was silent as they walked through the halls, following the sounds of scurrying footsteps. No one around here scurried, so the twosome had deduced that it must be one of the intruders. Pistol turned as they walked, glancing back down the hall they'd come from. He had the distinct feeling they were being followed. "Keep going," he said to Trace almost silently. He stopped and stepped into a shadow, waiting. A few minutes went by before he could hear the steps of the other person. There was a pause in the man's breathing, still quite a few feet away, and then his steps halted altogether. Logan waited around the corner, the smell of the boy he'd first met on the roof clear. The other boy--the one he'd let shoot him--had left. He walked to the wall, leaning against it casually. The air was still, as it got when a predator was stalking its prey. Of course, Logan wasn't sure which he was. "Want a cigar?" he asked softly. Too softly for normal ears to hear. There was no answer. He pulled out a cigar from the pouch on his belt and lit it, filling his lungs. All the X-Men had pouches in their belts--for truly useful things in emergencies, such as first aid kits. Logan, not needing one of those, had filled his with cigars and matches. Scott hadn't know for years, and when he did find out he made no comment--though it was obviously hard for him not to. "I like a good cigar myself. Can't beat it." There was still no answer. "Kid, I don't know what they've told you, but it's probably a lie." As he had come to expect, silence remained. "I used to work here. They told me lies all the time. 'Least till I hurt someone because of it. Got tired of bein' lied to, was all." He took a long drag off his cigar, watching as the smoke curled upward. "You're supposed to kill us, I noticed that. Don't know why, though. Makes me curious." There was still no answer, and Logan tested the air again to make sure the scent was still there. The smoke permeated the air, but that was purposeful. After years of training and experience, he could smell the faintest things through the heaviest smoke-filled oxygen. But this boy had only twenty-three years of training, and very little experience. He probably couldn't smell a thing but smoke at the moment. "Don't know why you stay here. Me, I'd leave. They keep me cooped up someplace like this and I'd go nuts. Want to see the open sky once in a while." Logan heard footsteps coming the way he'd just arrived from, and turned slightly. "Freeze, Patch," someone snarled as a whole troop of soldiers came around the corner and saw him there. "Yup. Right. You've got me. Darn." Logan calmly took another deep breath off his cigar. They'd read the files on him, then--he'd registered here as "Agent Patch" when he'd started working. "We're willing to let you live if you leave now, and don't come back," the apparent leader said. "But we came to get the kids outta here," Logan responded, knowing full well that the boy was still around the corner, and these men didn't know that. "We can't leave without them. Don't want 'em growin' up here." "Tough shit," a jump-start behind the leader said. "They're ours. We do what we want with them. You were an agent, you know the rules." Logan shrugged. "Never agreed to let you have a kid o' mine. Never agreed to let you lock 'em up, away from light and air. No, I didn't agree to those rules at all." "You think you can just take them away and give them--" here the leader's tone turned sarcastic-- "good, happy lives? Might as well leave 'em with us. We'll at least make something useful out of them." Logan chuckled dryly. "Make them into killers who hate their lives because they've never lived--only at your beck and call? I don't think so." The men were apparently done arguing, because then they attacked. Pistol stood silently, listening to the sounds of battle and digesting what he'd just heard. He knew he should step in and lend himself to the fight, to bring down the men he was supposed to bring down. Somehow, he just couldn't. Of course, he wouldn't aid him either. Frowning, he stood there a moment more. At last he turned and continued up the hall, silent as a ghost. The sounds of battle faded behind him, and as he got farther from the smoke he could once again pick up Trace's trail and follow it. By the time Wolverine was done with the fight, the boy's scent was long gone. He moved around the corner, seeing the shadow where the boy had no doubt stood. Logan glanced up the hall, but there wasn't a trace of him. Silently he stood there, hoping his words had gotten through. Those two boys weren't afraid to kill, and he didn't want this to come to bloodshed.
***
Domino reached the rooms the children were kept in, and looked down through the grating at a bathtub. Kurt had said she'd arrive here--above the small, single bathroom. Silently, she pulled a tiny screwdriver from one of her many pouches and unscrewed the vent, catching it before it fell and angling it so that she could pull it up through the hole and place it on the vent floor. Slowly, she managed to wriggle around until she was able to drop through, feet first, and land softly in the bathtub. She made only a quiet "thunk" as her feet hit, and she froze for a moment to be sure no one was alerted. The room remained quiet. Silently, she stepped out of the tub, onto a floor mat that was ratty and looked to be growing mold. The entire room would fit in her tub at home, and she wondered how anyone could live in this setting. The floor was filthy, the sink was growing something, and there was pink in the corners of the floor. She didn't look at the bathtub, where she had just been standing, and she carefully avoided the toilet altogether. There was one bar of soap and one towel, along with one toothbrush. "Peek-a-boo, I see you!" Kurt said over the comlink. Domino suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, looking over at the medicine cabinet that she knew didn't open. It was a one-way mirror, with a camera on the inside. "Hold on a moment, our guard outside is looking right at the bathroom door," came Kurt's voice, buzzing in her ear. Domino crouched, waiting. "All right. She's distracted--go now." It was awfully handy to have someone watching the cameras, Domino noted as she silently but quickly opened the door and stepped out. She crossed the room in three swift strides, and even as the woman guard turned Domino took away the gun and used it to land a harsh blow across the woman's face, knocking her out. Domino turned, ready for anything as she looked for the first time at the five children in the room. The oldest had half his head shaved and was orange. She sensed immediate curiosity--a sort of morbid feeling that he liked her only because she hurt the guard. The next was a girl, black haired and openly hostile, though she looked to the orange boy for her cue. The other three varied. The brunette--Domino recognized her right away as Kitty's clone--fairly shot hatred and distrust. The blond--Amanda's clone--seemed too weary to care, as if she'd seen too much already. The blue furred one--obviously Kurt's clone--shifted his yellow eyes from the orange boy to Domino, uncertain, wary and hopeful. "Who are you?" the orange boy said, standing slowly. "I'm Domino, I'm here to take you away from this place." Domino's lips quirked as she sensed that now would be the deciding factor--whether they would come peacefully or put up a fight. "Consider me the knight in shining armor, and yourselves the damsels in distress who don't know it." She saw that none of them understood, except for Kurt's clone, who grinned briefly. "Aren't damsels women?" he asked quietly, moving on his hands and knees to the edge of the bed nearest her. A tail twitched back and forth above him. Domino flashed him her brightest smile. "Yeah. You can be heroes in distress." His tail lashed harder, and he smiled hesitantly back. "Shall we go?" Domino asked casually. The walls closed down around the orange boy's eyes, and he grabbed Kurt's clone's shirt, hauling him back hard enough to send the boy into the headrest. The child didn't even try to fight back, only sat up and away, rubbing his head where it had hit. Domino's eyes widened briefly, but she managed to control herself. "Why do you look like Trace?" Orange Boy snarled. "And how do we know this isn't a trap? Besides, who said we wanted to leave?" "I look like Trace because I'm his mother," Domino replied swiftly, going for the easy version of the story, "and honestly? You don't know if this is a trap. As for the last question, you may not want to leave, but do you really want to stay?" Domino stopped, waiting to see what the reaction would be. "If it were a trap she wouldn't have admitted to it," the black haired girl noted quietly. Orange Boy nodded. "Then how do we get out?" "I don't want to leave," Amanda-Clone said softly. Orange Boy reached across, grabbing her arm to pull her across the bed. "Too bad," he snapped, putting her on her feet in front of him. "Follow me," Domino said, eyeing Orange Boy. "You, lead," she said, pulling off her headset and giving it to Kurt-Clone. He eyed it for a minute, then slowly put it over his head. "Hello," Kurt said softly. Kurt-Clone ripped it off, staring at it. "It's all right," Domino said, seeing his panicked eyes. "There's a man talking through it that's going to guide you out of here." Slowly Kurt-Clone put it back on. "Hello?" he said tentatively. "Hello," Kurt answered. Kurt-Clone smiled. "What's your name?" Domino asked, getting them all in the bathroom. "Azul," Kurt-Clone answered. It was odd to see Kurt so young, and without his German accent. "Well, Azul, you have to trust the voice. Just get up in the vent and go where he says. Don't stop no matter what." Azul nodded, and Domino gave him a boost into the vent. It was long minutes before all but Orange Boy and Domino were in, and as Orange Boy tried to get up into the vent using Domino as a boost, the door to the bedroom rattled. Domino swore. Vault cringed as he forced his shoulders through the vent, ripping skin in the process. Worse had happened to him. Below he heard the door open finally, and a shout. Then the woman that looked like Trace yelled--a sharp, cutting sound--and there was a thump as someone fell. Suddenly she was behind him, leaping into the vent. "Hurry!" she hissed, and in the lead Azul picked up the pace.
***
"We're running out of time to get the other two," Kurt said to Wolverine as men pounded at his door. "Ruin the cameras, get out of there," Cable thought to him. Nightcrawler nodded, teleporting sections of the cameras out. He took a long look at two of the screens before teleporting those away, along with much of the wiring that went with them. The door opened, and before anyone could get a shot off Kurt had disappeared. He reappeared in a vent, his breath held as he prayed that his aim was just right. A little too much one way and he'd be inside something. But years of practice had paid off, and he was whole. Behind him there was a shout that was quickly smothered. He knew the train of children were back there, and he glanced over his shoulder in the darkness. All he could see were his hip and leg, blocking the path. "Follow me," he hissed anyway, and started pulling himself along as fast as he could.
***
"We're out of time, Logan," Cable said sharply. "Get the last two if you can and get out." Logan nodded, slinking along the wall where he could smell the two boys had split up. He followed Domino's lookalike, hoping the boy couldn't hear or smell him. Swiftly he caught up to him, moving silently so as not to alert the doppleganger. Below he saw Pete almost overwhelmed by men. The boy Logan stalked had stopped, aiming below at the Englishman. Wolverine leapt, grabbing the child around his waist and neck and pulling him deeper into the shadows. Trace felt the arms, like iron bands, wrap around him and he tried to scream. His voice was choked off at the throat, though, and between that and the arm constricting his lungs he could barely breathe. He clawed at the arms holding him, frantic to make them release him, to no avail. Logan felt the boy's body tense, become panicked, then painfully slowly relax once more. "I'm sorry, kid," he whispered quietly, gingerly letting go of the boy's neck. He paused to check that the child was still breathing, and was relieved when he was. Someone below jumped on Pete, and just then Nightcrawler appeared. The jumper pulled back, confused for a moment, and Kurt took that moment to grab Pete and disappear with him. Logan paused, looking around with nose and ears as well as eyes. The men below him milled around, trying to find Nightcrawler and Pete, frantically shouting things into their radios. Wolverine looked for only one boy, and shortly he spotted him. Pistol stood only twenty feet away, balanced as well as Logan on the thick gas pipe. "Let him go," he said softly, looking at Trace's limp body held cradled in Logan's arms. "If I do he'll fall," Wolverine returned. Cable, he sent, don't send Kurt. I think I can get both boys out, but not if you scare this one. There was a hesitation, then a mental nod. "If you don't let him go I'll kill you," Pistol answered in the same low voice. Wolverine's eyebrows rose. "Why? You were there when they admitted to wanting you to kill. Might as well come with me. That's all I want." "Why? So you can make me kill?" Pistol said with a slight sneer. It reminded Wolverine chillingly of Sabretooth. "Come with me. We'll figure things out from there." "How do I know you aren't going to kill us like they said?" Pistol answered. His entire body was tense, waiting. "If I was going to kill you all, why wouldn't I have choked this boy to death just now?" Pistol could see the logic. He wavered. "Come on. Your friends are all outside--safe. If I double cross you, you can always kill me and leave later." Pistol still hesitated, and his eyes shifted below to where dozens of men milled around with guns. "And whether or not you come, I'm taking Trace." That caught his attention. Pistol's eyes widened, then narrowed. "If you hurt him," he snarled, crouching as if to leap. "If I hurt him you won't know unless you come, too," Logan shot back, louder than he meant to. Pistol's lips were drawn back in a silent snarl, his slit eyes narrowed. "All right." For Trace. Because he couldn't leave him alone. Wolverine nodded sharply, standing taller. "Kurt?" he said aloud as well as calling for Nightcrawler through Cable. Kurt appeared between the two men, sending Pistol darting back, fear blazing for a moment in his eyes. "Ja?" Kurt asked, smiling. "Take us home." Wolverine stepped forward, using one hand to hold Trace and the other to rest on Kurt's shoulder. Nightcrawler could feel the other boy's eyes on him, suspicious and wary, like a wild animal. He moved softly, trying not to scare the boy, and didn't once look at him. Quietly, he held out a hand. The man looked like Azul, was the first thing Pistol noticed once he got over his initial terror. Just like Azul. He held on to his suspicion, but it was a good deal harder to do that when the person he was suspicious of looked exactly like an older version of the harmless little boy he watched over. He reached out, stretching as far as he could without over-extending himself, and took Azul-Lookalike's hand. There was an overwhelming stench, and suddenly they were standing outside the compound, in the grass. "Let's go, quickly," Cable said to Amanda. She nodded and threw her head back, casting her arms over the group. The area glowed brightly--painfully so for those who had never been outside the compound--and suddenly they were in yet another new place, a room with large windows. Pistol's head was spinning, his senses reeling as they tried furiously to keep up with the places they were going, his mind racing as it tried to keep up with what his senses told him. It was too much, and his stomach felt as though it was about to rebel. Kitty saw it before anyone else, and hauled him into the bathroom before he threw up. She stood there, patting his back and telling him it would be all right now, though she didn't know if her words were getting through. "Is he okay?" Pete asked, standing in the doorway. He was scratched and bruised, but otherwise unhurt. "I think so. I think that now that he's out of there he'll be fine," Kitty answered softly as the boy's body wracked in dry heaves. Wolverine eyed the boy, shaking his head slightly. The "child" was twenty-three, and had grown up in that environment. Logan didn't know at all if Pistol would ever be "okay."
*** Before the group had ever gone to get the children, it had been agreed that they would all stay together for a few days to see what played out. Since Kitty and Pete's two bedroom flat was the closest, and they had enough blankets and floor space to go around, everyone grabbed some pillows and sheets and called it a night. Kitty and Pete took their room, offering the other to the two oldest boys--Trace and Pistol. By the end of an hour, the other five kids had migrated in there too. Azul stood, a sheet wrapped around his slender body as he eyed the closed door of the bedroom. Slowly, he moved until he stood near it, then, hesitantly, reached out his hand. He touched the doorknob, and nothing happened. Breath held, he carefully twisted it. When still nothing happened he pushed slightly, and the door opened easily. Gradually, he peered out at the spacious living/family room, where all the adults were sleeping on furniture and floor. At the moment, however, most of them were still awake and talking quietly amongst themselves. The woman who looked like an older, long haired Enchantment looked up at Azul, her eyebrows raised in silent question. Quickly, Azul stepped back and closed the door. He stood there for long moments, contemplating the wood, before he gathered his courage to open it again. Again the blond turned and looked up at him, and swiftly he closed the door and stepped back. Amanda smiled, slightly confused as the door closed once again. "What's wrong?" Domino asked quietly. "That boy--the one who looks like Kurt. He keeps looking out, but then disappears again. I wondered if he wanted something." Curious, Domino watched. After a few moments the door opened once more, and a blue, fur covered face peered out. He saw Domino and Amanda looking at him, and quickly retreated. "Let's do this," Domino said, smiling. "Next time he opens the door, don't look. Watch what he does." Amanda nodded, and they waited until the door again opened. Neither woman looked straight at the boy, though they both watched out of the corner of their eyes. Azul looked out at the adults. It amazed him that the door wasn't locked and alarmed, and he wasn't being yelled at or beaten for opening it. He watched the people in silence, avidly curious. Finally, his legs grew tired and he sat, cross-legged. He put his elbows on the floor and his chin on his hands, and watched in the slightly open doorway. The night wore on, and one by one the adults went to sleep. When morning came Kitty came out of her room, shooting curious looks at the people when she saw the Nightcrawler clone sleeping in the doorway. They all smiled and shrugged. Silently, Kitty went to the doorway and peered in, careful not to step on the sleeping boy. The oldest boy, the one with the air of Wolverine, slept curled up on the windowseat, a sheet pulled haphazardly around him. His head rested against the glass, as though he had stayed up all night watching the city of London below. The little girl who looked like a short haired and young Amanda was curled into a ball on the armless desk chair, soundly sleeping, though Kitty didn't know how she could possibly be comfortable. The boy with orange skin was on the floor, leaning against the bed, eyes closed. The last three were all sprawled on the bed, the small replica of Kitty hanging halfway off. As Kitty watched the young girl mumbled something in her sleep and kicked out, hitting against the boy with Domino's skin. The boy, irritated even in sleep, slapped her foot out of his face and rolled over. Smiling, Kitty quietly drew out of the room, glancing down to be certain that the Nightcrawler boy beneath her still slept. She looked down--and met a pair of fearful yellow eyes. Kitty smiled, but his expression of fear didn't change. Slowly, she drew back, then bent until she was on a level with him. "Hello." He didn't answer, but his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously. "My name's Kitty. What's yours?" Because he was used to being slapped if he didn't answer, the boy's voice managed to choke out a fearful "Azul." "Well, Azul, would you like some breakfast?" Kitty smiled again, as charmingly as she could. Azul glanced back into the room, obviously unsure. "How about if I make some, and you can have it if you like," Kitty said quickly. Before he had to worry about answering, she stood and walked away. A wall separated the kitchen and family room. In order to reach the kitchen, one had to walk through the small kitchen-eating area to get to it, and then if you wanted to get to the tiny dining room you had to walk around the wall--which was detached on both ends--or go through the kitchen. The kitchen was small, with a refrigerator, stove and hanging oven on the detached wall, a sink, counter, dishwasher and cupboards on the outside wall sharing space with a window. Pete had hung more cupboards when they ran out of room, but the space in the kitchen wasn't very much. Swiftly Kitty started pulling out pots and pans, getting eggs out of the refrigerator and turning on the stove. Within twenty minutes she had some bacon and a ton of eggs scrambled up. She set it all on a big plate, then grabbed a bunch of little ones and set everything on the kitchen table. "It's a free for all, people," she called into the family room. Azul sat in the doorway, uncertainty written all over his nine year old face as he watched the adults file to the table--which he could just see the edge of--and come back eating strange stuff. Kitty came around the corner, her eyes casting about the room and landing finally on Azul. "You want to eat? It's over here." "No one will hurt you," Logan said quietly, smelling the fear radiating off the boy. Slowly Azul stood, pulling his sheet up higher around his body, and made his way skittishly through the room and to the kitchen table. It was, perhaps, one of the scariest experiences of his young life. The adults were making a show of not watching him, and it was this more than anything that enabled him to do it at all. Azul looked at the stuff on the table. He recognized that the plates were what you ate off of--even they had those, though they didn't normally use them--so he figured that what was on top must be food. But he didn't recognize any of it. Finally, he reached out and picked up a piece of the brown stuff, biting into it with his elongated canine teeth. His sheet slipped, and he shrugged it back up onto his shoulder. Mmmm. Good. He took another bite, then smelled it again. Half eaten, he put it back on the big plate and picked up something yellow and crumbly. He put it into his mouth, then realized it was far hotter than he'd thought and spit it back out. Behind him, someone chuckled. It was a rather reassuring sound. People didn't tend to chuckle if you were in trouble. "Here, sweetie," Kitty said, trying to hide her look of disgust that he had just spit eggs on her kitchen table, "take some and put it on a plate of your own. That way you can wait for it to cool." She took a plate herself, putting the half eaten bacon strip and some eggs on there before handing it to him. His sheet slipped again, exposing collarbones that were slightly too prominent, and a scab that ran in a perfect line from his shoulder to under the sheet. "What happened to your chest?" Kitty asked softly, pointing at it. Azul shrugged the sheet back up again, and took the plate, his eyes downcast. "Nothing." He glanced up at her fleetingly, offering a slight smile, then turned and walked to the room where the adults were. Exercising extreme courage, he sat with his back to the wall, away from the safety of his room and friends, facing the adults with them practically surrounding him. At least, that was how he felt. Taking deep breaths and reminding himself to be calm, he started trying to eat the strange stuff again. Pistol awoke slowly, his body protesting after staying up most of the night. A smell he couldn't identify wafted into their room, and he glanced around to find out if it came from inside. His eyes widened when he saw the slightly open door, and he cast around the room to see if everyone was there. Azul was missing. Pistol bolted out of his seat, leaving the sheet behind, and slammed into the doorway. The door crashed open, and all heads turned toward him. His eyes locked onto Azul, sitting all the way across the room, a plate with what must have been food on his lap. "'Stole," Azul said haltingly. "I was just . . . eating." Pistol's eyes shot around, taking in everything as fast as he could. No one had hurt the boy, that much was obvious. "What's going on?" Trace asked sleepily from behind him. "Nothing," Pistol said at last. "C'mon. Let's eat."
***
Kurt perched on the back of the couch, watching silently as the seven so-called children hovered anxiously over Trace. He was shaking, his ashen skin slicked with sweat, his black hair damp. Kitty had taken a sample of his blood down to the underground lab in London, hoping to figure out--and quickly--what was wrong with him. The boy could barely breathe, and he was shaking too hard to stand. "Don't they have the needles here?" Constance asked quietly from behind Pistol. "If they did, don't you think we'd have used them already?" Pistol snarled. "Easy, kid," Logan soothed. "He'll be okay." Pistol threw the older man a glare to kill, but didn't move from his bent position over Trace. If the boy had looked bad before, Kurt noted, he looked even worse now. His hair hung limply in his face, his blue eyes seeming even paler and almost iris-less. His white skin had a distinctly ashen tone, almost gray in the afternoon light. His ribs were too obvious under his baggy T-shirt, muscles that before seemed to carry him just hung on his bony frame. Even his skin seemed tired and worn. He looked . . . weary. "Do you remember what the needles were called?" Domino asked from the doorway. Watching the male version of herself, she looked ill. "No." "They started with an "M,"" Azul offered, sitting on the back of the recliner. "Great. That narrows the search," Domino said, rolling her eyes. Cable came up behind her and started massaging her shoulders, his eye glowing slightly as they spoke amongst themselves. "Back!" Kitty shouted, running in the doorway, out of breath. She carried a small box under one arm, and this she set down and opened. Inside were several of the syringes used at hospitals. She pulled one out, taking the plastic top off it and checking for air bubbles. "We got lucky. Since the underground is Xavier's, they let me take what I needed." She walked swiftly to where Trace sat, trembling, and knelt. "He's addicted to morphine. They gave me more, to use in decreasing quantities until he's unhooked. It'll still be rotten for him, but at least he won't be addicted anymore." She pulled up Trace's shirt sleeve and cleaned his skin, then, before she could think about what she was doing, Kitty injected him with the morphine. Trace relaxed almost instantly. "What's 'addicted'?" the Kitty-clone asked the orange skinned boy quietly. Vault looked helplessly at Pistol. "It's where you have to take something, and often times it does bad things to your body, but if you don't take it you shake and are sick," Amanda answered. "Oh," the Kitty-clone said. Kitty herself walked over to the couch, flopping down next to Kurt. "God, what a morning." After they'd had breakfast it had been a fight to get the children to bathe, and only two of them had before they noticed that Trace was getting ill. Then there'd been the frantic search for what was wrong, before Pistol finally told them about the "needles." That led to trying to figure out what was in the needles, and then trying to find some way to find out for themselves. Then they'd had to draw blood with no way to do that--luckily someone in the building was diabetic, and had the appropriate equipment. Afterward, there had been the race to Xavier's Underground Hospital while the others stayed to watch over Trace and the children. Now that she was back, Kitty realized the kids were still filthy, and she still didn't really know most of them. Slowly, she sat up. "All right," she sighed, her elbows on her knees. "I don't hardly know any of you--except Trace and Azul." She smiled at the Kurt-clone, who smiled back. "And you don't really know any of us. How about we at least exchange names?" There was a shifting of glances between the teens, but no one objected. "I'm Kitty Wisdom. That's my husband, Pete. This is my friend Kurt, and his foster sister Amanda." "I'm Domino," Domino interjected. "I'm Nate." "Logan." They looked at the kids, waiting for a response. "Well, you know Trace," Pistol said at last, slowly. "And I'm Pistol. That--" he pointed to the orange skinned boy with half his head shaved, and a dark orange star over part of his head and face, "--is Vault. She's Constance," he nodded toward the black haired girl, just coming into teen-hood, "that's Azul, Enchantment," he looked at Amanda's clone, "and Lynx," he pointed to Kitty's clone. By the process of elimination, Kitty knew the black haired girl--Constance--was Pete's "child." She was unsure of Vault, but remembered that one of the children came from someone named Shrine, who used to work for Black Air but was now dead. Pete spoke of the man with hatred and disgust, and she wondered about the boy with his half head of hair and earrings. "What's out there?" Enchantment asked, looking out a window. Kurt walked over and looked down. "The city," he said, confused. "Could we go there?" Constance asked, leaning forward. The group of adults exchanged looks. "Sure," Domino said at last. "But you have to do just as we say." The "children" agreed.
*** The afternoon had been long and tiring. After a few hours the "children" were all edgy from the noise, and a barking collie had terrified Enchantment. They all had headaches from the light--they were unused to it--and even the dim English atmosphere sunburned them. Trace had been left home with Wolverine, and Pistol--who almost stayed with Trace, and by massive amounts of convincing finally went--was the only one who didn't get sunburned since he apparently had a healing factor that took care of it. The "children" said little, too amazed to do anything other than look. They followed orders dumbly, and would have been happy to stand on the sidewalk and just watch the people all day. Once a passerby touched Enchantment's shoulder, and the girl nearly jumped out of her skin trying to get away. When he was gone she kept looking around, waiting for another one of all these people to touch her. Finally they had gone home, gone to bed--where the children collapsed and slept soundly all night long--and gotten up once more. They stood in the kitchen, many of the youths already getting braver about being out and about with the adults. Azul was going through cupboards, opening everything he found and asking if it, also, was food. If it was, he ate a bite and then put it back. Once he hit upon Pete's Oreo cookies, and would have eaten the entire package if Pete hadn't taken them away and hidden them. Vault sat at the end of the kitchen table farthest from the actual kitchen area, amongst the adults who were also gathered around there. Constance sat in a chair near the sink, Lynx and Enchantment sitting in the living room watching the television avidly. Trace sat in a chair near the wall with a window, his arms on the table used as a pillow. His eyes were closed, though every so often they opened to see what was going on. Dark circles showed that he hadn't slept very well, and his fingers kept up a slight trembling. His face was gaunt--more so than it had been the day before--and he looked sick. Pistol eyed the Cheerios floating in the milk in his bowl suspiciously, then moved to where Constance sat. "Move," he said, more an order than anything. "No," Constance answered. Trace's head shot up and he looked at her in surprise. Pistol turned, obviously shocked that she had refused him, and set down his bowl to glare at her from his yellow, wolf-like eyes. "I said move," he ordered again. "'Stole--" Logan said, frowning. Neither person even bothered him with a glance. "I said no," Constance answered. Pistol's eyes widened fractionally, and he snarled at her. "Move!" Slowly Constance stood, her eyes locked with his. "All right, you two," Cable said, frowning at the illogical anger mounting in the room. "Stop fighting." Next to him Vault stood slowly, watching the play of the two fighters. Trace stood up, moving away from the table where the thirteen year old girl and the twenty-three year old man glared furiously at each other. Constance had turned to look at Cable, her eyes flashing with anger. "Move. Now," Pistol said, very quietly but with a great deal of power. She whipped around, her blue eyes blazing. Her hand was closed in a fist, and before anyone even knew what was going on she struck Pistol, hard enough to make his head wrench to one side. He reached up slowly, rubbing his jaw. It happened quickly then, and if it hadn't been so horrific it would have been beautiful. His torso twisted toward her, his hand coming away from his jaw in an open arc. Muscles rippled as the back of his open hand struck her face and continued past. Constance was twisted, torn from her feet and thrown against the sink. Bent double over the edge, she lost her footing and fell, her head slamming against the icy tile and dropping to the floor, leaving behind a garishly bright red streak of blood on the porcelain white counter. Shock held the adults at bay as Constance lay on the floor. Slowly, she turned around, still half laying, and looked at Pistol. There was a cut on her forehead, and as though the world was suddenly too slow, it dripped down her face. Matching that speed, moving through molasses, her arm slowly rose, her finger pointed at Pistol's chest. "If you do that," he said quietly, a whisper through a graveyard, "I will kill you." Shadowcat started to move forward then, and suddenly a feeling of fear and dread overcame her and she couldn't. She stepped back, shaking with the power of the sudden emotion. No one else moved. The scene was perfectly still, like some macabre painting. Then, softly, the edges of Constance's lips turned up, and her mouth opened ever so slightly. Her finger inched up to Pistol's chest and she whispered: "Burn." Things happened quickly, then, though everything still seemed so slow. Trace leapt, across the kitchen table, into Pistol, knocking him out of the way. Even as that happened the air seemed to ripple, looking as though it had turned suddenly to water, or carried a stream of solid heat. Pistol was gone when it reached him, though, Trace's legs still flying by beneath the stream. It flowed swiftly past, hitting the mounted oven across the room. The metal turned red as it absorbed the heat, and the plastic melted and ran with it, dripping to the floor before it finally cooled down. Pistol lay near Constance, Trace on top of him. Swiftly Trace moved, and Pistol stood. Constance still half lay, the small, now sad, smile on her lips. She looked only at the floor, resigned to death. Pistol snarled and lunged for her, only to stop short as he faced an utterly terrified Azul. "Please, Stole," Azul said, his voice shaking as he lay on Constance, covering her body with his own. "Please don't kill her. I beg you." His breath hitched as though he were fighting off tears, and Pistol snarled ferally. Cable's mind, flitting like a scared rabbit from one consciousness to another, finally alighted on the man standing next to him. His eyes widened as he read the play of thoughts, and he turned to look at Vault. Vault ignored him, focused on the drama playing out before them. Cable could read his thoughts, read the terror and morbid fascination, the horror at what was about to happen and the thought that, above all, nothing could interfere. And he read the thought that poured out emotion, the one that made all the people who might interfere--the outsiders--too frightened to do anything. Nate's jaw clenched. Even he, knowing it wasn't his own fear but the feelings of an empath, couldn't stop what was about to happen. But he could stop the empath from stopping them. His silver fist balled, then went hurling toward the boy's face with all the power he had behind it. It connected solidly, Vault too distracted to duck in time. The boy went sprawling across the chair nearest, and suddenly the stark fear that had held them all in its grip was gone. "Move, Azul," Pistol snarled, grabbing the boy's shoulder and wrenching him free. "No!" Domino shouted, bulleting forward before anyone else and slamming into Pistol. The distraction was enough. Azul turned, planting both three fingered hands on Constance and teleporting. He didn't 'port far, but that didn't matter. They landed behind the kitchen table, a wall of people between them and Pistol. Azul was shaking, almost sobbing at both what he had just witnessed and what he had just done. Pistol would kill him. It was the law. If someone hurt you, you hurt them back. Whoever left standing was the boss--everyone silently agreed to that. And he had broken it. He had interfered, and now he would be killed because they couldn't let that happen. It would upset things. It would rock the balance, and if the balance was rocked then it left room for the guards to enter and hurt people. Pistol snarled at Domino, striking at her face with his hands shaped like claws. Domino swore and ducked, then struck back. Suddenly Cable was behind her, reaching around to grab Pistol's hands in his vise-like grip. The boy was bent backward over the counter, his head slammed into the cupboards above, his arms pinned out by Nate's massive weight. "Get them out of here!" Cable snarled, holding onto the boy as he thrashed and almost escaped more than once. "Now!" Kurt whipped around, grabbing both Azul and Constance and teleporting once more. They appeared on the floor of the Midnight Runner, Excalibur's own Blackbird. It was as far away as Nightcrawler could think of. "He's going to kill me, he's going to kill me," Azul was sobbing hysterically. "Oh, please, I'm sorry, don't let him kill me," he said, his voice going hoarse as he spoke. He flinched when Kurt touched him again, almost bulleting over Constance in his effort to get away. "Don't kill me please!" he cried, his voice rising with terror. "Don't hurt me I'm sorry--" he struggled as Kurt grabbed him, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around the boy. "Shhhh," Kurt said, grabbing the boy's hands and pinning them at his sides with one arm, taking the child's head and pulling it close to his chest with the other. "No one's going to kill you. No one will hurt you. You're safe. Constance is safe. You saved her life--for that we thank you, not kill you. You did right. It's okay. Shhhh." The hysterical screaming slowly gave way as the boy's body started to untense. Azul reached up, grabbing handfuls of Kurt's shirt to hold him near. He buried his head in the man's shoulder, sobbing great tears of grief for the life he lived. He felt safe. He had never felt safe before. Kurt smoothed his hand down Azul's hair, whispering that everything was fine and no one would be hurt and he was safe. Wrapped in those big arms that weren't trying to hurt him, Azul, for the first time, truly believed it. Constance sat up and away, watching both of them as Kurt sat on his knees, holding the sobbing boy while rocking him gently and promising that everything would be fine. She shook her head slightly, opening her mouth to tell Kurt that now both she and Azul would die, and he shouldn't try and give the boy false hope. Then Kurt's eyes opened and met hers, and he was alternately begging with her not to say that and telling her what he said was true. After a moment Constance closed her mouth again and looked away. "It's going to be fine. You're safe. Shhhh. . . . "
***
"Get them out of here!" Cable was shouting, even as Wolverine saw his grip loosened. "Now!" There was a flash of pink and the smell of brimstone, and Logan was already vaulting over the table and running to help Domino and Nate. Pistol had gotten one arm loose, wrenching his upper body straight once more and was starting for where Constance and Azul had been only moments before. Logan launched himself at the man-boy, grabbing his other arm while Nate pinned the first down on the tile counter. Logan slammed Pistol's wrist against the tile, felt the small bones break under the impact. Logan's heightened sense of touch felt the bones mend together again, even as the boy thrashed. Domino had Pete behind her, and together they managed to get the boy down again, stretched once more backward across the edge of the counter. Domino's hands were at his neck, holding him there because it meant he couldn't push too hard against her, since that would choke him. Pete leaned on his stomach and chest, trying furiously to hold him down while Kitty and Amanda saw to Trace and made sure Vault kept from interfering again. "All right, bub," Logan grunted as he leaned into holding Pistol's arm in place, spread eagle. "Settle down and we'll let you go." The two men's eyes met, steely gray clashing with fiery yellow. Pistol's lips were pulled back in a snarl, defiance, hate, anger all swirling in his gaze. Logan's nostril's widened as he sniffed, picking up a familiar scent other than the people near him. That was--fear? Again he looked at the boy, this time seeing terror lying like iron beneath the outermost emotions of his eyes. "Calm down and you'll be fine," Logan said again, more soothing this time. "Fine! Ha!" Pete bellowed as he was thrown about. "I'm gonna kill the wanker myself!" He was thrown one way and lurched back, trying to keep the boy's legs from hitting Domino. As far as Pete was concerned, Pistol had tried to kill someone. That made him no better than the other Black Air assassins. He couldn't smell the fear as Logan could, and Pistol was too cure of his power to act afraid normally. In fact, most of the children didn't act like traditional abused children did--Azul was too curious, Constance knew no one could truly harm her because she was powerful and getting more so by the day, Trace knew he was protected by Pistol, and Vault acted outgoing just because it had made his guards angry. Fear was the last thing Pete was coming to expect from these children. "Pete," Logan snarled, the boy's fighting suddenly increasing. "Yer makin' things harder here. . . . " Nate grabbed for Pistol's arm as he almost lost hold, trying to close his mind off to the noisy thoughts broadcasting around him. Logan's pricked him though--the thought that this rage was fear-born. Nate dove mentally downward, swirling through the loudest thoughts in Pistol's mind. Memories were being shoved to the forefront. Fighting with Vault, pounding and almost killing each other, Stole winning--six large, armed men coming into the room, prying the two boys apart. Being locked in a box too short to stand in, to narrow to sit in. Being willing after a long time to do anything to get out. And more memories, equally terror filled, all starting with a fight. All starting with being held down by six or more men as they tried to contain the rage inside Pistol. ~'Stole,~ Nate called mentally, feeling that the boy was too far lost in his own mind to hear the words Logan spoke. ~Pistol, calm down. No one here is going to hurt you. You're fine. Calm down.~ It wasn't working at all. Logan yelped suddenly and leapt back, snarling. Blood dripped down his chest where he had laid against Pistol's arm. That arm was now free, and flew toward Domino's back with obvious intent. "Logan!" Nate shouted, grabbing the arm telekinetically until Logan was able to get near and hold it down once again. Cable moved his own body away from Pistol's hand, seeing grimly the five claws that had protruded from his fingers. "It's no good, Nate," Logan snarled. "The boy's as gone as I get." Cable nodded grimly. "Can you knock him out?" He could, but he hated to do it. "A moment," he grunted as he wrestled with Pistol while staying clear of his claws. ~Pistol. Listen to me. You have to calm down, NOW.~ There wasn't even a mental hint that the command had been heard. Nate swore in Askani as the claws connected, then dove into the boy's mind and just--turned it off. Pistol went limp, his head crashing back against the tile and his body slipping so fast it took Domino and Pete with it to the floor. Wolverine managed to grab Domino's arm, keeping her from cracking her head against the tile, and the front of Pistol's shirt for the same. Pete landed on Pistol, nowhere near the danger of the floor. "What happened?" Amanda asked, her hand firmly around Trace's upper arm. "I put him to sleep," Cable said, extracting himself from the tangle of limbs. Trace wrenched away from Amanda, pulling Pete up off Pistol with surprising strength and bending to watch his friend. He turned ice blue eyes up at Cable in a frightening imitation of Pistol. "If you hurt him--" he started, threat on every line of his body. "I didn't hurt him," Cable interrupted. "I made him sleep. He'll wake up shortly feeling refreshed and--hopefully--calmer." Trace glared at him, hate oozing out of every pore. "C'mon, kid," Logan said, bending to pick up Pistol now that Domino and Pete had moved. "Let's put him to bed." Half an hour later Constance, Kurt and Azul still hadn't reappeared. Trace stayed in the bedroom with Pistol, and Enchantment and Lynx were in the living room watching television once more. They acted as though this was a common occurrence. "It is," Vault said dryly when Amanda said as much. "Although no one has really killed anyone else in a few years. I'm not surprised either Constance or Pistol tried, though." The adults were looking at him in shock. "Tell me how your world works," Logan said slowly, pulling out a kitchen chair and reversing it to sit. He propped his arms up along the back, watching Vault intently. "Well, there's Pistol--who's our leader. Trace is his, so no one bothers Trace because Pistol would hurt us. Pistol answers only to the man who trains him, and when he has to, the guards." "How did Pistol become the leader?" Domino asked, sitting on the table. "Oh, he killed Pyre, who was the leader before him. That was about seven years ago." "And how did Pyre become the leader?" Cable asked, a certain morbidity to his tone. Vault shrugged. "He was the best fighter. If you didn't do what he said he'd beat you up. As soon as someone else could beat him up--like Pistol--that person became the leader." "Like a pack of wolves," Logan muttered. Vault looked at him blankly. "Okay," he finally said. "Why was he going to kill Constance?" Kitty asked. She wrapped one arm around Pete's waist, felt his hand come up to rest on her shoulder. "Because she was going to kill him. She openly defied him--an obvious challenge--and when he slapped her down she used her heat on him." Vault grinned. "You saw that metal melt. Guess what it does to human flesh." Amanda shuddered. The room was quiet for a long time. "You're living with us now," Logan said at last. "You follow our rules. How can we . . . impress that upon the others?" Vault frowned. "You want to be the leader?" he asked, trying to understand. "Yeah," Logan answered. "Kill Pistol." Logan's eyes snapped up at Vault. It was hard to hear the boy talk so easily of murder--especially since it was about his so-called friend. "I'm not going to kill anyone. Your world was a violent place where people hit each other and kept rule by pain. Our world doesn't work that way. We don't kill." Logan glared at Vault, who was looking rather disgusted. "Then how do you keep people in line?" he asked at last. "People who've grown up in this world stay in line because they want to, out of respect and love for each other." Vault looked completely confused. Wolverine paused, trying to figure out how to put it in terms the boy would understand. "Trace does what Pistol says because Pistol protects him," Domino said. Vault nodded. "But Trace didn't have to push Pistol out of the way back there." Vault considered that. "He shouldn't have," he said after a moment. "I don't know why he did." "Sure you do. It's for the same reason Pistol does things with Trace. Trace doesn't protect him, there's no reason for Pistol to stay with him." Vault looked down at the table, tracing the grain of the wood. "That is love. It's a friendship type of love. Trace and Pistol do things together because they're friends," Domino finished. Vault nodded slowly. "So everyone obeys the rules because they're . . . friends?" There were hesitant nods from people around the room. "Oh." They were quiet for a moment, letting Vault assimilate that. "But you were all taught that you only obey if someone can make you," Logan said quietly. "I need to keep you all from doing things like hitting people--because that's not acceptable in our world. How do I do that?" Vault looked up. "You'll have to become the leader, and impose new rules," he said soberly. "To become the leader we used to kill. But you can't kill here. So . . . I suppose you'd just beat Pistol in open combat, and then the others will follow you. They won't be loyal to you, though. They're only loyal to whoever is strongest. And Pistol will keep trying to re-take leadership." Logan nodded slowly. Vault looked at the floor. "I could help," he said slowly. "If you want." Wolverine took a deep breath, thanking the gods that be. "I would like that. Would you help me?" he said softly. Vault looked up, grinning with pleasure that someone wanted his help. Not ordering, or commanding, but asking. "Yeah. You become leader, I'll start talking to the others. I can help keep Pistol at bay. And maybe this friendship thing will work." he paused, lips pursed. "I don't see how long it could possibly work for. Since when has it been around?" Logan grinned. "Since long before you were born." "Created," Vault corrected automatically, not even thinking about it. "What?" "We were created. Not born. There were no bodies involved in us," he said, his attention now on Logan. "I suppose you were . . . born?" Logan nodded. Vault licked his lips, nodding slightly himself. "Well, none of us were. So don't use that word. But back to this "friendship" thing that keeps people doing the right stuff. . . . "
***
"Hey," Amanda said, walking into Kitty and Pete's room. The others were still mostly in the kitchen, listening to Logan and Vault talk. "What are you doing in here?" The little girl with short brown hair looked up at Amanda. The girl's eyes were large pools of velvet brown, but the lines in her nine-year-old face and the hardness around her mouth told too much of the life she'd lived. "I was just looking. What is this?" She pointed to a framed picture of a young teen Kitty, carried by Logan, Kurt and Colossus. "It's a photo," Amanda said, kneeling in front of the dresser. "Oh. Who are those people?" Amanda looked at the girl, frowning slightly. "Well, that's Kitty. I think that's her mom and dad--" "Her what? Oh, wait, nevermind. I remember. Pistol told me about parents." Amanda looked at the young girl, thoroughly confused. Such a familiar face, with such a hard look. "What did Pistol say about them?" The girl frowned, getting just the look Kitty used when she couldn't quite remember something she thought she ought to. "He said that they're the people who raise you. Like the guards, but there's only two of them." Amanda nodded slowly. "Well, sort of. But they also--" Lynx turned and walked away. Amanda's eyebrows rose briefly, unused to such rudeness. "Did I say something to upset you?" she asked, letting just a touch of frost into her voice to impress upon the girl that what she'd done was not acceptable. Lynx didn't seem to notice. "No." There was such a . . . dead tone to her voice. Amanda stood up, concerned. "Are you all right?" she asked, walking over to where the little girl was pulling the curtains closed. "This is a lot of stuff to happen in just a day." Lynx, her back to Amanda, rolled her eyes. "Ya think?" she muttered under her breath as she looked out at a world she'd never seen before. "I know that it's a lot, but we just want to help you. All of you." Amanda watched the girl's back, then sat down on the edge of the bed. "Do you want to talk? Azul is out there asking questions, and Vault is talking with Logan. Anything you want to know? I'd love to help." Lynx felt anger and hatred rise up the back of her throat, trying to claw their way out. As she always did, she swallowed it. Those were fighting emotions, and she wasn't exactly big enough to fight. The little girl turned, those velvet pools blazing with resentment. "I don't need your help," she spat out at Amanda. Amanda leaned away instinctively, her body wanting distance between herself and this little girl who poured forth such negative emotions. Lynx turned away, starting for the door. She heard Amanda stand up behind her, walk after her. Lynx whipped around, her fist flying into Amanda's stomach. Amanda sidestepped and lashed out, grabbing the girl's arm in a viselike grip. She sent up silent thanks that she had kept up her skills fighting when she'd left Excalibur. They came in handy. Lynx's eyes had widened when the woman's arm had struck out like a snake, grabbing her. Now Amanda knelt, her blue eyes steely. "Listen to me," she said quietly, the tone behind the words commanding that Lynx do so. "I have done nothing to harm you. I understand that your life has sucked up until this point--that you've had to fight for everything you've gotten. I know exactly what happened--I just spent the last half hour talking to Vault. I also know--and expect--that you'll be hurt, and untrusting, and all those other things that goes along with being an abused child in a hateful environment. But that does not mean that you can hit people. You are in a new world now, and that will stop. Pistol does not rule here. We do not rule by force here. But if I have to take you home with me and make you understand what it means to have manners, I will. Do we understand each other?" Silently, Lynx nodded. Amanda released the girl's arm and walked out the door. Lynx followed her with her eyes, which were wide. ~Well,~ she thought to herself, a wry smile touching her lips. ~At least I'm back on stable ground.~ She could deal with these rules. As long as they didn't change on her. Considerably less moody, she walked back out to see Enchantment. "She may look like you," Lynx said to the blond girl, "but she's a way better fighter." Enchantment kept watching the television.
***
Pistol didn't bother leaving his room after he woke up. He lay in bed, Trace sleeping next to him, watching the wall. Too much. It was too much. His entire world was being torn from him. To wake up after . . . that . . . and still be all right. . . . Pistol shifted slightly, feeling his foot go to sleep. He would almost rather that they would have beaten him. At least that he knew how to deal with. He would have killed her. If they hadn't interfered, Constance would be dead. He'd killed before. But before there had been a reaction. Especially if he did it right in front of the guards. Even being able to heal faster than most people wouldn't have stopped him from being in pain for weeks. But . . . nothing. Not even a headache. Even Trace was all right--Pistol'd checked. The guards had beaten Trace once or twice, when they thought Pistol wasn't understanding what they wanted. But Trace was fine. This was all too much. "Hey." The voice was unexpected, and no one ever managed to get near Pistol without him hearing or smelling them. He bolted upright, slamming himself back against the wall and as far away from the possible threat as he could get. "Easy." Pistol eyed the man warily. It was Logan--the one who'd helped hold him down. This was it, then. Now they'd beat him. "Mind if I sit?" Pistol didn't answer, only watched as Logan pulled up a chair and swung into it. "We need ta talk." Pistol still didn't answer. He wasn't sure if he could. His heart was racing, his breathing choked, sweat slicking his body. "I've been talking with Vault, and he told me how this . . . system of leadership works. The fighting." Perhaps that was the catch. Pistol tensed. No way was he letting this asshole take away his people and hurt them just because he thought maybe he could be leader. Pistol would die before that happened. Goosebumps rose on his skin as he thought about dying. That was exactly how leadership was taken. "So?" Even to himself, Pistol's voice didn't sound right. Logan didn't seem to notice, though. He had taken out a cigar, and lit it carefully before blowing out the match. "So that system won't work in the outside world. I'm here to make you a deal." Pistol's heart raced, and he could barely hear anything else for all the noise it seemed to make. "You let me teach your people how to live in this world. If you think I'm hurting them, you can step in and stop it any way you need at any time." Pistol eyed Logan. "Why do you care?" "Because your people aren't going to survive. And if they turn to hurting others to survive, then I'm the one who has to round 'em up and stop 'em." Pistol nodded slowly. That made at least a little sense. "But if you hurt them--" "You can kill me," Logan said simply. Pistol waited for a moment, expecting there to be an addendum to that statement. There was none. "All right," he said after a moment. "I'll do that." "You have to let me teach you how to live in this world also," Logan said softly. Pistol hesitated. "I can take care of myself." "I know. But the kids'll adapt easier if they see you trying, too. And besides, I may need your help." It was a partial truth. At that moment Logan would have lied if he thought it might make Pistol listen. Of course, Pistol would smell a lie. " . . . All right." Logan nodded, then stood and put his chair back in its place. "Good. Dinner'll be ready in a few minutes. Kitty said ta tell you." Pistol nodded. Logan caught the motion, along with the wary, suspicious look, as he walked out the door. Vault stood there, jaw slack. "You've got to be kidding me. Just like that?" Logan smiled. He watched the boy carefully, waiting to see if there would be any other reaction. There was. A definite sense of loss as Vault figured his help was no longer needed. "I could still use you, though," Logan said easily. "I'm going to need assistance with the teens, maybe Pistol, and someone to tell me when I'm screwing up and scaring people." The half-suppressed grin was enough to light a city block. "I--I can do that," Vault said, trying not to be so openly eager. "Good. Then you've got the job. Let's get some grub."
***
"Kitty, this is wonderful," Amanda said, doing her best to ignore the watchful eyes of Lynx. The girl's gaze was practically boring into her side, as the child watched closely what Amanda did and imitated it. Her manners were certainly improving. "I don't remember you cooking this well back on Muir," she laughed. Kitty was shaking her head. "I didn't make this. I can't cook--Pete does it." Amanda looked up at the Englishman. "Nah, I didn't do this, either," Pete said dismissively. He pointed his fork at Cable, and Amanda felt her eyebrows rise. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lynx's eyebrows rise in imitation. "You did this?" Amanda asked, unable to help the shock. "What? I can't be able to do more than shoot and fight well?" Cable asked defensively. "No, I didn't mean that at all. I was just . . . "--don't say surprised don't say surprised--"impressed." Cable turned and looked at her in irritation. "I heard that." Amanda frowned. "I meant you to." ~Not the words,~ Cable sent. Amanda blushed while dropping Nate's gaze. "Right. I forget about that." "Anyone know where Kurt took Az and Constance?" Kitty asked, changing the subject. "I checked in with him an hour ago. They're in the Midnight Runner," Cable answered. "He's been talking with them, making sure Constance is all right." "No, they're coming up the stairs," Logan said gruffly. A moment later, the door opened and Kurt walked in, Constance entering cautiously behind him. He carried Azul, the boy sleeping limply against his shoulder. "Poor baby," Kitty said, putting down her fork and standing to help. "I've got it," Kurt whispered as the room quieted to keep from waking the boy. "Don't get up." He carried his little clone into Kitty and Pete's bedroom, soothing him with murmured nonsense when Azul started to wake. Slowly, trying not to rouse him, Kurt laid Azul down in the bed, his black curls fanning out across the pillow. Azul murmured something in his sleep and shifted, throwing one arm above his head while twisting slightly to get his tail out from underneath him. Kurt covered the boy with a sheet, standing to make sure he still slept. The fur-covered blue face was relaxed in sleep, more so by far than Kurt had ever seen it. Azul looked, for the first time, content. There were white marks from the salt of his tears that had soaked into his fur and dried there, and his eyes were slightly swollen. Kurt turned and left the room, closing the door behind him. His shirt shoulder was scratchy and stiff from the salt of the boy's crying, and Kurt headed to his suitcase to pull out a new one. The children--all but Pistol, Trace and Azul--had gathered into a living, breathing knot set slightly aside from where the adults were eating, and they whispered furiously. Kurt headed past them into the bathroom, where he pulled off his shirt and scratched the salt loose from the fur on his shoulder before putting the new shirt on. He slipped quietly out of the bathroom, then over to the knot of children. "What are we whispering about?" he said quietly. Constance, after having spent the entire day with him, grinned up at the too-familiar blue face. "Pistol," Lynx said cautiously. "Okay," Kurt said. "You keep up the good work, I'll go eat." The children nodded, some of them with confused looks, and Kurt went to eat. "Everything all right?" Kitty asked as he sat down. Kurt groaned and let his head fall onto the table. "I suppose," he muffle-spoke through the wood at last, "that it was cathartic, and therefore good. But I have never seen a boy so scared in my life." Slowly he looked up, black curls falling into his eyes. "You did get everything worked out with Pistol, didn't you?" he asked the room at large. "He won't attack them again?" "Yup," Logan said, a smile playing around his mouth. "Thank God," Kurt moaned before letting his head drop once more. "That bad?" Logan asked. "No, not really. We sat in the Midnight Runner and talked all day. Constance is very bright. She reminds me of you, Pete," Kurt said, his face still on the wood. "Oh?" Pete straightened a bit, mentally preening. "Yes. Stubborn, full of unfounded opinions, and thoroughly exasperating at times." Pete glared at the top of Kurt's head. Kurt didn't notice. "Well while you were off playing all day," Logan said, pausing for Kurt's reaction. Kurt's head snapped up, a look of shock on his face quickly overcome by a look of irritation. Logan grinned. "We figured out what to do with these . . . 'kids.'" Kurt had let his face fall once more onto the table. "Oh?" "Yup. What are ya doin' for the next who-knows-how-long?" Slowly, Kurt lifted his head, looking at Logan. "You can't be thinking what I think you might be thinking." "Yup." "We stay together, all the kids intact?" "Yup." "Cable and Domino--" "Have obligations, and won't be here the whole time. But Kitty an' Pete aren't doing anythin', Amanda's in one place most of the time, I'm not doing anything and you're the last person. What do you think?" Kurt hesitated. He hadn't been part of a "team" in . . . a long time. And this wouldn't be a superhero team--it would be a teaching-people-how-to-live and getting-over-pain team. "I could do that," he said slowly. "And I don't think it would be wise to separate all these children yet, anyway. They've had enough change." "That, and it's going to be damn near impossible to control the more feisty ones without the support of the others," Logan said quietly, eyeing Pistol and Trace as they emerged from their room. Kitty nodded slightly. "Have the children agreed to it?" Kurt asked. "No, but I'm sure they will." Kurt was quiet for a long time. "We'll need a bigger place than this. Someplace secluded, but where we're able to socialize. The children will need lessons in that, too." Logan nodded. "I have a place in the states that might work, if we can use the 'Runner." Kurt grinned. "I'm sure Brian won't mind us borrowing it for a while. He probably won't even miss it." Logan smiled and bit into his food with relish.
***
"Whoaaaaa . . . " Azul said, grinning. He had never seen so much land. Of course, he'd hardly seen any land, but that was insignificant. Enchantment looked at the building with a feeling of dread. "Is that our new compound?" she asked quietly. Her voice still rang hollow with the dread fear of someone resigned to pain, but Lynx's and Azul's were both already better. Azul seemed to get more daring and more full of life with every day that passed where he wasn't hurt or frightened. "No," Logan said, seeing Enchantment's pale face. "That's your home. There's a town about fifteen minutes from here, but these lands are yours to roam on." "What are those?" Constance asked, walking slowly toward a pasture with horses. "Those are the neighbor's. I let 'em use these pastures for their horses, and in trade they keep things nice around here while I'm gone," Logan answered, brown felt hat tucked firmly on his head. Pistol watched everything carefully, like a hawk watching a rabbit. But even he no longer barked orders at "his" family, keeping them all within hearing distance. Lynx had gone with Amanda to London shops only a few days ago, when they had still been in Kitty and Pete's flat, and Pistol hadn't really reacted. Trace still stayed with him like a shadow, ashen and sickly, but it was more out of habit than fear. "We're gonna live here," Logan continued, walking up to the front door of the rambling ranch house. "'Least for a little while." "Can I have my own room?" Azul asked, teleporting over. "Everyone will have their own room," Kurt answered, smiling. "Wow. And we're gonna live here?" Azul pestered. "All of us? Together?" Enchantment added. "Yes, all of us, together," Kitty said, grinning. "If the clean air don't kill me first," Pete grumbled, squinting in the bright Colorado daylight. Kitty only kissed him and pulled him inside. "This is gonna be fun," Azul laughed delightedly. "Sure hope so," Logan answered, watching as the rest of the people trailed into his spacious house. Pistol and Trace stood together, looking around the large hall. Pistol turned, and for the first time Logan caught a slight smile on his face. "Is that a . . . " he hesitated, searching for the right word. "A bear?" Logan turned and smiled at the large brown dog that stood there, eyeing them all. "Nah. That's the neighbor's dog. They must be around here somewhere." Pistol bent slowly, eyes fastened on the ugly mutt's. The thing growled, surprising Pistol. Logan shook his head as Pistol stretched his hand out to touch it. That mutt was the meanest thing he'd seen. Only liked its owner. Not surprisingly, the dog snapped at Pistol, then turned and ran out the door. Pistol was grinning as he looked up at Wolverine. "That was neat," he said, pulling his hand back and checking for blood. Trace rolled his eyes and shook his head in disgust. "You are so weird," he sighed. Pistol was still grinning.
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~-End-~ Notes: Pistol, Trace, Lynx, Vault, Enchantment and Azul all belong to me, Jenna B. McDonald. The rest of the characters belong to Marvel, and I'm using them without permission or profit. Ask before archiving. Mica was the beta-reader--she made it good. :) Feedback: will be put on a pedestal and worshipped for the rest of eternity. Now since, of late, I have become obsessed with Generation: Black Air I'm creating a sister series to Growing Up A Superhero. Basically, it's in the same timeline and done the same way, but it'll deal with these kids and the adults learning to live together on Logan's ranch--and maybe a few stories of them older, but probably not many. The series will be called Generation: Black Air (aptly so, I thought! Oh, yeah. Consider this the first installment of Generation: Black Air. Sort of like the prologue. ;-D
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Generation: Black Air
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