*******************
Title: Shadow Over Westchester
Author: Kerrie Smith (kerrie@udel.edu)
URL: http://bobbysworld.fanspace.com/
Fandom: X-Men

*******************
(Shadow over Westchester, p1)

Miskatonic University, 1945

	"Madness.  Sheer madness."

	Charles Xavier narrowed his eyes at the man whom 
he had once considered his best friend.  Now, Erik 
Lehnsherr was rapidly becoming an enemy.  A dangerous 
one.  

	"We agreed on this months ago, Erik," he bit off 
slowly.  "And I believe the data speaks for itself.  
Or would you rather we work on a way to reverse that 
gift of yours?"

	Lehnsherr snorted softly.  "I don't see why we 
couldn't just continue the original experiments.  
They—*we* are successes.  I don't like this…this new 
idea of yours."

	"It's about power, Erik," Xavier continued.  "We 
have it.  But not enough.  You've seen the enemy.  You 
know what they would do to us.  But this new crop… 
Unimaginable.  Unstoppable."

	Lehnsherr nodded abruptly, noting the odd glint 
in Xavier's eyes, the one that he had first noticed 
over two years before.  Vision, he'd thought once.  
Determination.  Dedication.  Now, he knew better.  It 
was madness.  Erik knew he would go along with 
Charles—he always did.  But this time, he knew, knew, 
deep in his soul, that Charles Xavier was wrong.  And 
the Children would pay.  

	No.

	It would not be the Children who would pay.

	It would be the parents.


Shadow over Westchester
By Kerrie Smith


Part One


"When I was a little kid my mother told me not to 
stare into the sun. So one day when I was six, I 
did..."
--Max Cohen, "Pi"



Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, 1966

	Blackness, as far as the eye could see.

	He could see himself, although there was no 
apparent source of light.	

	And he was scared out of his mind.

	Abruptly, a single point of light shone against 
the black.  Then another.  And another.  Thousands of 
stars glared into sudden existence, searing themselves 
against his retinas.  Suddenly, the cascade ended as 
abruptly as it had begun.

	"The stars are right," he murmured, his voice a 
tiny sound in the blackness.

	And then he fell and fell and fell and fell and 
fell and fell and--

 	--sat up, heart pounding like he'd just run a 
marathon.

	"Just a dream, " Robert Drake reminded himself, 
absently clutching at the cool metal pendant around 
his neck, unconsciously running his fingers over the 
strange curves.   He glanced down at it, realizing 
what he was doing.  "Ugly piece of crap," he muttered, 
though his fingers seemed unwilling to let go of it.  

	Bobby shivered, despite the unseasonably warm 
breeze wafting through the window.  Nervously, he 
raked his fingers through his hair, causing the sweat-
soaked locks to stand at attention.  Slowly, he eased 
back in bed, still clutching the oddly-shapen, five-
pointed star that hung on a chain around his neck.  
Just a dream.  Just a dream.

	Suddenly, there was a sharp rap at the door.  
Bobby promptly dove under the covers squeezing his 
eyes shut.  He hoped he hadn't screamed or anything.  
How humiliating…

	"Iceman," Professor Xavier's voice came from the 
other side of the door, "I know you're still awake."

	"No, I'm not," he called back.

	There was a long silence.

	"Guess it would be too much to hope for if he 
bought it," Bobby muttered, tucking his necklace into 
his shirt as he stumbled out of bed towards the door.

	Bobby squinted as he stepped into the lighted 
hallway.  To his surprise, the professor was dressed 
immaculately, a light blanket thrown over his legs.  
Except for the rumpled teenager standing next to him, 
dressed only in his boxers and a wrinkly t-shirt 
emblazoned with the words "Property of Xavier's School 
for Gifted Youngsters," one might think it was three 
in the afternoon instead of the morning.

	"You had a nightmare," Xavier stated simply.

	"Uh, yeah," Bobby replied hesitantly.

	"Describe it."

	Bobby scratched his head, and laughed nervously.  
"Aw, it was nothing, Prof--Professor.  Just not used 
to it here, I guess."

	Xavier narrowed his eyes.  "We are not the only 
mutants in the world, Iceman.  Any unusual dreams 
could be an prologue to an attack."

	"No kiddin'!" Bobby exclaimed, eyes wide.  
Imagine, an evil mutant, trying to attack him through 
his dreams!  He chewed his lip for a moment.  "Naw.  I 
don't think that's what it was.  Just a bad dream."

	"Can you describe it?"

	"I can't even remember it really.  Something 
about falling in the dark."

	Xavier seemed relieved.  "That does sound like a 
typical dream."

	Bobby nodded, smiling.  The stars, something 
deep inside his head reminded him.  The stars are 
right.

	Xavier's brow creased.  "Did you say something, 
Iceman?"

	"Uh, no."

	Xavier rubbed his forehead gently.  "Well, I 
hope you can get back to sleep."

	"Me, too," Bobby agreed.  "Night, Professor."

	"See you in the morning, Iceman."

	Bobby grinned sleepily, then stumbled back into 
his room.

	Professor Xavier frowned as the boy's door 
closed behind him.  And then he continued down the 
hall.







	"Heads up!"

	Robert managed to snatch the flying bowl of 
cereal out of the air seconds before it would have hit 
Scott Summers square in the face.  As was, he only 
sloshed milk over the boy's meticulously combed hair.  
Scott, squinting over the "World" section of the 
newspaper, barely noticed.

	"Frosted Flakes, my favorite!  However did you 
guess?" Bobby exclaimed, mock flattered.

	"I suppose I am more astute than my beastly 
exterior would suggest," Hank McCoy replied with a 
fangy grin.

	"Morning, Curly, Larry," Warren Worthington 
greeted genially, stifling a yawn as he strode into 
the kitchen.  "Hey, Moe, you know you're dripping?"

	"Huh?" Scott replied, sitting up.  This caused 
the milk in his hair to drip onto his nose, instead of 
into the little puddle that had rapidly been forming 
on the table.  "BOBBY..."

	"It was Hank!"

	"You better go clean that up," Warren continued 
flippantly.  "I hear we're gettin' a chick today."

	"Huh?" Bobby demanded articulately.

	"Ah, the fair maiden, pure of heart and svelte 
of form.  For what else could make a young man's heart 
race so?" Hank began soliloquizing.

	"Maybe some o' the sugar in that cereal?" Bobby 
suggested with a snicker.

	"Could be," Hank grinned in return.

	Warren rolled his eyes.  "I sure hope she 
doesn't go for the tall and beastly or the short and 
skinny types.  She's gonna be sorely disappointed in 
you two."

	"Yeah, well, you better hope she goes for tall, 
rich guys, or else you're up a creek, Worthington," 
Bobby returned.

	"Bobby," Hank began, raising one eyebrow, "all 
girls go for tall, rich guys."

	"They do?"

	"Yes," Hank and Warren nodded in unison.

	"Oh.  Then, um…" Bobby grasped for a searing 
comeback.  "I AM NOT SHORT!"

	Warren and Hank just shook their heads, 
grinning.  Nope.  No competition at all.









	Maybe she does go for the short and skinny type, 
Bobby's mind suggested optimistically.  He hoped his 
demeanor was exuding a little more "quiet, yet 
sensitive guy" and less "doofy sixteen-year-old."

	Jean Grey eyed the four males in front of her, 
skeptically.  If they thought she was about to faint 
away from their collective charms, they were sorely 
mistaken.  And, as her mutant powers informed her, 
they were thinking exactly that.  Granted, the 
Worthington boy was a looker, but he seemed a little 
snobby as well.  Jean shook her head with a giggle as 
they fell over one another trying to greet her, while 
the professor tried vainly to explain all their 
powers.

	"BOYS!" he finally admonished.  "Control 
yourselves.  I'm sorry, Jean, should I start again?"

	"I got it, sir," she replied.  "Warren 'Angel' 
Worthington, with the wings."

	"That's Warren Worthington the Third," he 
provided.

	"Of course," she grinned, continuing to describe 
the other boys, taking hints from their own eager 
minds.  "Henry 'Beast' McCoy, super strength and 
agility.  Scott "Cyclops" Summers, optic energy 
bursts, and…"

	Jean stopped short, and started at the smallest 
boy.  For some reason, she couldn't get a clear grasp 
on his thoughts… they slipped away from her mental 
touch like tiny fish.  "Billy?"

	"Bobby," he replied, clearly disappointed.

	Xavier chuckled.  "I hadn't gotten that far.  
Robert 'Iceman' Drake, who controls sub-zero 
temperatures."

	"Sorry," Jean mouthed to him, as the professor 
continued to drone on about evil mutants, or some 
other nonsense.

	Bobby felt his cheeks promptly flush red.  She'd 
talked to him.  She'd… talked… to… him.  He could feel 
Hank and Warren's angry stares on his back, but he 
didn't care.  Bobby Drake was in love.







	Jean Grey finished unpacking the last of her 
things, and flopped down on her new bed.  She picked 
up her suitcase telekinetically, and shoved it in the 
top of the closet.  Finally, she could use her powers 
without the gnawing fear of discovery.  Finally, she 
could be with others like herself.  Finally--

	"Greetings and salutations, Ms. Grey!"

	Jean sat up, and promptly saw the upside-down 
face of Hank McCoy grinning at her from the window.

	"AAAH!" 

	"See, Hank, you scared her with your ugly face!" 
Warren hooted, his head popping above the windowsill.

	"What are you doing out there?" Jean gasped, 
trying to regain her composure.

	"I am grasping tightly to the ledge above using 
my perfectly prehensile pedal power, while our 
financially-favored fine feathered friend is suspended 
of his own extra avian extremities."

	"In other words, I'm flying, he's just hanging 
around," Warren said, perching on the ledge outside 
Jean's window.

	"But... why?"

	"Our luckless leader informed us that you 
required privacy to unpack your delicate feminine 
belongings, and proceeded to eject us from the 
interior of the Professor's lovely lodgings."

	"Scott kicked us outside," Warren grinned.

	"And we thought you might enjoy some company," 
Hank grinned.

	"Oh, you did, did you?"

	"GUYS!  GUYS, I CAN'T FLY!  GUYS, I WANNA COME 
UP!"

	"Shut up, squirt!" Warren yelled down good-
naturedly, flapping his wings a few times to maintain 
his altitude.

	"AW, COME ON, WARREN!  DON'T BE A JERK!"

	Jean walked over to the window, and glanced out 
to where Bobby was pouting helplessly on the ground.

	"HI, JEAN!" he called hopefully.

	"HELLO, BOBBY!" she called back.

	"I'D BE UP THERE, TOO, BUT HANK AND WARREN ARE 
MEAN!"

	Hank cleared his throat.  "Well, I, for one, Mr. 
Worthington, am highly insulted.  'Mean,' indeed."

	"See if I ever let you ride in the Mustang 
again!" Warren called down.

	Bobby shuffled his feet.  "Um... um... SEE IF I 
CARE!"

	Jean chuckled softly.  "YOU WANT TO COME UP, 
BOBBY?"

	"YES, MA'AM!"

	Suddenly, Bobby was swept off his feet, and 
found himself in Jean's telekinetic grip, at window 
level.  Cautiously, he glanced down, reaffirming his 
fear that there was absolutely nothing supporting him 
besides Jean's mutant power.

	"Er... so this is flying, huh?" he grinned 
nervously.

	"You want to come in, don't you, Bobby?"

	Bobby nodded, frantically, still staring at the 
ground.

	"First he wants up, now he wants down.  The boy 
simply cannot make up his mind," Hank ribbed.

	"I dunno," Warren said, scratching his head, as 
Jean hauled the younger boy through her bedroom 
window.  "We're the ones out here, and he's the one in 
there..."

	"EGADS, man, you're right!  Oh, Ms. Grey, I feel 
faint!  I just may fall!"

	"Whoa, I think I feel my wing muscles going!  
Aaah!"









	Scott Summers crossed his arms.  It was going to 
be tough being the leader of the X-Men, but he would 
prove that he was up to the job.  Poor Jean, having to 
put up with those three walking hormones.  
Fortunately, Scott had put his foot down, and sent the 
three of them outside to work off all that excess 
energy.  He stood watch over the stairs, just in case 
any of them tried to sneak back in.  

	"HEY, SCOTTY!"

	Scott twitched.  Slowly, he turned around.  
Hank, Bobby, Jean and Warren were bounding down the 
stairs.

	"But..." Scott started.

	"We're taking Jeannie into town," Warren said 
cheerfully.  "Coming along, Sparky?"

	"But--but--" Scott stuttered.

	"Close your mouth, Slim, you look like a fish," 
Jean winked.

	"Did you ask the Professor?" Scott finally 
demanded.

	Hank and Warren sighed and rolled their eyes.

	"No problem," Jean replied.  "We'll just ask 
him.  I'm sure he'll say it's fine."

	"He's his office," Scott replied glumly.

	"NUTS!" Bobby exclaimed.  "I wanted to go out."

	Jean frowned.  "What's the problem?  Can't we 
just go and ask him?"

	All four boys shook their heads emphatically.  

	"No way!"

	"Er, the Professor prefers not to be disturbed 
while he's working..."

	"Maybe we should just stay put..."

	"He's a very private person..."

	Jean raised one eyebrow.  "And does he spend a 
long time in there?"

	"Oh, yeah!"

	"Hours."

	"An infinity."

	"Er, he's a very devoted researcher..."

	"Then he won't even notice if we run off for a 
few hours," Jean grinned, tossing her hair over one 
shoulder.

	"But-- but--" Scott began stuttering again.

	"Oh, Scotty, not that again.  C'mon, boys, he 
won't even notice.  We'll leave a note."

	"He didn't tell us *not* to go out..." Hank 
reasoned.

	"I'm sure he won't mind, as long as we leave a 
note," Bobby added.

	"You want shotgun in the 'Stang, Jeannie?" 
Warren offered.

	"We CAN'T!" Scott wailed.  "We just CAN'T!"









	"This was an absolutely ridiculous idea," Scott 
grumbled from the backseat, where he was squished 
between Hank and Bobby.

	"FASTER!" Bobby demanded.

	Warren stomped on the accelerator with a grin.

	"WHEE!" Jean whooped, long hair streaming behind 
her.  "Warren, this is the BEST car EVER!"

	"We are going to be in so much troub--"

	"With all due respect, oh Fearless Leader," Hank 
said, throwing an arm around Scott's shoulders.  "Shut 
up."

	With a death-defying toss of the steering wheel, 
Warren threw the Mustang down a side road.

	"Where are we going?" Jean asked hopefully.

	"Harry's," Warren announced.

	"Yah!" Bobby cheered.  "Harry makes the best ice 
cream floats ever!"

	"Among other things," Warren grinned.

	"He says that as though he's ever managed to 
wheedle anything remotely alcoholic out of Harry," 
Scott grumbled, rolling his eyes.

	"It's an ongoing mission, and one day, I shall 
succeed!" Warren announced triumphantly.

	"Don't worry, Warren," Hank comforted.  "I 
believe you'll make your goal within... say, three 
years.  You know.  When you turn twenty-one."

	"Hardy, har har, Hank.  I'll see one of Harry's 
Homebrews before you do.  Whoa, we're here!"

	The sleek Mustang seemed to defy at least three 
laws of physics as it slid neatly into the parking 
space.

	Warren shined his knuckles on his shirt proudly.

	"Grandstander," Scott grumbled.

	Hank leapt out of the convertible and quickly 
opened the door for Jean.

	"M'lady," he said, bowing.

	"Why, thank you," Jean replied, beaming, as she 
stepped out into the parking lot, Bobby and Warren 
scrambling up behind her.  "Coming, Scott?"

	Scott scowled, but jumped out of the car after 
them, anyway.









	Something was amiss, Charles Xavier realized the 
second the lift deposited him on the ground floor of 
the mansion.

	"Scott?" he called out, both vocally and 
mentally.  The Summers boy was so eager to please-- no 
doubt he would come running in seconds.  

	A minute passed.

	"Henry?"  

	Again, no reply.

	"Warren?  Robert?  Jean?"

	Worry pricking the back of his mind, Xavier 
wheeled out into the sitting room.  A rumpled sheet of 
notebook paper was the only thing that looked out of 
place in the tiny den.

	"Dear Prof. Xavier," it read in Bobby's messy 
scrawl.  "Gone out to Harry's.  Back soon.  Love, the 
Kids."

	Professor Xavier absently crushed the note into 
a tiny ball in his fist, as the air practically 
crackled with gathered psionic energy.  It seemed he 
would have to go retrieve his charges.







	

	"Hullo, Harry!" Warren called out cordially, 
sliding up to the bar.  

	"Mr. Worthington," Harry replied.  "Wonderful to 
see you, as usual."

	"Hiya, Harry!" Bobby added.

	"I see you've brought all your fellow students 
along today," Harry smiled, shining a glass with his 
ever-present dishcloth.  "And a lady, as well."

	"Harry, this is Jean Grey.  She's a new student 
at our school," Warren explained.

	"Hello," Jean replied sweetly.  "Bobby says you 
make the best ice cream floats *ever.*"

	"That's quite a claim," Harry replied.  "And 
since it's your first time here, you can have one on 
the house."

	"Oh, well, that's--" Jean started to protest.

	"Nope, I insist.  And what can I get for you 
boys?"

	"I want an ice cream float, too!" Bobby 
announced.

	"I believe my own taste buds are clamoring for 
one of your famous chocolate malts," Hank added.

	"Er, uh, a Coca cola," Scott managed.  "A small 
one."

	"And I'll have--" Warren started.

	"A chocolate malt.  Just like Hank.  Right, Mr. 
Worthington?" Harry asked with a raised eyebrow.

	"Uh, yeah.  Sounds great."

	"You kids can sit in your usual booth.  I'll 
bring your sodas over when they're ready."

	"Great!" Bobby exclaimed.  "C'mon, Jeannie, we 
like to sit over here."

	"How is it," Hank asked, leaning over towards 
Warren, "that the little squirt manages to dominate so 
much of the lovely Miss Grey's attention, doing the 
things that so often annoy the rest of us?  Perhaps 
he's on to something."

	Warren chuckled.  "Yeah, Hank, but the day I 
have to become a short, hyperactive twerp to get women 
is the day I turn in my wings."

	Hank headed over toward the booth, and Warren 
started to follow him, when he felt a slight tug at 
his sleeve.  He turned, raising one eyebrow.  "What's 
up, Scott?"

	Scott scratched the back of his head, nervously.  
"I... uh... I don't feel right about this, Warren.  We 
really oughtta get outta here.  If the professor finds 
out--"

	"He's not going to, Scott."

	"But if he does...  Look, Warren, the other guys 
look up to you.  If you say--"

	Warren narrowed his eyes.  "We're not going 
anywhere, Scott."

	"I know you don't know the professor as long as 
I have, but I know he's gonna find out, and he's gonna 
be mad, and I really, really think--" Scott waffled.  
Suddenly, Warren's hand darted out, grabbing a fistful 
of his sweater.

	"I said, we're not going anywhere, and we're not 
going anywhere," Warren spat through gritted teeth, 
eyes flaming.

	Scott bit his lip.  "Right.  Right, Warren.  O' 
course."

	Warren blinked suddenly, and realized what he 
was doing.  Quickly, he let go of the other boy's 
shirt.  "Jesus.  I'm sorry, Scott.  I gotta, uh... 
work on that temper, huh?  Uh, tell ya what.  Don't 
tell the other guys I flipped out again, and I'll let 
you sit across from Jeannie.  Cool?"

	"Okay," Scott agreed quickly.  "Forget I said 
anything, okay?"

	"Already forgotten."

	The two boys exchanged grins that were as quick 
as they were false, and then headed over to sit with 
their friends.









	Harry smiled contently as he spooned ice cream 
into a glass.  It was nice that those kids from the 
Xavier Institute had come down again, and so soon.  
They were nice boys-- well, nice boys and girl, now, 
but they didn't seem like regular kids.  For one 
thing, they were rarely allowed out of the school 
property, and when they were, they always seemed to be 
trying a little too hard.  Laughing too loud.  Smiling 
too brightly.  Like they were trying to play roles 
they didn't entirely understand.

	But today, they seemed like happy, natural, 
rambunctious kids.  Good for them, Harry decided.  The 
girl must be good for them.  They deserved some fun 
and relaxation.  They were good kids.  Real good kids.








	
	"So what were you boys chatting about?" Jean 
asked coquettishly, twirling a strand of fiery hair 
around one finger as Scott and Warren slid into the 
booth across from her.

	"Aw, just guy stuff, Jeannie," Warren replied.  
"You wouldn't be interested."

	"I don't know," Jean teased.  "I'm living with 
four boys now.  I may have to get used to 'guy 
stuff.'"

	"Well, perhaps in the interest of keeping a more 
feminine perspective, we should nominate one of our 
number to become an 'honorary girl' in order to keep 
you company," Hank suggested with a sly grin.

	"I nominate Drake!" Warren hooted.

	"Seconded!" Hank replied.

	"Hey!" Bobby protested belatedly.

	"Oh, wouldn't he look adorable with a 
permanent!" Warren squealed in a fake falsetto.

	"Fabulous!" Hank, added, in a similar tone.

	Jean tried not to laugh out loud, but her 
shaking shoulders gave her away.

	"I am not a girl!"

	"Mmm, Hank, I think he would look *totally mod* 
in a miniskirt, don't you?"

	"I dunno, Warren, I think Daisy Dukes are much 
more Bobby."

	"Stop it!  Stop it, guys!" Bobby protested, 
though he was laughing, as well.  "I'm not... I'm 
not... Scott?"

	Across the table, Scott Summers had gone dead 
pale.

	"Scott, what is it?" Jean asked quickly.

	"Shh..." Scott murmured.

	The four teens dropped silent.

	"What is it?" Warren whispered, in the suddenly 
silent diner.

	"Everyone's... quiet?" Hank realized.

	Bobby glanced around quickly.  "No one's moving!  
Period!"

	Scott swallowed dryly.  His eyes had gone wide, 
blinking rapidly.  "He's here."

	With a loud crack, the door slammed open.

	Five pairs of eyes were instantly drawn to the 
seated figure, silhouetted in the doorway.  Every 
other person in the restaurant maintained their eerie, 
frozen stance.

	"You left without my permission."

	"Didja... find the note?"

	"SILENCE.  Come along, children.  We are 
leaving.  Now."

	"Professor?"

	"NOW."

	One by one, they followed him out of the cozy 
hideaway, into the bright, bright afternoon sunlight.

	As the door shut, conversations restarted where 
they had mysteriously halted before.

	A few people would blink a few times and decide 
they needed more sleep.

	One woman blinked, positive she had seen several 
children sitting across the room.

	And Harry looked at the ice cream scoop in his 
hand, and wondered whose order he was preparing.

	

End Part One
(Shadow over Westchester, p2)
Part Two

       "'And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
         Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
         O frabjous day!  Callooh!  Callay!'
         He chortled in his joy."
         --"Jabberwocky," Lewis Carroll


	 "Oh, boy," Jean muttered, staring at herself in 
the mirror.  She and Professor X were going to have a 
Talk about the uniforms around her.  "Whoever designed 
this thing could have given Christian Dior a run for 
his money," she grumbled sarcastically, knowing 
*exactly* who had designed the uniforms.  

	Then she frowned, remembering the steel in 
Xavier's gaze as he'd escorted her and her fellow 
students home from Harry's a few days before.  Though 
he hadn't said a word, the boys had gone white-faced 
and horrified.  She'd half-expected Bobby to break out 
in tears.  Later, Xavier had apologized, explaining 
that he had been worried when he found them gone, and 
had overreacted.  After all, the world wasn't exactly 
a safe place for five young mutants on their own.  The 
boys seemed to accept the apology, and nothing had 
been said of the matter since.  Yet every time one of 
them would start to contradict his mentor, that steely 
gaze would return, and the boy would snap into 
silence.  Perhaps it would be best to just let the 
uniform issue go.

	"Hey, where'd she go?" a rather loud male voice 
said, snapping through her reverie.

	It was followed by a softer hiss, "Oh, there she 
is."

	"If I ignore them, they'll go away," she 
announced in a good-natured stage whisper, just loud 
enough to carry into the other room.

	"Wowee!  She looks like she was poured into that 
uniform!"

	Jean abruptly felt her face flush scarlet.  
"CAN'T A GIRL GET ANY PRIVACY AROUND HERE?" she 
shouted exasperatedly, whirling around on the three 
teenagers leaning around the doorway.

	Bobby slapped his hands over his eyes, afraid to 
see the carnage, just as Warren slapped his hands over 
his ears, trying to block out some of Jean's 
supersonic tirade.  Hank looked at his two companions 
and promptly clapped his hands over his mouth, 
shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

	Jean tried to stay mad, but ended up giggling, 
too.  Warren shortly joined in.

	Bobby cautiously lifted his hands away from his 
eyes.  "Are we dead, yet?"

	"No," Jean said, putting her hands on her hips.  
"Weren't there four of you monkeys, before?"

	"Our Fearless Leader does not appreciate a font 
of beauty such as yourself," Hank explained smoothly.

	"He said we were being perverts," Bobby added.

	Jean was about to reply, when Professor Xavier's 
mental voice cut through their minds, tight with 
urgency.

	(X-Men!  Report to my study immediately.)

	"Ow..." Bobby whined, rubbing his ears.  "I hate 
it when he does that."

	"You'll get used to it, twerp" Warren comforted, 
patting his shoulder.

	"No time for that now," Hank said grimly.  "Duty 
calls."



	



	"I have informed you before," Xavier stated 
quietly, "that we are not the only ones of our kind in 
this world.  There are others.  They are like us… but 
not.  Their powers have driven them insane.  With the 
insanity, their powers increase, further feeding their 
insanity continuing until they become nearly 
unstoppable.  It is your job to stop them before this 
happens."

	"Right, sir," Cyclops nodded abruptly.

	"A crisis has occurred at Cape Citadel which 
leads me to believe the first of the evil mutants has 
made his appearance.  This will be your baptism of 
fire.  You are to go to the Cape… and destroy him."

	"Yes, sir," Cyclops barked.

	"Destroy him?" Bobby mumbled.

	The professor shot him a withering glare.  "Yes, 
Iceman.  If you allow him to escape, he will return, 
stronger than ever, with us as his target.  And I 
doubt he will accept surrender.  Is that understood?  
Everyone?"

	The other X-Men nodded curtly.

	Bobby swallowed.



	



	"Cape Citadel," Cyclops mused.  "This must have 
something to do with the missiles.

	"I'm so ready for action I can taste it," Warren 
grinned ferally.  "Plus, it feels great to stretch my 
wings.  I thought my feathers would fall off if I had 
to keep 'em bundled up any longer."

	"Sure is strange... the professor flying the 
plane with his mind," Jean said.  "I can't believe I 
only got here last week..."

	"Actually this is a little new to all of us," 
Scott grinned shyly.

	Jean smiled back.

	Warren and Hank rolled their eyes.

	"So, Mr. Drake, you planning on accompanying us 
on our mission?" Hank jabbed his younger friend.

	Bobby looked up, stirred from his thoughts.  
"Yeah."

	"Nice uniform, Junior," Warren added.

	"You're just jealous 'cause all I gotta do is 
ice up and put on my boots," Bobby returned.

	"Yeah, well I wouldn't fight *anyone* in just my 
underwear," Warren returned.

	Bobby wished for the millionth time that he knew 
how to ice up with his clothes *on.*  "Aren't you guys 
the slightest bit... aw, I dunno... worried?"

	"It's only natural, squirt," Warren replied.  "I 
bet you've never been in a fight in your life."

	"It's not about that!" Bobby shot back.  
"Professor X wants us to *kill* somebody.  Somebody 
we've never met.  Just 'cause the prof says he's 
evil."

	"We have to keep the world safe," Scott 
muttered.

	"I'm sure he didn't mean it, Bobby," Jean said, 
voice lowered.  "It'll work out, you'll see."

	"We're almost there.  Bobby, get ready, or 
you're not leaving this plane."

	"Quick, someone protect Jeannie's feminine 
modesty!"

	"Or her retinas.  Drake in the buff is enough to 
strike anyone blind..."

	Jean shook her head, and turned her gaze back 
towards the window.

	Slowly, Bobby pulled off his sweater, the 
pendant around his neck swinging slightly.  He folded 
the sweater up and set it on the seat next to him, 
where it was quickly followed by his shirt, shoes and 
pants.  He decided to keep his socks.  You never knew 
when you needed extra cushioning.  

	With a frozen rush, glistening ice compacted 
itself around his body, sealing his flesh in delicious 
cold.  It was easy to lose himself in the thrill of 
icing up—of giving his body over its natural state.  
Bobby knitted his brow.  What made his ice form his 
natural state?  Sure he was a mutant by nature, but 
which form was the natural one?  Bobby or Iceman?

	"Hurry it up, kid," Warren griped, tossing Bobby 
his boots.  "We're there."



	



	When did it come to this? Erik Magnus Lehnsherr 
wondered.

	He was a scientist.  A thinker.  A philosopher.  

	And now?  A murderer.

	He couldn't think of it any other way.  It was 
Charles' fault.  If Xavier could have just admitted it 
was a mistake...  If he could have just let the 
Children be...  No.  Charles would never have let them 
grow up on their own.  Never.  And so it fell upon 
him.

	Using his magnetic powers, Erik snapped through 
the restraints on the nuclear warhead.  

	Five teenagers.  Five teenagers he'd watched 
since their births.  Had the Grey girl realized 
that the quiet silver-haired man sitting in the 
front row of her sixth grade piano recital was 
the same one who had helped her to her feet after 
she tripped over the shiny new roller skates she 
received for her fifth birthday?  Did young McCoy 
remember the older gentleman looking on as he won 
first prize in his elementary school science fair?  
Had the Drake boy ever noticed the man who had sat 
in the booth across from them every time his parents 
dragged him to that diner he hated?

	No.  Of course they wouldn't.  And not one would 
think of him as the white light of the nuclear blast 
seared their vision into nothingness.

	Suddenly, Erik staggered.  Something had pierced 
his magnetic shield.  That wasn't possible.  Not 
unless...

	Unless Charles had sent Them after him.

	Erik stood slowly.  Let them come.  One at a time, 
or all at once, it didn't matter.  The Children needed 
to be destroyed.


	



	"Watch it, there, oh Fearless Leader," Hank 
grinned, helping Scott stumble along.  "Blasting 
through that magnetic shield took a lot out of you."

	"'M fine," Scott grunted.

	"Of course," Hank said, grin never wavering.  
"Never doubted it for a second."

	Suddenly, warning klaxons began to ring, and seven 
surface-to-air missiles screamed towards the five 
teens.

	"Sorry to leave you in your time of need, O 
Intrepid One," Hank added.  "But I believe one of 
those missiles has my name on it."

	"Huh," Scott grunted.  "But those three have mine 
on 'em."

	With a blaze of crimson light, several of the 
missiles exploded in midair.

	"Come to papa," Hank grinned, snatching the fourth 
missile out of the air with his feet. "Eep.  Slight 
miscalculation.  Hot missile. HOT MISSILE!"

	"Gotcha, Hank!" Jean called, grabbing the missile 
out of the air and crushing it telekinetically.

	Bobby stood motionless.  What was happening?  This 
was ridiculous.  They were fighting someone they 
couldn't see, for no particular reason, and everyone 
was making *jokes* about it.  

	"A little help would be nice!" Angel yelled, the 
last three missiles hot on his tail feathers.

	In a haze, Bobby slung a handful of ice grenades at 
the missiles.  Guidance systems frozen over, they 
clattered to the ground harmlessly.  How did I know 
how to do that? Bobby wondered desperately.  

	How had the instinct to lash out, to fight, come so 
naturally?  Shouldn't he be running?  Hiding under the 
first convenient shelter?

	Behind him, every metal object on the base seemed 
to come to life and attack his teammates.  Metal rails 
ripped themselves away from their moorings, snaking 
towards Cyclops.  Huge deckplates hurled themselves at 
Hank like kamikazes.

	Bobby swallowed numbly.  This was wrong.  
Everything about it was wrong.  Surely there had to be 
another way to stop this.  A way without death.  He 
glanced around, and a sudden movement caught his eye.  
Security camera.  Someone was watching the battle.  
From inside the base.  Inside the base.

	With a wave of his hand, the steel bulkhead turned 
brittle, and shattered at the tap of his fist.  
Without even looking at his teammates, Iceman walked, 
unopposed into Cape Citadel Base.



	



	Erik stared at the security cameras.  He wanted to 
leave the control room, to fight them, face to face.  
It was difficult to keep track of them, let alone 
using his powers from this distance.  He'd practiced 
for twenty years, preparing for this moment.  Twenty 
years.  He scowled as the Summers boy shattered 
through the metal bands wrapping themselves around 
him.  This battle was not going as planned.  Jean, for 
one.  They'd expected her to be a mild telepath.  Able 
to persuade others.  What had the telekinesis come 
from?  And Scott… there was an unexpected twist, as 
well.  

	Erik banged at the monitor.  It was going fuzzy, 
probably from too much magnetic interference.  
Furthermore, he'd lost track of the Drake boy.   
Probably just moved out of range.

	"Who are you?"

	Erik jumped, turning to see the young boy standing 
in the doorway, every feature perfectly etched in ice.  
The boy had a strange, eerie beauty of sorts, like a 
fine painting or sculpture.  Lehnsherr had to resist 
the urge to stare.  Was this what They looked like?

	"It is none of your concern, Robert," he replied, 
using his powers to hurl a tanker at the other four X-
Men.

	"How do you know my name?"

	"I know a lot about you, Robert," Erik replied 
coldly.

	"HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?"	

	Erik scowled as Jean shielded the others from the 
blast.  He knew he should deal with the boy, but so 
far, for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to 
regard the slim youngster in the doorway as any sort 
of threat.

	"Are you here to kill me, Robert?" he asked slowly, 
not turning to look at the young mutant.

	"N-no," the boy stammered.

	"Hmm.  Charles is getting soft."

	"What do you know about Professor Xavier?" Bobby 
demanded, rage building inside him.  Something deep 
inside him wanted to lash out at the man.  To rend him 
into tiny pieces, to dance on his corpse.  Bobby 
shuddered at the sudden thought.  Surely it hadn't 
been his own?   

	Slowly, Erik turned, steel grey eyes meeting sky 
blue ones.  "More importantly, Bobby, what do *you* 
know about Professor Xavier?"

	Very slowly, Bobby swallowed.

	"GET AWAY FROM HIM!" Hank McCoy's baritone echoed 
through the base.

	A thick beam of red energy slammed into Erik, 
followed by a massive blur of blue and yellow.

	Bobby watched numbly as his teammates attacked the 
strange man taking over the base.  He hadn't expected 
this.  An evil man in a funny costume, maybe.  
Determined to take over the world, shouting about 
revenge.  Not some old guy who knew his name.  Not 
some old guy in a threadbare suit, who looked like he 
should be out in a park somewhere, playing chess.

	Hank slammed one massive paw into the old man's 
face.  His head bounced off the steel deckplate with a 
sickening crunch.  Then, Erik Lehnsherr's eyes rolled 
up into his head, as he sunk into unconsciousness.

	"I... got 'im..." Hank panted, slightly confused, 
as Cyclops and Angel appeared at his side.  "Went 
down... uh... slightly easy."

	"Good," Cyclops nodded.

	"He's probably faking," Warren snorted, giving the 
man a brief kick to the ribs.

"Bobby!  Bobby, are you okay?"

	Bobby blinked slowly, and realized someone was 
shaking him.

	"Bobby, what did he do to you?"

	Bobby blinked again, and realized it was Jean.

	"N-nuthin'."

	"Oh, Bobby, you're okay!" she gasped, throwing 
her arms around him.  "I thought he might have 
messed up your head or something!"

	"He didn't... do anything..." Bobby said slowly.

	"You sure you're okay?"

	"Uh-huh."

	Meanwhile, the other three stepped back to 
survey the unconscious man lying on the ground.

	"Er... what now?" Hank wondered, scratching 
the back of his neck.

	"We destroy him," Scott replied, remembering 
the Professor's orders.

	"Scott!" Jean exclaimed, aghast.

	"You heard the professor, Jeannie," Warren 
said smugly.  Bobby shuddered at the sadistic grin 
haunting Warren's face.  He'd expected the older 
boy to protest.

	"No!" Bobby exclaimed.  "He's just an old guy!  
He looks like my Uncle Frankie!"

	"Your uncle Frankie didn't throw missiles at 
us and move metal with his mind," Warren snorted.

	"We have to destroy him.  He may attack again."  
Scott frowned. 

	"Although, he's not going to anytime soon, is he?"

	"Nope."  Bobby looked down at the prone form, 
feeling almost sorry for the older man.  There was 
something about him.  Something noble.  Something 
good.

	"This was too easy," Jean whispered, rubbing 
her hands over the arms of her costume.

	"Maybe it's a trick," Warren said.  "Maybe 
he's stronger than he looks.  Maybe he's playing 
possum."

	The teenagers stared at the older man.  He 
didn't move.

	"The professor told us..." Scott started unsurely.

	"Now, let's not be hasty!" Hank intervened.  
"Look, he's not going anywhere.  Why don't we take 
him back to the professor and let him decide what 
to do with him?"

	"That sounds like a good idea," Jean quickly 
agreed.

	Scott nodded, eagerly latching onto the suggestion.  

	Warren just shook his head.

	Carefully, Hank hefted the man over his shoulder, 
and carried him out, Scott close on his heels.

	"You have no stomach for this business, Drake," 
Warren growled before stomping after them.

	Jean bit her lip.  "C'mon, Bobby.  Let's go."

	That afternoon, the army watched silently as 
five teenagers, one dressed in his underwear, left 
Cape Citadel carrying an unconscious elderly man.  
No one asked a single question.


End Part Two


	



Part Three
(Shadow over Westchester, p3)


Part Three

"You've got a brand-new soul,
Mmm, and a cross of gold.
But Virginia, they didn't give you quite enough information…"
-- Billy Joel, "Only the Good Die Young"



	Professor Charles Xavier looked over his five 
young students and steepled his fingers.  

	Summers stood stolidly, waiting for some 
comment.

	Worthington seemed cool and composed; 
unconcerned.

	Grey fidgeted nervously.

	McCoy looked grim, his jaw tight.

	Drake...  

	Despite their differences, the eldest four 
Children already looked like a team.  They'd begun to 
work together.  They were acting as expected.  Just as 
*he* had expected.

	Robert Drake looked like a last-minute 
replacement who had wandered off the street.

	The boy absently wiped his nose on his sleeve.

	"You didn't follow my orders," Xavier said 
simply.

	Cyclops twitched visibly.  "Sir, I—"

	Before he could get past the preliminary 
excuses, Beast broke in.  "Sir, after, er, pummeling 
the subject into unconsciousness, we felt it best if 
we brought him back here.  Perhaps by studying his 
condition, we might be able to cure—"

	"I understand, Beast," Xavier interrupted.  "You 
are to be commended.  I didn't anticipate your success 
in subduing the mutant menace.  I am proud of you.  
All of you."

	Summers practically beamed, and Grey and McCoy 
relaxed.  Worthington still seemed unconcerned.  Drake 
seemed to be... studying the professor somehow.  It 
was unnerving.

	"I am currently keeping him sedated in the 
makeshift infirmary in the basement.  I am going to 
ask all of you to refrain from poking around down 
there until I can see if some progress can be made.  
Understood?"

	They nodded eagerly.

	"Now run along.  I expect to see all of you in 
the Danger Room this afternoon at three o'clock.  Mr. 
Drake, did you have something to add?"

	Bobby snapped out of his reverie.  "No, sir."

	"Good."



	



	"There," Hank said, smoothing back his hair.  
"Again in my more comfortable civilian dress.  You are 
indeed lucky, Robert, that the professor does not 
require you to conform to his… particular dress code."

	Bobby shrugged.  "I dunno.  Like Warren said, it 
means I gotta fight in my underwear."

	"Shall we take a walk?" Hank offered.  "I've 
been meaning to investigate the small body of water 
the professor mentioned on the edge of his property."

	"The lake?" Bobby asked.  "Sure.  You like 
fishin', Hank?"

	"Of course.  It's a little cold now, but in a 
month or two, it should be perfect for a lazy 
afternoon of angling."

	"I'm not cold," Bobby grinned.

	"Right," Hank agreed with a toothy grin.  
"Something I've been meaning to ask you," he said, as 
they ambled down the hallway.  "Why don't you change 
into your ice form… before we leave?  In order to save 
a little embarrassment."

	"I guess I oughtta, huh?" Bobby replied, 
scratching his head.  "I don't like to.  I try not to 
spend time iced up if I can help it."

	Hank looked intrigued.  "Is it painful?  I 
didn't realize that.  Perhaps you should—"

	"No..." Bobby cut him off.  "It's not painful."

	"Uncomfortable?  Cold?"

	"No... yes, it's cold, but *good* cold.  That's 
just the problem, Hank.  I like being in my ice form.  
I like it too much.  That's why I try not to spend too 
much time iced up."

	Hank raised one bushy eyebrow.  "I'm afraid I 
don't quite comprehend."

	"I don't know," Bobby replied, throwing up his 
hands.  "It feels... wrong somehow.  Like my mutant 
side is trying to crowd out the rest of me.  I don't 
want to go into ice form and never come out."

	Hank nodded.  "I see.  You're afraid that in 
becoming Iceman, you're losing Robert."

	"Exactly," Bobby smiled, holding the door for 
his older friend as they ventured out into the weak 
March sunshine.

	Hank clapped him on the back.  "There's nothing 
to worry about.  Look at the rest of us.  I'm *always* 
in my mutant form, and you don't seem me changing into 
a monstrous ape creature, do you?"

	Bobby grinned, trying to picture Hank going 
"King Kong," complete with Jean as Fay Wray.  "Nope."  
He thought about something for a moment.  "Hey, Hank, 
you're pretty smart, right?"

	"So I've been told," Hank shrugged.

	"What is a mutant, anyway?"

	"What do you mean?"

	"I mean us five.  Six, countin' the professor.  
Seven, I guess, countin' the guy in the basement.  
What makes you able to walk on your hands, and Scott 
shoot light out his eyes?"

	Hank shrugged.  "Mutation is constant process.  
As DNA replicates itself, occasionally errors occur.  
Transpositions, repetitions, deletions…  The resulting 
cells are mutants.  When they occur in reproduction 
cells, the resulting offspring is often different from 
the parent.  This often occurs in cases of severe 
inbreeding."

	"I'm not inbred!"

	"I didn't say you were.  Nor am I.  That is just 
a common source of mutations.  Albinoism is another 
case.  And occasionally... you get something strange."

	Bobby scowled.  "I don't buy it, Hank.  I mean, 
being born with white skin, sure.  But a couple o' 
misplaced GNAs, and I can turn water into ice?  Isn't 
that a little far-fetched?"

	"Indeed," Hank agreed.  "And it's DNA, not GNA.  
The truth is, I have asked the professor the same 
question myself.  He believes we may be the next step 
in evolution."

	"You mean like how monkeys turned into people?"

	"Crudely put, Robert.  Basically, when minor 
mutations occur, variations in hair color, size, 
etcetera, if the new variation is more suited to its 
environs that its contemporaries, it will survive 
longer, generate more offspring, and the mutation will 
be integrated into the species.  Let's say, for 
example, that you were born in northern Canada to an 
Inuit family instead of the Drakes of Port Jefferson."

	Bobby snickered at the thought of his father in 
mukluks and his mother trying to roast blubber.

	"Your immunity to subzero temperatures would 
ensure your survival, and the survival of any of your 
children who shared the mutation.  After several 
generations, you gene would have been spread to much 
of the population of your small village."

	"Wow," Bobby commented, wondering for a moment 
if he would like being an Inuit.  "But that still 
doesn't explain how."

	"Simply put... nobody knows," Hank shrugged.  
"Would you look at that lake?  It's gorgeous."

	"Yup," Bobby said, scooping up a handful of flat 
stones from the edge of the water.  "You know how to 
skip stones, Hank?"

	"I am a very champion of stone skipping!"

	And as the two boys tried to outdo each other, 
all thoughts of higher concerns were quickly 
forgotten.



	


	
	Erik Magnus Lehnsherr cracked one eye open 
carefully.  

	Coast seemed clear.

	He opened the other eye.

	The world slowly swam into focus.  

	Magnetic spectrum first.

	Then visual.

	"You... win," he croaked, a smile involuntarily 
creeping to his lips.

	"Erik."

	"Charles."

	"You tried to kill my Children."

	"They are not your Children, Charles.  If you 
believe that, you are a fool."

	"You are the fool, Erik.  They are amazing."

	"We had no idea..."

	"You had no idea."

	"You cannot hope to overpower them for long."

	"I won't need to.  I have their loyalty.  They 
will follow me to the ends of the earth."

	And then Erik began to laugh.  And laugh.  And 
laugh.  And—



	



	What on earth is this stuff? Jean thought to 
herself, stirring the odd brown substance in the pot.

	"Need any help, Jeannie?" Bobby offered 
brightly.

	Jean turned on her best toothpaste commercial 
grin.  "Nope!  Doing just great!" she lied through her 
teeth.

	Hank wandered into the kitchen, and looked at 
Scott and Bobby seated at the kitchen table.  "Is 
there any lunchmeat, or are we having peanut butter 
for dinner again?"

	"Jean offered to cook," Scott provided.

	Jean absently wondered what the professor would 
do if she accidentally poisoned three of his students.

	"It's just canned stew," she tried to qualify.  
"I'm sure we have some lunchmeat somewhere."

	"Pass up a gourmet meal created by your own 
lovely pair of hands?  Banish the thought!"

	Crud, Jean thought.

	"I probably ought to go up and tell War," Bobby 
said, starting to stand up.

	Make that four corpses, Jean sighed.

	"Don't bother," Hank replied.  "I poked my head 
in his room.  He's in a mood."

	"Again?" Scott grumbled.  "That guy can be such 
a pain sometimes."

	"A mood?" Jean asked curiously.

	"Sometimes Warren just gets... mad, I guess," 
Bobby explained.  "He just doesn't want to be around 
anyone.  'Course, when he's like that, we don't really 
want to be around him, either."

	Jean frowned.  "Does the professor know?"

	"Not really," Hank frowned.  "Warren asked us 
not to mention it, and he is a genial fellow most of 
the time.  He's a little embarrassed about it."

	"But the Professor's a telepath!  He must know!"

	"The Prof's colder than I am," Bobby sniffed.  
"If he knows, he just doesn't care."

	"Bobby," Scott warned sternly.

	"Sorry, Slim."

	"Maybe I should talk to him," Jean suggested, 
placing her spoon in the spoon rest.

	"No, that's not a good idea," Scott instantly 
replied.

	Jean narrowed her eyes.  "And why not, Mr. 
Summers?"

	"Because.  It's not."

	Angrily, Jean flipped her hair over one should.  
"Mr. McCoy, watch my stew.  I need to go speak with 
Warren."




	



	Dark.

	The dark felt better.

	You could get lost in the dark, and forget who 
you were.

	He remembered flying high in the bright blue 
sky, sun warming his feathers, wind against his face.

	He shuddered at the memory.

	The shades were pulled down, the curtains drawn 
tight against the burning sunlight.

	Warren Worthington III sat, curled in a ball, on 
the floor of his room, his huge feathered wings 
wrapped around him like a cocoon.  He carefully ran 
fingers up and down a single, snow-white pinion.  Up, 
down, up, down.  It was worn soft from the movement of 
his fingertips.  Number thirty-seven.  Number thirty-
seven.  Number thirty-seven.  

	He wrapped his wings tighter around him, 
breathing in their scent.  When he was a boy, his 
father had given him a huge ostrich feather.  It had 
smelled a way that no one but he could understand.  
Familiar and friendly and birdlike on the surface, but 
underneath, it was dead.  It would never grip the sky, 
soaring high above the earth.  Grounded.  Dead.  That 
was they way his wings smelled now.

	Number thirty-seven.  Number thirty-seven.  
Number--

	Someone rapped on the door softly.

	"I tolja, get outta here, Hank!" he snapped, his 
voice sounding oddly distant to his own ears.

	"It's me, Warren!" a soft feminine voice called 
out.

	Jean.

	Warren winced.  

Part of him wanted to cry out to her, to run out into 
the bright, bright hallway, and shove number thirty-
seven at her and beg her to help him make it stop.

	Part of him wanted to-- wanted to-- wanted--

	"GET OUTTA HERE!" he roared.  

	Why couldn't she be like Scott and Hank and 
Bobby?  Why couldn't she just believe in his 
moodiness?  Why couldn't she let him be?  Didn't she 
know what he--  what he might--

	"Warren Worthington, you'd better be dressed 
properly, because I'm coming in," Jean announced.

	Warren snorted, and curled up tighter.  Hank on 
steroids couldn't break the deadbolt he'd rigged up on 
his door.

	The doorknob rattled for a second.  Then the 
lock ripped itself away from the door, landing in a 
pile on the carpet.

	Warren snapped out of his cocoon, as the door 
opened, highlighting Jean in a square of yellowish 
light.

	"Warren?" she managed.  Her tone snapped 
abruptly from "mothering" to "freaking out." "Why is 
it so dark in here?"

	"I... I ..." Warren started, trying to get a 
hold of himself.  "I have a headache.  I was trying to 
take a nap."

	"On the floor?" Jean scoffed.  "I just wanted to 
make sure you're okay.  Hank said--"

	"Hank told you to come up here?" Warren asked, 
his voice suddenly cool.

	"No," Jean started, taken aback.  "In fact, he 
told me not to.  But if you're--"

	"I'm fine," Warren said, voice breaking back out 
of its aloofness into a high-pitched, scared tone.

	Jean stepped into the room, the light from the 
hallway catching in the highlights of her hair.  She 
knelt down next to Warren, who shrank away slightly.

	"You have a headache?" she asked softly, cocking 
her head curiously.

	"Uh, yeah," Warren managed, as she placed a soft 
hand on his forehead.  The darkness seemed to rear 
away from her gentle touch.

	"Would you like me to get you some aspirin?  
Tell the Professor?"

	"No!  Um, no.  No, thank you, Jean.  I think I'd 
rather just take a nap."  He managed a wan smile.

	"Are you sure?  I can make you some soup or 
something," Jean offered, having already forgotten 
about her latest cooking travesty.

	The friendly glow from the doorway and Jean's 
warm hands on his face seemed to be driving the dark 
out of Warren's mind.  He cleared his throat, dryly.  
"I'm fine.  Really."

	"Okay," Jean said, smiling sympathetically. 

	Warren came up with a hesitant, but genuine 
smile of his own.  Turn on the light; drive it out, he 
screamed to himself.  Turn on the light, turn on the 
light, turn on the light.  "Jeannie?"

	"Yes, Warren?"

	"Could I, uh... could you get me a glass of 
milk?"

	Jean grinned.  She'd told the other boys Warren 
just needed a little TLC.  "Sure thing.  I'll be right 
back."  Before she got up, she gave him a quick hug.

	Warren's smile broadened.  Turn on the light.  
Turn on the light.  Turn on the light.

	"What's this?" Jean mused, noticing a stray 
feather sticking out at an odd angle.  As she reached 
out to smooth it, it came away in her hand.  "Look, 
War, you..."

	The Darkness roared back.



	



	"We should've stopped her," Bobby said quietly.

	"I highly doubt that Warren would do anything to 
hurt her, even in one of his foulest tempers," Hank 
said, trying to reassure both his younger friend and 
himself.

	Scott shuffled his feet.  

	Bobby leaned back in his chair.

	Hank got up and peered at the angrily bubbling 
brown sludge trying to pass itself off as edible.  
"Soup's fine.  Let's go check on Jean, shall we?"

	The three nearly got stuck, trying to fit out 
the door at the same time.




	




	"What did you do?"

	"It just--"

	"GIVE IT BACK!"

	"Warren!"

	Warren's hand darted out, encasing Jean's wrist 
in an iron grip.  "Give.  It. Back."

	Jean's fingers loosened, and the single feather 
fluttered to the ground.  "Warren?" she murmured.

	Unhearing, Warren shoved her aside, cradling the 
feather in his palm.  Thirty-eight.  Number thirty-
eight.  Number thirty-eight.

	"WARREN!" Jean screamed, scrambling to her feet.  
"What on earth is wrong with you?  It's a stupid 
feather!"

	Number thirty-eight.  Number thirty-eight.

	Jean bit her lip.  Warren had curled into a ball 
once again, wings wrapped tightly around him.  She 
should go tell the professor.  She should find the 
boys.  She should get out of this room and find help.

	She didn't.

	Jean bit her lip.  She knew she shouldn't.  She 
wasn't experienced enough.  The professor had told her 
not to.  She wasn't even sure if she *wanted* to.  But 
she did.

	Jean Grey reached out with her telepathy and, 
feather-light, touched Warren Worthington's fevered 
mind.

	Number thirty-eight.  Number thirty-eight.  
Number thirty-eight.

	And for a fraction of second, Jean understood.  
She felt her wings beating against the blackest night, 
and the warmth of blood on her talons.  The smell of 
death thick in the air, she soared on, bringing the 
bloody offering to her Master, to the one who would--

	Number thirty-eight.  Number thirty-eight.  
Number thirty-eight.

	Dark.

	Number thirty-eight.

	Blood.

	Number thirty-eight.

	Death.

	Number thirty-eight.

	Exultation.

	Something, deep in the dark, opened wide, pale, 
frightened eyes.

	NUMBER THIRTY-EIGHT, NUMBER THIRTY-EIGHT, NUMBER 
THIRTY-EIGHT, NUMB--

	Brightbrightbrightbrightbrightbrightbrightbright
bright

	"Hey, Jeannie, you doing okay?" a very far away 
voice asked.

	"What's going on?" Scott demanded, trying to 
take in the entire situation at once.  Warren sat, 
curled fetally on the ground, head in his heads.  Jean 
stood a few feet away, eyes wide in horror.  Bobby 
stood, frozen in shock, hand still on the light 
switch.  Hank was still trying to get through the 
door.

	Slowly, Jean's eyes rolled back into her head, 
and she began to tip over.

	"JEAN!"

	"Catch her!" Hank said, trying to jump over 
Scott.  Between the two of them, they managed to catch 
her before she hit.

	"Warren?" Bobby tried hesitantly, staring 
blankly as Warren emerged from his wings.  Warren 
blinked slowly at the bright light, then turned his 
gaze on the young cryokinetic.  And, slowly, his eyes 
hardened into a glare of absolute hatred, his mouth 
crooking into a sadistic grin.

	Bobby gasped, his heart beating somewhere around 
his Adam's apple.  Fortunately, he didn't have very 
long to consider it.

	"C'mon, Jeannie, are you okay?  Talk to us..."

	Forgetting about Warren, Bobby scurried over to 
where Hank and Scott were clucking over Jean.

	Her face squirmed from a moment, as though 
waking up from a deep, deep sleep, and her eyes slowly 
opened.  "Hrrnnh?"

	"What happened?" Scott demanded, turning to 
shoot a death look at Warren.

	Bobby turned, too.  Surely, Warren hadn't hurt 
her...  He might be an insensitive jerk at times, but 
deep down, he was one of the best guys Bobby knew.  He 
was sure of it.  Well, sure of it until about thirty 
seconds ago, when Warren had stared straight through 
his soul with a gaze sharp as a thousand swords.

	Warren blinked a few times, blue eyes cloudy.  
"Whu happened?"

	Bobby frowned.  He'd seemed completely lucid a 
minute ago.

	Jean rubbed her head, and sat up slowly.  
"...number..."

	"I had a headache," Warren said, rather 
stupidly.  "And... and... You said you'd get me a 
glass of milk."

	"Dammit, Warren, what are you talking about?" 
Scott demanded.

	"I don't know," Warren replied, rubbing his 
head.  "The headache's fading though."

	"You okay, Jeannie?" Hank asked gingerly, 
touching her arm with one massive hand.

	Jean blinked, and looked down at her lap for a 
second.  "Warren had a headache.  I... I... I was 
stupid."

	Scott turned back to her.  "What are you talking 
about?"

	"I tried to go into his mind telepathically and 
fix whatever was wrong.  I... shouldn't have tried to 
mess around like that.  I think I tweaked a pain 
center, and the backlash took me down, too."

	"You sure you're okay?" Bobby asked, not taking 
his eyes off Warren.

	"Just fine," Jean smiled uncertainly.  "Oh, 
dinner's going to burn!  I need to--"

	"You sit still and get your bearings," Hank 
commanded.  "We'll take care of it."

	"Right," Warren added, seeming a little perkier.  
"Um, dinner?"

	"C'mon, squirt," Hank said, grabbing Bobby's 
arm.  "You're setting the table."

	Slowly, Jean rose unsteadily.  "Go on, ahead, 
Scott.  I just need a moment to get my bearings."

	"You're sure?"

	"Mm-hmm."

	Though his gaze was hidden behind his glasses, 
Scott shot a warning glare at Warren on his way out 
the door.  Warren, still disoriented, missed it 
entirely.

	On coltish legs, Jean made her way over to the 
window, and flung the thick drapes open.  Beams of 
brilliant sunlight shot into the room.  She glanced at 
Warren, who seemed to be stretching his wings.

	"Nice day out," he commented, getting to his 
feet.  "Jeannie, I'm--"

	"Don't mention it," she replied crisply.  
"Please."

	"Well at least you got rid of the headache," 
Warren said, with a boyish grin.  "I'm so sorry about 
the backlash, though."

	Jean swallowed slowly, then regained her calm.  
"Well, should we go down and keep the others from 
ruining that stew any further?"

	"Sure," Warren grinned.  

	As Jean made her way towards the door, she 
suddenly, stooped, and scooped a small object off the 
floor.

	"Ooh, you lost one of your feathers..."

	Warren stiffened.

	"Can I keep it?  It's so pretty..."  Go ahead, 
Warren.  Try and take it from me.

	"Er, actually, I, um--"  Give it back, bitch.

	"You want to keep it?  I understand."  Going to 
put it in that shoebox under your bed with all the 
others? 

	Warren grinned conspiratorially.  "I think I'm 
molting, actually.  I've been keeping them all.  Kinda 
wacky, huh?"  Back off, before I *pry* you off of it.

	"Nah," Jean nodded.  "Do you have a lot?"  
Thirty-eight of them, isn't it, Warren?

	"No, not that many.  And they grow back.   No 
worries."  Thirty-eight.  Thirty-eight.  Thirty-
eight...

	"No worries at all," Jean beamed in return.

	


End Part Three
(Shadow over Westchester, p4)
Part Four


I suffer the dreams of a world gone mad
I like it like that and I know it
I know it well, ugly and sweet,
that temper madness with an even extreme.
--R.E.M., Leave



	Blackness, as far as the eye could see.

	He could see himself, although there was no 
apparent source of light.	

	And he was scared out of his mind.

	Abruptly, a single point of light shone against 
the black.  Then another.  And another.  Thousands of 
stars glared into sudden existence, searing themselves 
against his retinas.  Suddenly, the cascade ended as 
abruptly as it had begun.

	"The stars are right," he murmured, his voice a 
tiny sound in the blackness.

	And then leathery wings ripped from his back, 
shredding his clothes to ribbons.

	Talons tore through his fingers and toes, and a 
barbed tail thrashed about his aching legs.

	And then he was swimming in a sea of warm, dark 
water, his arms and legs and wings flailing, flailing, 
lungs burning, trying to breath, breath in the salty, 
rich, coppery taste of... of...

	Warren Worthington III fell out of bed, onto his 
knees, retching.

	And all around him, snowy feathers rained down 
like cherry blossoms....



	



Westchester, NY

	Scott Summers ran.

	Feet pounding against the pavement, sweat 
streaming down his face, he ran.

	Calves aching, lungs burning, one foot in front 
of the other, in front of the other, in front of the 
other.

	With a triumphant toss of his head, he slammed 
onto the porch of Xavier's School for Gifted 
Youngsters.  

	And all he could think of was a big... frosty... 
glass of...

	"Water?"

	Scott's eyes widened, as he looked up.  The 
first thing to swim into ruby view was a shimmering 
glass of liquid, dripping with condensation.

	The second was a pair of eyes so green that he 
*knew* they were green, even in his monochrome world 
of red and darker red.  Eyes that made his throat run 
doubly dry.

	"You always get up this early to run?" Jean 
asked, tucking a strand of crimson hair behind one 
pale pink ear.

	"Yeah," Scott croaked hoarsely, then blushed 
furiously.

	Jean laughed lightly, then pressed the glass 
into his hand, her slim hands a light ruby against his 
darker red ones.

	"My fault for asking you questions... with you 
looking like a dehydrated tadpole," she grinned.

	"Thanks," Scott managed, gulping down the water 
gratefully.

	"Slow down, cowboy!  You'll give yourself 
cramps!"

	Scott glanced up from his empty glass, grinning 
sheepishly.  "Thanks, Jean."

	"You can call me Jeannie, you know.  You're 
always so formal."

	Scott blushed again.  Now, we're both painted in 
shades of red, he thought to himself.  "Well, I was 
raised--"

	"To be polite to a lady, and I appreciate it," 
Jean said, taking the glass out of his hands.  "But 
sometimes a lady likes a little friendship, huh?"

 	"Er..." Scott fumbled.

	"So, you run every morning?" Jean asked, saving 
Scott from his own tangled tongue.

	"Yes," Scott replied, nodding anxiously.  "It's 
important to... stay in shape...  You don't use your 
muscles, you lose them, right?"

	Jean cocked an eyebrow at the odd statement.  "I 
was just making conversation.  There's nothing at all 
wrong with running in the mornings.  Though, watching 
you, it looks like you're being chased by a pack of 
wild dogs or something," she teased.

	Scott paled slightly.  "Heh, heh.  Yeah.  Or 
something."

	Jean smiled again, and Scott realized how, even 
in his world of red, how beautifully white her smile 
was.



	




	Warren Kenneth Worthington III, he told himself.

	That's my name.

	My name.

	I have a name.

	It's Warren Kenneth Worthington III.

	He's a rich boy with a rich Mama and a rich 
Papa.  

	He drives shiny cars, and blows off the other 
rich boys with rich Mamas and Papas.

	He can have any girl he wants, any way he wants 
her.

	He's not a very nice person.

	But he's Warren Kenneth Worthington III, that's 
his name.

	My name.

	That's right, I have a name.

	I have to hold tight to it, before it gets away.

	Gets away like a rabbit scurrying through the 
underbrush, never seeing the talons of the hawk, the 
grasping, tearing, ripping talons.

	But is it the hawk's fault?  Can he help it when 
the smell of fresh  prey tickles his nose, ruffling 
his feathers?

	The smell... 

	Warren blinked dryly as the scent burned his 
nostrils.

	It smelled horrible.

	Sickly-sweet, just like death was supposed to 
smell.

	It made Warren Kenneth Worthington III feel sick 
to his stomach.

	But something else was making a home in the soul 
of Warren Kenneth Worthington III.  And that something 
else stared down at the ruined pile of fur with the 
glazed, upturned eyes, the smell tickled its nostrils, 
and it didn't feel sick in the least.




	




	Charles Xavier glanced at the clock mounted on 
the wall.

	Eight a.m.

	Time to go upstairs and announce to the Children 
how well-rested he was, and ask them if they were 
eager to start another day of training.

	With a final glance at Experiment Juliet-Golf 
Beta-113, he closed his notes, and slid the thin pad 
into the drawer, with the other forty-four thin pads 
full of notes.

	But this one was different.

	Because, instead of 50 pages of "No change," 
this pad contained an entry that was very different.

	And as he locked the heavy oaken door which led 
to his basement laboratory behind him, he tried to 
pretend that the odd, pale set of eyes weren't staring 
at him, straight through the walls, and he wished that 
that pad was just like the forty-four others.

	


	




	"Scotty, what are you *doin'* in there?!" Bobby 
hollered through the bathroom door, rearranging his 
bathrobe for the seventh time.

	"Hey, what's the problem, my diminutive chum?" a 
voice asked behind him.

	Bobby jumped nearly a foot in the air.  "Jesus, 
Hank, you scared the ice cubes outta me."

	"Sorry," Hank replied, leaning against the wall.  
His towel hung over his shoulder.  "Our Fearless 
Leader still in there?"

	"Yes," Bobby scowled.  "And you shouldn't sneak 
up on a guy like that."

	"I had no idea you were so jumpy.  I apologize 
from the very depths of my soul," Hank grinned.

	Bobby ran his fingers through his hair.  "Naw, 
I'm sorry Hank.  Been having some rotten dreams 
lately, and sometimes they're hard to shake in the 
morning."

	Hank frowned.  "Bad dreams?  What sort of bad 
dreams?"

	Bobby shrugged.  "Typical stuff.  Falling, 
darkness."

	Hank's brow creased, and Bobby could almost see 
him sifting through the file cabinet of information 
Hank called a memory.

	"Freud got somethin' to say about that?" Bobby 
asked.

	"Well, I just--"

	"Why're we all standing around in the hall?"

	Bobby and Hank spun around to look at their 
third comrade, standing in the hallway.  His face 
looked pale and drawn, his features tight.

	"Scott's in the shower."

	"Scott wakes up at six.  Leaves the house at 
six-fifteen.  Runs for forty-five minutes.  There's no 
way he's been in the shower for a full hour."

	Bobby, who didn't bother to wake up until seven-
forty-five, didn't ponder Warren's down-to-the-minute 
description of Scott's day for too long.  "Maybe he 
was running late this morning."

	"I noticed that the lovely Ms. Grey was up and 
about early this morning," Hank babbled to himself.  
"Perhaps she and our courageous commander--"

	Warren shoved his fist through the bathroom 
door.

	Bobby goggled as the older boy removed his arm, 
not wincing at the several large splinters protruding 
from his forearm.

	"...were... um..." Hank managed.

	"Time's up, Scott," Warren announced.

	The shower shut off.

	There was some slight shuffling around in the 
bathroom.

	Slowly, the door opened.

	Hank and Bobby exchanged a glance, not sure what 
was going on, but pretty certain they were missing 
most of it.

	"What the hell's your problem, Worthington?" 
Scott asked softly, stepping out of the bathroom.  A 
towel was wrapped loosely around his waist for 
decency's sake, but he was dripping wet, as though he 
had made no attempt to dry off.  

	"You took too long," Warren replied in the same 
soft, frightening tone.

	Bobby glanced quickly between the two of them, 
something in the back of his mind telling him how 
wrong, how totally wrong this was.

	And then Scott and Warren turned to look at 
Bobby and Hank, daring them to intervene.

	"Oh, my," Hank commented his voice a little 
higher pitched than usual.  "I promised to check over 
your math homework, didn't I, Bobby?  Better get that 
done before the Professor finds out!"  The last few 
words were nearly a squeak as he grabbed the younger 
boy's hand, and practically dragged him down the 
hallway.

	"What was that all about?" Bobby demanded 
angrily when Hank finally ground to a halt.  

	Hank didn't reply, as his breathing slowed to 
its normal pace.

	"It... would have been..." he thought for a 
moment.  "Bad.  To stay."  He scratched his head 
slowly, and his eyes took on a faraway look for a 
moment.  Then he ambled slowly down the hallway 
towards his bedroom, leaving behind one very confused 
Robert L. Drake.




	




Dear Bobby,
	Are you doing fine, darling?
	Is Professor Xavier being good to you?
	If anything ever seems the least bit wrong or 
scary, please, please call me and your father, and 
you'll be home by nightfall, I promise you, darling.
	Things are fine here, just as when you left.  
Exactly as when you left.  Your father and I have 
spoken of moving-- the old house doesn't feel the same 
without you.  Would you like it if Daddy and I moved 
closer to your school?  Maybe you could come visit us 
on weekends.
	Are you wearing your Elder Sign?  Remember, you 
promised me not to take it off.  It's very, very 
important, Bobby.
	Mr. and Mrs. Worthington won't return my letters 
or phone calls, and I can't seem to get a hold of the 
McCoys.  Could you ask Henry for a new address for 
them?  In your last letter, you mentioned the 
possibility of a new student.  Is he nice?  What does 
he look like?  Does he have special powers like you?  
What are they?  Could you ask him for his parents' 
address and phone number?  
	Please write back to me soon!  Tell me 
everything, I can't wait to hear it!

Love,
Mother

P.S.  Daddy sends his love.

	Bobby wrinkled his nose.  Could his mom *be* 
anymore overprotective?  He fingered the chain around 
his neck idly.  Most of her letters were the same:  
How was Professor Xavier?  What were the other 
children like?  And were you wearing your Elder Sign?  

	More recently, she'd been trying, with little 
success, to contact the other kids' parents.  Bobby 
hated trying to get their parents addresses from them.  
He felt like such a doofus.

	But lately, something about his mother's letters 
rang strange with him.  "If anything ever seems the 
least bit wrong or scary, please, please call me and 
your father, and you'll be home by nightfall, I 
promise you, darling."  

	Bobby shoved the thought out of his mind.  So 
Warren and Scott had a little fight over... well, the 
shower.  He was stupid to be scared.  He wasn't 
scared.  Of course not.

	Angrily, he shoved the letter back in the 
envelope, and stuffed it under his place mat.

	"Who was the letter from?" Jean asked curiously, 
looking up from her pancakes.

	"My mom," Bobby mumbled embarrassedly, stuffing 
some pancake into his mouth.

	"Oh, that's nice!" Jean smiled.  "My mom passed 
on when I was little, so I live with my aunt and 
uncle.  It's okay, though, I don't really remember her 
enough to be sad about it."  Then her brow crinkled.  
"Where are the others this morning?"

	Hank grunted something, and took a large swig of 
orange juice.

	Bobby gave him a funny look.  It wasn't like 
Hank to pass up the opportunity to blather.  "Dunno," 
he answered absently.

	"So what did she say?"

	"Hrnn?" Bobby asked, looking up.

	"Your mother.  What did she have to say?"

	"Aw, same ol' stuff," Bobby said, after 
swallowing.  "How do I like it here, and making sure 
Prof X is nice and stuff.  She really didn't want me 
to come here."

	Jean blinked.  "My aunt and uncle loved the 
idea, right from the start."

	Bobby shrugged.  "Well, my mom hated the idea, 
but she didn't have much choice.  I, um, kinda got 
myself in some trouble with my powers, but the 
Professor saved me just in time."

	"What happened?" Jean asked, eyes wide.

	"Well, I was takin' this, uh, girlIliked," Bobby 
mumbled, "outonnadate, and this guy I know, Rocky, 
showed up and started causing trouble.  I was afraid 
he might hurt Judy, and I, uh, froze him.  Whole town 
went ape-crap after that.  Next thing I knew, they had 
a gallows up in the middle of the town.  Then, all of 
a sudden, Professor Xavier shows up, and everyone 
stops short.  He wiped their memories so they wouldn't 
remember anything, and then took me home."

	"Wow!" Jean gasped, leaning forward.  "He wiped 
their minds?"

	Bobby fiddled with his fork.  "The prof promised 
me it wouldn't hurt 'em.  They just wouldn't remember 
the whole day had happened."

	"I wonder if *I* could do that..." Jean wondered 
idly, tapping her finger on the table.

	Bobby just stared at her.

	Hank kept on eating.

	Suddenly, the awkward silence was broken by the 
creak of wheels on carpet.

	"Aren't we all somber this morning?" Professor 
Xavier announced kindly.

	"Good morning, Professor!" Jean answered 
cheerily.  "Bobby was just telling me how you saved 
him."

	"Was he, now?" Xavier smiled.  "I hope he didn't 
make me look too bad."

	"Not at all, sir," Bobby protested, rather 
weakly.

	"I think it must have been very impressive," 
Jean prattled.  "Especially from a telepathic point of 
view.  How did you ever--"

	"It was necessary," Xavier broke her off 
suddenly.  "The situation was growing dire, and I did 
what I thought was best.  We telepaths must be careful 
not to abuse our powers.  Do you hear me, Miss Grey?"

	"Of course, sir," Jean replied, unabashed.

	"That goes for all of you," the professor 
warned, glancing at the other two.  "With power comes 
responsibility.  We must constantly be on guard so 
that we do not become that which we combat."

	"The more man stares into the abyss, the more 
the abyss stares back into him," Hank suddenly 
announced, looking up from his food.  "Sartre, sir?"

	"Nietzsche, Henry."

	"Of course."

	The professor frowned.  "Where are the others?"

	Hank suddenly became very interested in his food 
once again.

	"I haven't seen Scott since early this morning," 
Jean replied.  "After his morning run.  He said he 
wanted to go get a shower."

	Hank coughed on a piece of pancake.

	"Boys?" Xavier asked, raising one eyebrow.

	Hank gestured towards his throat, and grabbed 
for his juice.

	"Robert?"

	Bobby swallowed.  "Well, see... er..."

	"What's the little squirt done now, Prof?" 
Warren's genial tone broke through the strained 
silence.

	Xavier relaxed.  "I was merely asked where you 
boys were this fine morning."

	Warren walked into the room, Scott only a few 
steps behind.  Both were dressed in their uniforms, 
cowls pulled up, already.  

	"Just had a little clog-up in the shower," Scott 
mumbled.

	"You guys look ready for action," Jean teased.  
"Hungry?"

	"Been up for a while.  Couldn't eat another 
thing," Warren replied.  "And I, for one, can't wait 
to get at that Danger Room.  Right, Scotty?"

	"Right," Scott nodded, slowly.

	"Being anxious won't do you any good," the 
professor smiled.  "Ten a.m., boys, and not a moment 
before.  Now, sit down and have some breakfast."

	"Thanks, Prof, I think I'll get in a little 
early studying, instead," Warren grinned.  "Comin', 
Scotty?"

	"Sure, Warren."

	"Hey!"

	Both boys stared at Bobby, gazes growing hard.

	Bobby shrank back.  "You... um... you guys 
okay?"

	"Right as rain, squirt," Warren replied slowly.  
"Come on, Summers, let's get out of here."

	Bobby stared at their retreating backs, 
swallowing slowly.

	"Hmmph," Jean mumbled.  "Didn't even have the 
courtesy to take off their masks."

	But all that Bobby could see in his mind's eye, 
was the stain, darker against the dark blue, that 
oozed across Scott's cowl.  And for the first time, he 
wondered exactly what those masks were covering.



	


	"Welcome back, Charles.  How kind of you to 
visit," Erik Lehnsherr's voice rang out as Xavier 
wheeled into the infirmary.

	Xavier said nothing as he prepared an injection 
of sedatives.

	"Dark circles, Charles?  Not sleeping well?  Or 
let me guess-- not sleeping at all?  Must be hard, 
with five little demons sleeping under your roof.  Or 
have you got more squirreled away that I don't know 
about?"

	Xavier drew back the plunger, the syringe 
filling with a faintly glowing, green substance.

	"I suppose it's a stressful job, being God, eh, 
Charles?"

	Slowly, Charles turned steel blue eyes on his 
oldest friend.

	"Erik," he asked slowly. "Do you remember 
Project Gemini?"

	Lehnsherr's brow crinkled.  "Project Gemini was 
a failure from the get-go.   You were the one who had 
to press it... had to keep making those monsters, 
those things..."

	Xavier pressed the needle against Lehnsherr's 
skin.  

	"At 4:52 p.m., yesterday afternoon, Experiment 
Juliet-Golf Beta-113 had a spike of normal brain wave 
activity lasting approximately three minutes."  

	He plunged the needle home.

	"Sweet dreams, Erik."

	Then, he turned away from the terror in his 
former partner's eyes as Lehnsherr collapsed into 
unconsciousness.




	




	Jean Grey stared at her own face in the mirror.

	It seemed unnaturally pale, green eyes standing 
out like coals which haven't been told which color 
they were supposed to burn.

	...hello...  she called out inside her own head.  
It echoed back and forth ...hello...hello...  but no 
one answered.  Had she really expected someone to?

	Maybe.  Maybe she had.

	Because at 4:52 the previous day, Jean Grey had 
gone into Warren Worthington's head, and something 
else had come out.  

	Something else had come screaming into her mind, 
and Jean had opened her eyes to absolute blackness.  
And when she slowly came back to herself, something 
else was using her voice.  But was it someone else, or 
was it Jean herself?  Sometimes, she would find 
herself saying things, feeling things-- awful, mean, 
vindictive things-- and she would think, this can't be 
me, can it?

	...hello...hello...

	Slowly, Jean pulled her cowl over her face.

	And tried not to think too hard about who was 
underneath it.



	



	They stood in the Danger Room, a miniature army.

	Scott, visage grim, prepared for anything.
Warren, tall and noble, ruffling his feathers 
anxiously.

	Henry, stoic, willing, loyal.

	Jean, solemn, angry, ready.

	And Robert.

	Fidgeting, nervous, antsy Robert.

	Xavier frowned.  He didn't understand Robert.  
Subject Kappa had fallen into place even more easily 
than the others, though his results had been markedly 
less than spectacular.  Why was Robert so difficult?  
He set his jaw.  If Robert didn't conform, he would 
not survive.  It was that simple.  And that's what the 
game was all about.  Survival.

	"This is a simple exercise, and one I think 
you'll like," Xavier said brightly.  "You will be on 
two teams-- Scott, Jean and Robert are the gold team, 
Henry and Warren, the blue.  Each team will take one 
side of the room."  A glowing red line appeared on the 
floor, dividing it into halves.  "The blue team may 
not step over the line to attack."

	"That's not fair, Prof," Warren grinned, 
stretching his neck, as though he had a stiff muscle.

	"The gold team," Xavier went on, "must step over 
the line in order to attack."

	"So, in other words, all attacks must take place 
on the blue side of the room?" Hank asked.

	"Precisely."

	Each X-Man moved to his assigned side of the 
room.

	"Ready, boys?" Jean grinned, spreading her 
fingers experimentally.

	Scott nodded curtly, reaching one hand towards 
his visor.

	"Yeah," Bobby echoed.

	Hank crouched, as though he were preparing for a 
lineman's tackle.  Warren alighted next to him in a 
similar position, wings spread wide.

	"Go!" Xavier barked.




		


Port Jefferson, NY

	Madelaine Drake glanced around the small 
suburban neighborhood as she shuffled down the 
driveway to get the morning paper.

	Smith, next door, was still watering his 
flowers.

	Jenkins, from down the street, was walking his 
dog, again.

	The Beasley boy roared down the street in his 
convertible.

	The perfect suburban life.

	Perfect.

	Every day the same.

	Every day perfect.

	For almost four months, now.

	Just the neighbors, going about their business.

	Ignoring anything strange.

	Perfect.

	Maddy snatched the paper and raced back inside.

	"They at it again?" William asked, glancing up 
from his oatmeal.

	"Do they ever stop?" Maddy hissed, trying to 
shove the images out of her mind of Smith, standing in 
his circle of dead, drowned grass, and Jenkins, 
dragging that rotting, lifeless ball of fur down the 
perfect, suburban street.



	



Westchester, NY

	Bobby Drake opened his eyes slowly, feeling only 
the streaks of pain coursing through his chest.  He 
blinked, trying to see past the hideously bright light 
obscuring his vision.  Then he realized there was 
someone standing over him.

	"Whu happened?"

	Henry McCoy looked at his friend for a moment 
and squeezed the battered white pinion in his left 
hand.  And then, slowly, he shuffled away.

End Part Four
(Shadow over Westchester, p6
Part Six

"Whatever became of the moment when one first knew 
about death? There must have been one. A moment. In 
childhood. When it first occurred to you that you 
don't go on forever. It must have been shattering, 
stamped into one's memory. And yet... I can't 
remember it."		

--Rosencrantz, "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are 
Dead," Tom Stoppard



	Blackness, as far as the eye could see.

	He could see himself, although there was no 
apparent source of light.	

	And he was scared out of his mind.

	Abruptly, a single point of light shone against 
the black.  Then another.  And another.  Thousands of 
stars glared into sudden existence, searing themselves 
against his retinas.  Suddenly, the cascade ended as 
abruptly as it had begun.

	"The stars are right," he murmured, his voice a 
tiny sound in the blackness.

	And then he was flying, soaring on triumphant 
wings against the blood-red sky.

	It was the Old Time, the Time of the Wars, and 
he was a soldier.  Like others of his kind, he was a 
Messenger, cleaving the sky on tainted wing, serving 
the Great Old Ones. And if he performed well, he would 
be rewarded.  Oh, how he would be rewarded!  Fresh 
meat, still bloody, for his whole flock.

	Meat.

	His stomach churned with the thought, his tongue 
moistening as he caught a glimpse of movement in the 
dried fields below.

	He folded his wings and dove, claws extended 
when--

	Bobby Drake sat up in bed, panting, and clawing 
beneath his pajamas for the pendant around his neck.

	"Oh God, oh God, oh God..." he kept repeating to 
himself.

	"Calm down, calm down!"

	Bobby took a deep breath, counting backwards 
from ten before he let it out.

	Hank hung on the end of his bed, concern 
darkening his eyes.

	Bobby spared a glimpse toward the side of the 
room that had been cut off by the forcefield.  The 
field was gone, and the other infirmary bed was empty.  
Bobby lay back against his pillow.

	"I was hot.  Very hot.  I wanted to ice up... 
but I didn't... and then I... I think I passed out."

	Hank nodded eagerly, but almost imperceptibly, 
as though he himself was unaware of the small 
movement.

	"I dreamt... I dreamt of Warren."  Creasing his 
brow, Bobby tried to think through the haze shrouding 
his thoughts.  He slid one hand under his shirt, his 
fingers stumbling across the scabs which crisscrossed 
his midsection.  "Warren... did this to me?  I 
don't..."

	"Warren's gone."

	Hank's voice was low and mechanical, as though 
he were delivering the message without any knowledge 
of its contents.

	"What do you mean?  He's... dead?"

	"No.  Gone."

	"Because of..." Bobby's hand clenched in his 
bedclothes.

	"No.  He's left us."  Hank cocked his head, as 
though he were listening to someone speaking within 
his own mind.  "I suppose he's the enemy now."

	"Hank, stop it!  You're bein' stupid!  Warren's 
our friend!  He's been here almost as long as me-- 
longer'n you!"

	This seemed to stymie Hank for a moment, then 
the larger boy shook his head.  "No.  Warren's gone.  
He left some time ago, we just never noticed."  A 
strange, humorless smile danced over Henry's lips.  
"And to think-- we used to call him Angel..."



	



	The blood was the first thing he noticed.

	Caked down her lip, streaming from her nose, so 
dark it was nearly black.

	She lay on the floor, crumpled, like a 
marionette with its strings cut.

	Her eyes were empty.

	Xavier cursed.

	She had seemed agitated when he left her.  
Almost on the verge of a breakdown.  And he had left.

	Now she was empty.

	Xavier noted the time in his notebook.

	No worries.

	Eventually, It would come back home.

	Scott could feel Hank walk into the room without 
even turning around.  The older boy's presence 
prickled at his senses, raised his hackles.

	"How is she?"

	"Still asleep.  She's been having nightmares," 
Scott replied softly, looking down at the sleeping 
girl in the bed next to him.

	"Bobby's awake."

	"How is he?"

	"He... doesn't understand."

	"Good."

	"He thinks we can save Warren."

	"He's wrong."

	"I know."

	There was silence for a moment.

	"Your hair's wet," Hank murmured.  "You tried it 
again."  It wasn't a question.

	"Twelve minutes."

	"It was only seven last time."

	"You think I don't know that, Hank?  You think 
it doesn't bother me that I can hold my breath for a 
quarter of an hour?  How about you, McCoy?  Gotten the 
urge to bay at the moon, lately?"

	"I'm sorry, Scott!" Hank snapped back.  "If I 
had something positive to say, I would, but I don't.  
We're all losing it.  You, me, Jean.  Warren's gone.  
Bobby's okay for now, but he can't be far behind.  The 
professor--"

	"What about the professor?" Scott asked, his 
voice icy.

	Hank was quiet.  "I... I don't know.  Sometimes 
I think he's the only sane one here, and other 
times... I think..."

	"If you don't want to say it, Hank, then don't."  
Scott reached out and brushed a lock of hair away from 
Jean's forehead.

	"Hank, I want you to promise me something."

	"What?"

	"If... if I go before you do...  Don't let me 
hurt Jean.  Please."

	Hank's expression remained cool.  "Provided she 
doesn't hurt you, first."

	"Hank!"

	"You've seen her, Scott.  Jean's gone, and 
whatever's left inside isn't going to give us an 
inch."

	"No... she's in there," Scott replied, frowning.  
"She wasn't earlier, but... she is now.  She's 
fighting it."

	"Scott..."

	"If I could give up my soul to save her, I 
would."

	If you still had one left to give... Hank 
thought silently.  If any of us did.




		




	Bobby stared at the ceiling angrily.

	Hank had mumbled something cryptic and walked 
out on him.

	He was alone.  He wasn't tired; he wanted to get 
up.

	So he did.

	He needed to investigate the other side of the 
room.

	The side which had once held a patient, but no 
longer did.

	Grabbing his IV stand, Bobby stumbled across the 
room.

	No sign of a forcefield, nor a sign that one had 
ever been there.

	The other bed was freshly made up with sheets 
that still smelled of laundry detergent, pulled so 
taut that one could bounce a quarter off them.

	No charts, no indication that anyone had even 
been here.

	Suddenly, the infirmary door slammed open.

	Bobby jumped guiltily.

	"Robert, you should be in bed."

	"What's going on here?" Bobby demanded.  
"Warren's gone, Hank's acting crazy, and where's the 
old guy?"

	"What 'old guy'?" Xavier echoed,  his voice icy.

	"Fine, play that game," Bobby snarled. "But 
something's going on around here, and I intend to find 
out what."

	"That tone of voice is not necessary, Robert."

	Suddenly Bobby deflated, and Xavier was reminded 
of just how young the boy was.

	"I'm scared Professor.  What's going on?"

	Xavier wheeled closer, and patted the boy's arm 
comfortingly.

	"Nothing you need concern yourself with, Robert.  
Nothing you need concern yourself with."

	"Nothing...I need... concern myself with..." 
Bobby echoed hollowly.  "Thanks... Professor.  I feel 
better...already."




	




	She was wandering the rooms of her house.

	Not the house where she lived with Professor 
Xavier, or the house where she lived with her aunt and 
uncle.

	The house where she lived with her daddy, back 
when Daddy was still okay, and before he had Gone 
Away.

	But Daddy wasn't there.

	She wandered through the house, looking for him, 
calling his name.  And sometimes she would hear or see 
or smell some trace of him.  The click of a shoe on 
tile, or clack of typewriter keys, or the smell of his 
pipe.  And her chubby legs would pump faster, dashing 
to the room where she was sure he sat, only to find 
it, too, empty.

	Until she opened the door, at the end of the 
hallway, the one she was never supposed to open.

	Mommy's room.

	It was empty.

	On Mommy's desk there was a vase with some funny 
looking flowers in it.

	She went to the vase, and sniffed the flowers.

	"Rosemary," a voice behind her said.  "For 
remembrance.  Remember me, Jeannie.  Remember why they 
took me away.  Don't let them take you away.  Never 
let them take you."

	She turned, her eyes widening, the shout of 
"Daddy!" escaping her lips.

	But when she turned there was Nothing.

	No Daddy, no flowers, no room, no world, just 
blackness, as far as the eye could see.

	And something tugged at her, tugged her down 
into the thick, copper-tinged blackness.  And 
something tugged at her from above, trying to keep her 
from falling, trying to keep her the same.

Then something wrenched, and all her seams gave way.

	And like a torn ragdoll, Jean Grey spilled out 
into the void.




	



	
	Dr. Ronald Rankin looked down at the syringe in 
his hand, at the clear fluid sloshing back and forth.  
He glanced into the lab, at his boy, his only son, 
sitting there with his sleeve rolled up, so brave.

	Ronald frowned.

	It should be him.  

	Which was a ridiculous thought.  He was too old.  
If the serum even took, he wasn't in the physical 
condition to take on all five of the Children.

	It had to be done.

	For the Brotherhood.

	For John.

	For Elaine.

	For humanity.




	





	Hank McCoy rummaged through the refrigerator.  
It was getting on towards dinner time, but somehow he 
doubted anyone would be interested in cooking.  

	Hmmph.

	Celery.

	Some eggs.

	Milk, orange juice.

	Condiments.

	Half a package of raw hamburger meat.  

	There had been hamburgers the night before.

	Hank picked up the carton of meat.

	He could cook something.

	Peeling the cellophane back slightly, the smell 
hit his nose.

	The cold reduced the odor, but it was there, 
fresh, sweet, intoxicating.

	Raw.

	His mouth watered.

	And then his mind filled with the image of 
that... that *thing* that had been Warren, ripping, 
tearing, feasting at the grotesque mass of flesh that 
had been the Blob.

	Bile rose in his throat, and Hank quickly 
wrapped up the raw meat, and shoved it back into the 
fridge.

	He wasn't so hungry after all.




	




	She opened her eyes slowly, taking in the 
ceiling as though it was the first time she'd ever 
seen one.

	Slowly, she sat up in bed.

	Scott slumped in a nearby chair asleep.

	He looked so sweet, Jean thought to herself, 
before it suddenly hit her that she had no idea what 
he was doing in her room.

	Somehow, though, it seemed wrong to disturb him 
when he had found a moment of peace.  Those moments 
must be rare for him, she thought, glancing around her 
room. 

	Sunlight streamed brightly in the open window, 
and Jean could almost taste the approaching spring on 
the unseasonably warm breeze.

	...you are mine...

	Jean shuddered.

	...mine...mine...mine...

	Jean leapt out of bed, and slammed the window 
shut.

	Scott sat up with a start.

	"Jean!" he gasped.  "You shouldn't be out of-- I 
mean, you're awake, and-- er-- I just..."

	"Why are you in my room?" Jean asked, more out 
of curiosity than anger.

	"You... passed out, during the battle with the 
Blob.  I... was worried about you."

	Jean's brow creased.  "Who's the Blob?"

	"What do you mean?" Scott asked, cocking one 
eyebrow.

	"I've never heard of him," Jean shrugged.

	"We *fought* him.  *Today.*"

	Jean frowned, her brow creasing prettily.

	"Warren was moody... said he... had a headache?"  
Jean cocked her head.  "No, that wasn't today... was 
it yesterday?  We had a fight in the Danger Room 
today.  There was a line.  You and Bobby were on my 
team... BOBBY!  Is Bobby all right?"

	Scott's face froze in a mask of horror.  "Jean, 
that was *three days* ago."  

	"I've been out that long?"

	Scott closed his eyes painfully.  "No.  You've 
been here... you fought the Blob with us..."

	"Amnesia?" Jean pondered for a moment.  "No... 
no... I've been dreaming.  For days I've been 
dreaming.  I... I was looking for something.  And I 
couldn't find it."

	Cyclops regarded her seriously.  "Jean.  You've 
been awake for the past few days.  You've spoke to us.  
In fact... you seemed more here then than you do now."

	...mine...mine...mine...

	Jean's eyes narrowed.  "Scott, I think it would 
be best... if you left now."




	




	His head reeling slightly, Hank stumbled into 
the library.

	Books.

	Books made everything clearer.

	They gave you answers. 

	The books knew.

	He scanned the shelves.

	Normally, he'd settle down with a math text, or 
some tome on biology or chemistry.

	The Professor kept a great deal of "research" 
that was entirely too subjective, in Hank's opinion.  
Granted, research on mutants was sparse, and the 
Professor's collection of tattered, self-published 
manuscripts was invaluable, for historical reasons if 
not academic ones.

	But Hank wanted answers.

	And at the moment, any answers would do.




	




	"How are you feeling?" Dr. Rankin asked, 
observing his son's tireless training.

	"Great," the boy grunted, thrusting his chin 
above the pull-up bar.

	"Nausea?  Weakness?  Dizziness?"

	"Nope."

	"Any... new, um..."

	The younger Rankin dropped to the ground, wiping 
his forehead with the t-shirt he'd discarded earlier. 
"Trust me, Dad, I'm fine.  I feel exactly the same-- 
just like you said I would.  I'm not going to develop 
any sort of demonic powers until I get close enough to 
stake those bastards straight through the hearts."

	"They're dangerous, son.  They're more dangerous 
than you think."

	Cal Rankin smiled ferally.  "Yeah.  Well, at 
times, I can be pretty dangerous myself."




		




	Scott walked down the hall slowly, absorbed in 
his own ruminations.  

	Maybe Jean was just blocking out what had 
happened.

	Scott wouldn't mind a little forgetfulness 
himself, actually.

	On one hand, she seemed bright and cheery-- 
*herself* instead of the grim huntress she'd been the 
past few days.

	On the other hand, there was something most 
definitely not-right with her-- he could tell.

	He wanted to talk to her, to tell her 
everything, to tell her about the water and the cold 
and what his powers were really for, or what they 
would be for.  And then she could tell him all of her 
problems, and they would work them out together.

	But he couldn't.  He didn't know why, but for 
now, he had to keep those things to himself. 

	And maybe Hank.

	Scott stopped suddenly, and frowned.

	One of the bedroom doors was ajar.

	It was Bobby's room.

	Carefully, he stuck his head into the bedroom, 
where the younger boy sat on his bed, reading a comic 
book.

	"Hey," Scott said quietly.

	Bobby looked up curiously.  "Hi, Scott!"

	Cautiously, Scott stepped into the room.  
"Feeling better?"

	"Yup," Bobby replied, putting down his comic 
book.  "Slept most of the time.  The professor just 
let me out of the infirmary today.  Feels good to be 
back in my own bed."

	"I, uh... I bet," Scott finished.

	Bobby seemed unusually chipper.  Scott frowned.  

	"Bobby, do you… remember what happened?"

	"Remember... remember what?"

	"Why were you in the infirmary in the first 
place?"

	Bobby frowned, thinking hard.  "I got hurt.  In 
the Danger Room."

	"How did you get hurt?"

	Bobby rubbed at his stomach absently.  "I…  I 
don't really...  Did I hit my head?"

	"No."

	Fear began to creep onto Bobby's face.  "I 
can't... don't want to..."

	"Think back," Scott instructed him coolly.

	"We were playing a game... I froze... Warren.  
It was Warren."  Bobby swallowed stiffly, setting his 
jaw.  "Where's Warren?"

	"Gone," Scott informed him.

	"Professor Xavier kicked him out?"

	"No, he left."

	"Oh."

	"There was a fight.  Warren's... different now."

	Bobby nodded, and his eyes took on a faraway 
look.  "I know.  I dreamt of him.  He isn't like us 
anymore.  Or we aren't like him.  I'm not sure.  
There's something else... someone else.  Someone who 
told me something..."

	Scott wanted to step closer to the rambling boy, 
but hesitated.  Bobby had seemed pretty stable before, 
but he seemed to be tumbling towards the abyss as fast 
as any of them, now.

	"He told me that we are their Children.  And all 
Children have to grow up someday."  Then Bobby's face 
stiffened, and he smiled blandly.  "But it's nothing I 
need concern myself with.  Nothing at all."

	And then he picked up his comic book again.

	Quietly, Scott Summers backed out of the room.




	




	Hank, frustrated, scowled at the pile of 
manuscripts on the shelf.

	Most were amateur works, dealing with the 
fabulous innovation of evolution, a few mentioning the 
possibility of humans evolving into something more.  
Not a knowledgeable opinion in the bunch.  Useless.

	Hank paced the library sullenly.

	Xavier was an expert.

	He couldn't have gained all his knowledge of 
mutation empirically.  

	Suddenly, Hank's eye caught the one glassed-in 
bookshelf in the library.  Xavier had told him that 
the books in the case were exceptionally old and 
fragile, and that they were being kept locked up to 
prevent them from falling prey to too much air or 
sunlight or sticky fingers.

	Hank knew, suddenly, why they were locked up.

	He stared through the casing-- a few centimeters 
of glass that might have been an impenetrable 
forcefield.

	The bottom shelves contained an old Encyclopedia 
Britannica,  several old Bibles and multiple hand-
bound volumes that looked like maybe they were some 
sorts of records.

	But it was the top shelf that intrigued Henry.

	Several books, their calf-skin covers flaking 
and curling about the edges.  Not one appeared to be 
under a century old.  Not one bore a title or author 
on its decrepit bindings.

	One seemed to be nothing more than a bundle of 
papers, wrapped in dark cloth, and bound with leather 
sinew.  Another book; its cover a black so matte it 
almost seemed to reflect into itself; squatted on the 
shelf, exuding a sense of ancient wisdom.  A third 
book leaned against the case, apart from the others.  
Its cover was a pale, wan yellow, and Hank reached 
out, almost involuntarily, to brush the glass 
protecting it.

	"Hank."

	Snapped from his reverie, Hank's head whipped 
toward the door.  "Oh.  Hi, Scott."

	"Something is really wrong here."

	"It took you that long to figure it out?"

	"Jean's awake."

	Hank frowned.

	"She seems... she seems normal.  Like she was 
when she first came her.  But not.  She's nervous-- 
scared.  Yet, she doesn't remember the past three 
days-- nothing since Bobby got hurt."

	"Strange," Hank nodded.

	"Bobby's up, too."

	"I know.  I spoke to him.  Kid's scared out of 
his wits."

	Scott shook his head.  "Not any more.  It's like 
he was trying to talk to me from underwater.  
Sometimes he would surface, and sometimes he'd just 
kind of ramble."

	"You think he's cracked?"

	"I don't know what to think."

	Hank glanced back at the cabinet of decrepit 
texts.

	"I think are answer are behind that piece of 
glass."

	Scott squinted into the case.  "I'm not touching 
those things."

	Hank narrowed his eyes, and drew his fist back.  
"For Bobby."

	Scott grabbed his arm.  "No.  If the Professor 
finds out...  No.  Look.  Give me ten minutes.  Ten 
minutes."

	Hank nodded.

	Ten minutes.




	




	Xavier was sorting through his notes when there 
came a timid knock on the door.

	"Come in," Xavier called, not looking up.

	It was Scott.

	He was nervous.  

	As usual.

	"Um... good afternoon, Professor."

	"Good afternoon, Scott.  May I help you?" the 
Professor asked impatiently.

	Scott stared down at his hands.  "Um… you know 
the boat house out back?"

	"Yes, I am aware of it."  Xavier's tone pushed 
Scott to continue.

	"Well, Hank and I noticed that you had some old 
rowboats out there, and then we got talking about 
fishing, and with a few new boards and a fresh coat 
of--"

	Xavier's heavy key ring hit Scott in the chest.

	"Go to town, Scott.  Just be careful out there, 
some of the floor boards might be rotten.  I haven't 
been out there since I was a child."

	"Gee, Professor, thanks!" Scott exclaimed.

	"No trouble at all, Scott," the professor 
replied absently.  He looked up again, when he heard 
the door shut.  "And do try not to get fingerprints 
all over the Necronomicon.  It's a rare copy."




	




	"Are you sure you're ready?" Dr. Rankin asked 
his son.  "You could take an extra few days to--"

	Cal shook his head.  "Whatever it is you shot me 
up with, Dad… it's not going to stay put that long.  I 
can feel it, bubbling in my veins like champagne.  I 
need to finish this before you need someone to take me 
out, too."  Cal managed a small smile.  His father 
always seemed so strong, so determined.  But right 
now, he just looked like a tired, old man, the scars 
on his face and arms making appear even older.

	Ronald nodded.   "Do you have all your 
supplies?"

	"I do.  I don't know how much good they'll be… 
the literature says that crosses and holy water aren't 
much good against what I'm fighting."

	"But they can't hurt."

	"Right."

	"And your Elder Sign?"

	Cal swallowed.

	"Son, you have to take it.  It's the only real 
way to guard against them and--"

	Cal pulled down the front of his t-shirt, 
revealing his chest.  "I can't, Dad.  It won't protect 
me, not anymore."

	Ronald nodded quietly.  "I should have expected 
that."

	Cal slowly got into his car.  "I'll… I'll take 
care of them, Dad.  You can trust me."

	"I know, son.  Godspeed."

	Cal nodded, and revved the car.

	When his son's vehicle was out of sight, tearing 
down the back roads of New York towards Westchester, 
Dr. Ronald Rankin went back into his lab, and opened 
his log.

	6:23 p.m., he wrote.  Project: Mimic launched.  

	Then he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his 
forehead tiredly.

	Because every time he closed his eyes, all he 
could see was the scar, the twisted, pale scar, burned 
into his son's chest.

	The scar of an unnaturally hot, searing flame-- 
blessed flame against damned flesh.

	In the shape of a twisted, oddly-shapen, five-
pointed star.




	




	"Catch," Scott said, tossing the keys at Hank.

	"Impressed," Hank replied, raising one eyebrow.  
He sorted through the heavy key ring until he found 
one that looked like it would fit the delicate 
bookcase keyhole.

	"We'll be painting a boat later," Scott added.  
"Just so you know."

	"Got it," Hank replied, as the lock clicked 
open.  

	As the glass-fronted door swung open, the smell 
filled the room.  Not just the smell of old paper, but 
the smell of oldness itself-- of things so ancient 
they made cavemen look like a recent development.

	Scott threw a hand over his nose.  "God, they 
stink."

	Hank nodded, his face turning a rather sickly 
green.

	"Jeez, your senses are all jacked up, too, 
aren't they?  My smell isn't very good anymore… for 
Pete's sake, Hank, back up before you lose your 
breakfast."

	Hank shook his head.  "No.  Our answers are 
there.  I'm not letting a little stench get in the 
way."

	"Um... where should we start?" Scott asked, 
glancing towards the books on the top shelf.

	"The bottom," Hank instantly replied.

	"Right," replied Scott.  "Start at the bottom."




	


	

	Jean walked out of the bathroom, toweling off 
her hair. 

	She'd hoped that the hot shower would melt away 
some of the fear and tension that knotted her 
shoulders, but her doubts had only grown.

	Why couldn't she remember the past three days?  
Who was the Blob?  What were the dark whispers that 
kept clawing at the crevices of her mind?  And most 
frightening of all was the most recent memory she had-
- crystallized into her mind like an insect frozen in 
amber.  Warren leaping at Bobby, claws extended and 
then the blood, so much blood, on the floor, on the 
walls, on Bobby, on Warren.  And then it cut off 
abruptly, like someone switching off a light.  Had it 
really happened?  Or had it been a nightmare?  Scott 
had refused to speak of it-- was Bobby dead?  And what 
of Warren?

	Jean shuddered.  She glanced down the long 
hallway of doors.  Closed doors.  So many closed 
doors, what could they be hiding? she thought idly to 
herself, then stopped short.

	Bedrooms.  

	They were just bedrooms.  Her room, Hank's room, 
Scott's room, Warren's room.  They weren't hiding 
anything, they were just rooms.

	Bobby's door was open.

	Jean pulled her bathrobe a little tighter around 
her.

	Why was his door open?  Why wasn't he hiding?  
Or was it because he was dead, and had nothing left to 
hide?

	Quietly, Jean crept up to the younger boy's 
room, and peaked through the partially open door.

	Bobby sat on his bed, facing away from her, 
staring out the open window.

	Jean shivered, the cold breeze icy against her 
damp skin.

	"Bobby?"

	"Hello, Jean," Bobby replied, not looking away 
from the window.

	Cautiously, Jean walked into the room.  "You 
shouldn't keep that window open, it's awfully cold in 
here… well, I guess it doesn't bother you, huh?"

	Bobby was silent.

	"I, um... I'm glad you're all right.  I had a 
nightmare about you-- and for a few minutes, I wasn't 
sure if it was real or not--"

	"There aren't any birds, Jean."

	Jean stopped short.  "What?"

	"There were so many birds.  The day you came, it 
was warm and the birds were singing.  And there were 
birds when Hank and I went out to see the pond.  But 
they're gone now.  They've all gone away."

	Something in Bobby's tone chilled Jean.  Perhaps 
it was the empty, emotionless tone of his voice.  Or 
maybe it was the absolute certainty with which he 
spoke.

	"That's silly, Bobby.  It's cold out, they're 
just all back at their nests."

	"No.  They're gone.  They know."

	"Know?  Know what?"

	The boy was silent.

	Jean quickly crossed the room, and walked 
between Bobby and the window.  She knelt down and 
grabbed his shoulders.  "Bobby, what do they know?  
Bobby?"

	He stared straight ahead, straight through her.  
"Fly away, Jean.  Fly away.  You flew away once, but 
you didn't fly far enough.  Fly."

	Jean swallowed.  

	Bobby's eyes were empty, staring but unseeing.  

	A mindless, babbling doll.

	She didn't want to risk the darkness, but she 
had to know.

	Feeling out with telepathic fingers, she reached 
into Bobby's mind.

	There was nothing.

	No thoughts, no feelings.

	Everything wiped clean, packed up, moved away.  
An empty house, a house where people had Gone Away.  
There had been something built up in its place-- a 
fake, plywood almost-Bobby, but like most fake things, 
it had fallen apart quickly, and shattered pieces of 
it rattled dryly around the boy's psyche.

	Jean pulled back, horrified.

	Because the empty room, the husk that still bore 
the faintest traces of Bobby Drake was soaked through 
with the familiar taste she had felt in her own mind 
many times.  The taste of Charles Xavier. 




	




	A pile of musty books lay scattered on the 
table.  With one exception-- a collection of journal 
articles written by a Doctor Inigo Munoz, they all 
contained the same thing.

	"I don't get it," Scott frowned, pushing his 
book back on the table.  "Geneology.  Generations and 
generations of geneology."

	"The professor was studying mutation.  Perhaps 
he was tracing mutations through family lines.  They 
do seem to loop back on each other enough…"

	"But who are these people?  Our family trees 
aren't there.  These are all backwoods hill people 
from rural New England.  Have you even heard of Arkham 
or Innsmouth?"

	Hank glanced down at the book he was studying.  
"Dunwich.  I've heard of Dunwich.  Sometime… sometime 
since I got here.  Can't remember."  He gripped his 
head.  "Dammit, I can't remember anything any more."

	Scott patted his friend's shoulder.  "It's okay, 
Hank, it'll come to you.  Which family is that?"

	"The Whateleys."

	"Okay.  We've got five main families, here.  The 
Whateleys of Dunwich, the Marshes of Innsmouth, the 
Waites, also of Innsmouth, the Gardners of Arkham, and 
the Akeleys of Townshend, Vermont."

	"Plus the works of our man, Munoz, here."

	Hank scratched his chin.  "The question is, 
Scott, what was Xavier studying?  Munoz's research… or 
Munoz himself?"

	"This isn't telling us anything!" Scott 
exclaimed.  "Why does he have these?  What was he 
looking for?  And frankly, I'm not about to go ask 
him."

	"We aren't going to find the answers here," Hank 
said, his voice quiet, yet determined.  "If there are 
any answers, they're on that top shelf."

	Scott nodded quickly.

	The two boys stood up, and walked back to the 
shelf.  

	"Which one?" Scott murmured, reaching up towards 
the shelf, and reading off the faded titles carefully.  
"_The Book of Eibon_...  _Unaussprechlichen Kulten_...  
_Wonders of the Invisible World_..."  His fingers 
hovered over the slim, yellow volume.  "_The King in 
Yellow_."

	"This one," Hank decided, pulling the huge, 
squatting, black tome from the center of the shelf.

	With a last glance towards the sulfur-colored 
book, Scott followed Hank back to the table.  The dark 
book seemed to be calling to him, setting every hair 
on end.  He reached out, running his fingers down the 
cover.  An electric shock rushed through him, not 
entirely painful, but not entirely pleasant, either.

	Hank shooed away Scott's hand, and lifted the 
heavy black cover.

	Scott screwed up his nose.  "Latin."

	Hank nodded, squinting at the page, slowly 
mouthing out the words.  "It says _The Necronomicon._  
1746.  Translated into the Latin by Olaus Wormius, 
1228.  Original text by Abdul Alhazred, Year of Our 
Lord, 736."

	Scott tapped the inside cover with a raised 
eyebrow.  "I can read this part."

	Hank looked to where he indicated.  "'Property 
of Miskatonic University Library Special Collections.  
Please do not remove from the library.'  Way to go, 
Professor."  He ran his finger down the edge of the 
book, and opened it to a randomly selected page.

	"What is it?" Scott asked, leaning over Hank's 
shoulder, as though his very presence would speed up 
the translation.

	Hank frowned, his brow furrowing.  "I… don't 
know.  He rambles a lot...talks about something he 
calls 'The Old Ones'... but it never says what they 
are."

	"What does it say?"

	Hank cleared his throat.  "Sometimes, from the 
smell, men can tell they are near...  but of their...  
shoot... appearance, I think... no man can know, 
except in the features of those they have fathered 
among mankind.  They come in many shapes... from man's 
very image to the invisible, intangible form which 
is--"

	"What's going on around here?"

	Hank and Scott looked up suddenly, fear choking 
their throats.  Hank slammed the book shut.

	Caught.

	Jean Grey stood in the doorway, the dusky 
sunlight from the windows catching the edges of her 
hair, giving her a sort of flaming aura.

	"Jean, we..." Scott started, without any clue 
how he was going to finish the statement.

	"What is happening to us?" Jean asked, almost 
begging, as she walked deeper into the room.  

	"That's... what we're trying to figure out," 
Hank said quietly.

	Jean ran her fingers through her hair nervously.  
"He talks to me.  He tries to get back in, but I can't 
let him in.  I... I can't.  Because when he's me 
again, he'll do things-- he'll hurt people-- he'll 
call up those things, and...  and I'm afraid."

	Scott stood, and wrapped an arm around her 
shoulders.   "It's okay, Jean.  It'll be okay."

	Jean pulled back.  "It's easy for you to say!  
You don't have shadow monsters trying to get into your 
head!"

	"Of course we do," Hank replied softly.  "We're 
changing.  All of us.  I can feel things in my head… 
falling apart.  Sometimes, at night, I feel the woods 
calling to me."  He opened his mouth slightly, and ran 
his finger across the bottom of his canines, long and 
sharp, like fangs.  "I'm becoming an animal."

	Jean turned to Scott.  "And you?"

	Scott took her hand in one of his own -- she 
hadn't noticed until now how cool and moist his hands 
were --  and held it to his neck.

	Jean gasped at the rush of cool air.  "What...?"

	"Gills," Scott replied simply.  "They're gills."

	Jean set her jaw.  "And Warren?"

	"He gave in," Hank said simply.

	"I won't give in," Jean swore.  "Not without a 
fight."

	"Me, neither," Scott added.

	Hank frowned.  "We may not have a choice."

	"Then we'll find a cure," Scott replied.  "We'll 
find a way to fix ourselves before the darkness takes 
us."

	Jean nodded.  "The only way we can get through 
this is to stick together.  The three of us.  Not the 
professor."

	The other two nodded.

	"What about Bobby?" Hank asked.

	"Bobby's... gone," Jean managed.

	"He's... just in a bad way, right now," Scott 
started.

	"No, Scott.  He's gone.  Xavier wiped him."

	"What?" Scott exploded.

	"He wiped him.  Bobby's a tabula rasa now.  A 
blank slate."

	Scott shook his head.  "But... he spoke to me.  
He was..."

	"He spoke to me, too.  But if Bobby's still in 
there, he's buried deep… too deep for me to go, 
without... without..."

	"He's dreaming," Hank interrupted.

	"What?"

	"Bobby often spoke of strange dreams, that sound 
like the babbling Scott described.  Wherever he is, 
he's dreaming, and the dreams are all that's filtering 
through."

	Scott shook his head again.  "How could the 
professor... how could he..."

	"That's why we have to stick together, Scott," 
Jean said, placing her hand on his arm.  "We can't 
help Bobby now.  All we can help is ourselves."

	Hank reached into his pocket, and pulled out his 
Swiss Army knife.  "We need to make this official.  
Binding."

	Scott nodded.  "The book.  We swear on the 
book."

	Wincing, Hank ran the knife across his palm, a 
line of red welling up.  He passed the knife to Scott, 
who did the same, and looked at Jean.  "Jean... do you 
want me to..."

	Jean took the knife, and angrily slashed it 
across her palm, blood bubbling up, thick and dark.  
She held her hand out over the book, palm up.  Hank 
placed his hand beneath hers, his thick fingers 
cradling her delicate ones.  Scott placed his hand on 
top of theirs.

	"Together," Jean said.  "Until the end."

	"Until the end," the other two echoed.

	A thick drop of blood slid out from between 
Hank's fingers, and splattered onto the dark cover, 
disappearing under into the blackness of its bindings.  

	And the Necronomicon seemed to suck some of the 
brightness from the swiftly darkening room, glowing 
with an absence of light.

	It was a good offering.

	The Necronomicon was pleased.



End Part Six
(Shadow Over Westchester, p7)

Part Seven

"I am a soldier
 I'm a young volunteer
 I fly through the air
 I'm a brave bombardier,
 And I shall rain
 On the people down there
 Never their faces I'll see."
--"Brave Bombardier," Boiled in Lead


	Sometimes he flew and sometimes he swam and 
sometimes he ran through the forest, branches and 
sticks tearing at his legs.

	He was the highest of kings, the mighty 
conqueror.  Thunder groveled at his feet like a 
lapdog, and lightning danced about his sword.

	He was the lowliest of slaves, garbage and 
refuse.  Cockroaches were his companions, rats his 
betters.

	He was handsome and fair, maidens fainting at 
his feet.

	He was hideous and twisted, children screaming 
at his approach.

	He was young.

	He was old.

	He was virtuous.

	He was cruel.

	He was a god.

	He was a monster.

	The stars were not yet right.

	And on and on the Sleeper dreamt...



	



	Madelaine Drake hummed softly to herself as she 
bustled about the kitchen. 

	Willie would be home soon.

	She peeked at the meatloaf in the oven.

	It was probably time to take the vegetables out 
of the freezer.

	Her slippers shsshed as she shuffled across the 
linoleum.

	Grasping the fake-wood grain handle of the 
freezer, she tugged it open.  Cold stole into the 
kitchen, and Madelaine shivered.

	Frosty fog obscured her vision and Maddy 
wondered if Willie had been messing around with the 
icebox again.

	And then she saw it.

	The frost, gathered thick on the walls of the 
freezer, even thicker than usual, forming a perfect 
circle on the back of the freezer, enclosing a 
twisted, curving star.  Like the one of silver she had 
once placed around her son's neck.

	She blinked, and reached out to touch the circle 
of frost.

	It seemed to dissolve under her touch, and 
suddenly, Maddy didn't know if it had ever been there 
at all.

	But she knew, knew without knowing, in the way 
that only a mother can, that her son needed her.



	



	He'd left the car two miles away, on the side of 
the dusty highway.

	As he walked through the night, Cal Rankin tried 
to concentrate on the mission.  Always, the mission.

	Surveillance of Xavier's was impossible.  With 
Xavier's powers, any sort of intrusion would be 
detected instantly.  Which was exactly what Cal was 
counting on.

	The Brotherhood did know a few things, mostly 
from those members who had worked with Xavier: John 
Grey and Erik Lehnsherr.

	There were five Children, four boys and a girl, 
ranging in age from sixteen to eighteen.  There were 
rumors of a sixth Child, but if he existed, he wasn't 
in Xavier's possession, they knew that much.

	Five Children.

	Four boys.

	One girl.

	It was the girl to watch out for, his father had 
told him.

	He wondered when he would start to feel it.

	How close would he have to be?  

	He was within a mile now.  Was that close 
enough?  Maybe it was a matter of a few hundred yards.  
Or feet.  

	So many unknowns.

	Would they be close enough to kill him when his 
nerves would begin to tingle with power and the 
madness started to scratch and claw at the doors of 
his mind?

	He remembered, he did.  His father didn't think 
he remembered that night, the night when Dr. Grey had 
showed up at their house on that dark, cold night, 
leading his pretty young wife with the long, red hair 
that looked so soft.  And Mrs. Grey had said nothing, 
but stared and stared and stared, and she had stared 
at Cal until Mother pulled him away into the kitchen.

	And Mrs. Grey never came over their house again, 
although Father had gone to the Greys' house several 
times.  And a few months later, there was a baby, but 
Mrs. Grey didn't live out that day.

	And Cal could recall sitting in the living room 
that night, playing with some toy or another, hearing 
his father whisper to his mother that when the baby 
was born, Mrs. Grey opened her mouth for the first 
time in six months, and she screamed and screamed and 
didn't stop until all the blood had run out of her and 
she died.

	And the baby hadn't made a sound.

	Yes.  This girl was definitely the one to watch 
out for.




	




	From across a glittering forcefield, two men 
stared at each other.

	Two men who had one been best friends, partners, 
soldiers in a common war.

	And now, a forcefield.

	"I just want to know about the others, Erik," 
Charles insisted quietly.  

	"There are no others."

	"The Brotherhood, Erik.  Grey is dead, and so is 
Darkholme.  There were others.  I don't know how many 
sheep you and Grey managed to conscript, but I know 
you would never play your last card in such a... 
pathetic manner."

	"The Brotherhood is dead, Charles.  It burned 
along with your private dungeon full of monsters."

	"You've seen them, Erik.  They are *children,* 
not monsters.  And like it or not, they are our last 
hope.  Yet, you seek to destroy them, the way you 
burned my laboratory and murdered Subject Alpha."

	"Murdered?  How can you murder something with no 
soul?  Project Gemini is an abomination, Charles!  
Dying in the flames was a thousand times more 
compassionate than what you planned for that… that 
thing."

	"That child?"

	"Call it what you will.  It was a monster, 
either way."

	Disgustedly, Xavier began to wheel from the 
room.  Suddenly, he stopped.  "It was a boy, Erik.  A 
little boy."  And then, without a parting glance, he 
left the room.




	



	Hank's eyes traced over the shelves of books.  
"Everything look right?" he asked with a raised 
eyebrow.

	"I think so," Scott replied.  

	Jean, leaning against one of the other 
bookcases, glanced over the glass-fronted case.  "Did 
you guys look through all of those?"

	"Just about," Hank replied.  "Mostly genealogy.  
A few of those strange books on the top shelf."

	Jean strode across the carpet, and squinted at 
the shelf.  "What's the yellow book?"

	"_The King in Yellow_," Scott supplied.  "We 
didn't read that one."

	Jean frowned and squinted at the book.  "Good."

	Hank shoved the key in the lock, and turned it.  
The lock clicked shut, and Hank handed the keys back 
to Scott.  "Somehow, I feel better with them locked 
up."

	Scott nodded.  "Me, too."

	Jean tugged on the ends of her hair absently.  
"It's not the books that scare me.  It's the thought 
of what someone would need them for."

	The boys were silent.

	"What in hell are we?" Scott mumbled softly.

	Hank raised his eyebrows.  "What in hell, 
indeed."



	



	Cal shivered, and wished he'd worn a warmer 
coat.  

	He was lost.

	He was sure of it.  

	The place was isolated… had he passed it?

	He pulled a book of matches from his pocket.  He 
struck one against his fingernail, and it hissed to 
life, the smell of sulfur stinging his nose.  He held 
it to his watch.  Nearly 9 pm.  The demon's brew had 
been sloshing through his veins for nearly five hours.  
How long?  How long before it took over?  Would he 
make it?

	And what would happen?  Would he turn into a 
monster with teeth and fangs?  Running through the 
wilderness, like some kind of...

	Cal's train of thought trailed off as he stared 
into the woods, and *something stared back.*

	The match burned against his fingers, and he 
dropped it abruptly.  

	Quickly, he lit another, with just enough time 
to see a white-tipped tail disappear into the brush.

	A fox, he realized, noting the abandoned, half-
eaten quail a few feet from the road.  

	And suddenly, the smell of the quail was 
overpowering, irresistible, and his back was burning, 
dear God, it BURNED!  Cal screamed as his hands and 
feet twisted into claws, and huge wings burst through 
his jacket, his shirt, his skin.  Muscle realigned, 
bones stretched.  Cal fell the ground, gasping in 
agony, unable to scream anymore.

	Something dark descended on the quail, and began 
to gnaw on it, almost delicately.  It looked at Cal 
curiously, red eyes staring from a suggestive 
blackness that might have been a face.

	Still aching for breath, but his nerves sparking 
with raw energy, Cal looked up at the creature whose 
mirror he had become.  And he knew that Xavier's was 
only a few hundred yards down the road.  And he knew 
how they rested, unaware of what they were, and what 
they would become.  And in the blackness of what had 
once been his face, Cal Rankin smiled.



	



	In Port Jefferson, Long Island, William Drake 
sat in his armchair, reading the newspaper, when he 
heard his wife walk into the room behind him.

	"What's up, Maddy?" he asked, not looking up 
from the paper.

	"I need to borrow the car tomorrow," Madelaine 
said softly, but with a backbone of steel reinforcing 
her tone.

	William's brows knit.  "How am I supposed to get 
to work?"

	"Bobby's in trouble.  He needs me."

	William frowned.  "The boy called?"

	"No.  I just know.  A mother knows when her 
boy's in trouble."

	William slammed his fist down on the table.  
"Maddy, we've talked about this.  We sent him away to 
that boarding school to keep him *out* of trouble.  
That Xavier fellow can protect him much better than we 
can."

	"That's what he told us," Maddy replied, neither 
confirming nor denying William's statement.

	"I'm sure the boy's fine.  You worry too much… 
because of your cousin's boy."

	Madelaine set her jaw.  "I... just want to make 
sure he's all right."

	"Then call him on the phone."  William scowled.  
"Women.  You never think of the obvious solution."

	Maddy chewed on her lip.  "Okay, William.  I'll 
give him a call."  She started for the kitchen, and 
William looked up from his paper.

	"It's awful late, Madelaine.  Call him in the 
morning."

	"I want to call him now, William."

	William threw down his paper.  "In the 
*morning,* Maddy.  The boy's probably in bed by now."

	"I'm going to call him now."

	"Maddy..."

	Madelaine narrowed her eyes.  "I'm… going… to 
call him… NOW.  Understand, Willie?"

	William frowned, but sat back in his armchair.  
"Yes, Madelaine."



	



	The elevator reached the sublevel and came to a 
gentle stop.

	Xavier wheeled out carefully into his 
laboratory, so much like the one where he and Erik had 
worked together so many years ago.

	The one where David was born.

	Or hatched.

	Or precipitated.

	Semantics.  It was only semantics.

	Ignoring the various data readouts and blinked 
computers demanding his attention, Xavier wheeled to 
the glassed-in enclosure, and flipped on the light.

	She sat on the ground, motionless.  

	Her wrists, scraped raw from the incident of the 
previous day, seemed to be healing well enough.  He'd 
wiped the blood off her face, but her head had just 
lolled to the side again, a curtain of hair obscuring 
her face.

	So much like Davey, and yet, so different.

	It was the eyes, mostly.  The same, milky, 
expressionless eyes.

	But Davey's eyes had never widened in terror, 
never pleaded for release.  And that strange, high-
pitched banshee's keen had never rattled itself free 
from Davey's throat.

	Because Davey wasn't worthy.

	Not a tempting enough prize.

	Not like Beta.  Juliet-Golf Beta-113, the girl 
he refused to name, an empty husk with untold psychic 
potential.  A gleaming new automobile with no driver.  
A steaming banquet with no guests.

	How could the Yellow King resist?

	Xavier rubbed his head.  How *was* he resisting?  
Once the King found a host, he never let go, never 
released his shadowy claws, never relented.  Never, in 
all the books, in all the tales.  Unless he was forced 
out.  A few particularly willful individuals were told 
to have waged battle with the Shadowy King, and cast 
him out for brief periods of time.  But He always won 
in the end.

	Juliet-Golf Beta had no will.  No psychic 
training.  No soul.

	Yet, He seemed to come and go, as though she had 
somehow expelled him from her body.

	Or perhaps... perhaps He left on His own.

	Xavier scowled, and steepled his fingers, lost 
in thought.

	For who could know the whims of the King in 
Yellow?



	

	

	"Tomorrow morning, we'll go down to the 
boathouse, and check out the boat," Scott suggested.  
"And I'll return the Professor's keys afterwards.  
I'll tell him we decided it was too dark tonight, and 
left it to the morning."

	Hank nodded.  "Good.  That sounds good."

	"I doubt you're fooling him," Jean pointed out.  
"He knows when you lie to him."

	Scott nodded, almost imperceptibly.  "But the 
least we can do is keep up appearances."

	Jean shook her head.  "It's all… some sick game.  
He knows that we know, and we know that he knows, but 
does he know that we know that he knows?  He's our 
*leader*...  but he's our enemy, too.  I…  just a few 
days ago, everything was fine.  So much has changed."

	The boys were silent.

	Jean frowned.  "We need to find the man from 
Cape Citadel."

	"What?" Scott burst out.  "He tried to kill us!"

	"But why?  Obviously, he knows something.  
Something about us.  He's like us, but not, so he must 
play some role in this.  And if Xavier isn't willing 
to be straight with us, maybe he will be."

	"You're playing with fire, Jean.  We don't know 
if the professor is with us or against us, but this 
guy *wants us dead.*  We can't trust him, even if we 
could find him."

	"Well, we can't trust the professor, either, so 
I guess that makes them equally good sources of 
information, now, doesn't it?"

	Scott started to open his mouth.  "What do you 
think, Hank?  We swore we'd stick together, so 
whatever the consensus says, goes."

	Hank closed his eyes painfully.  "It's hard to 
think sometimes.  I don't know who to trust.  I... 
I'll tell you when I'm smarter, okay?"

	Scott patted his friend on the shoulder.  "It's 
okay, Hank.  Take as much time as you need."

	Somewhere, far off in the house, the phone rang, 
and all three children jumped.

	"I'll get it," Hank offered, scampering down the 
hallway before Scott or Jean could respond.

	The boy and the girl stood in the hallway 
silently for a few seconds.

	"I'm sorry, Jean," Scott managed softly

	"Sorry for what?"

	"Sorry that it had to be this way."

	"Scott?"

	"Yes, Jean?"

	"Let's walk outside.  I want to see the stars."

	"Okay."

	The night was chilly, but they didn't stop for 
coats.

	The sky was dark, a blue so deep you could dive 
into it.  The stars gleamed brightly, almost painful 
to look at.

	"Do you ever dream of the stars, Scott?" Jean 
asked distantly.

	"No," Scott replied softly.

	"They're beautiful.  More beautiful than 
anything."

	"I... I can't see them very well.  I can't see 
well at night, with the glasses.  It's all red and 
darker red."

	Jean frowned.  "Oh.  I didn't think of that."

	Scott started at the skies thoughtfully.  "I 
don't think my kind was meant to see the stars."

	Jean swallowed.  "There's got to be some sort of 
cure for us, Scott.  So you can see the stars, 
someday."

	"I've been thinking," Scott continued.  "Do you 
really want a cure?"

	"What do you mean?"

	"Would you give it up?  The ability to feel the 
world inside your head... the ability to touch other 
minds with your own...  It's something no one else but 
you has..."

	"It's a curse.  I'd give it up in an instant."

	"Really?"

	"It... it isn't worth the price," she said 
quietly.  

	"True.  True."

	She looked at him out of the corner of his eyes.  
"Would you give yours up?  To see the stars?"

	Scott stretched his arms behind his head.  "I 
used to think so.  I thought there was nothing I 
wanted more than to be normal, and to get rid of these 
damned glasses.  But lately... I've been having 
dreams."

	"Dreams?"

	"Where I'm swimming.  Deep, deep down in the 
ocean.  And it's the most beautiful thing I've ever 
seen.  And there are people there, people like me, and 
I'm home.  And... I wouldn't want to give it all up 
without... without seeing.  Seeing what's down there."

	"Scott.  That's just a dream."

	"Maybe.  And sometimes, I'd give anything to be 
normal… to see the stars and a blue summer day, and 
your…" he trailed off.

	"My what?"

	"Your face," he continued softly.  "I'd like to 
see your face.  As it is.  Not all in red."

	"But?"

	"But, I'm an orphan, Jean.  The professor is the 
closest thing to a father I've ever had, and you know 
how he is.  That feeling of being home... it's 
tempting.  Really tempting."

	"But what if you got there… and there was no one 
there?"

	Scott smiled humorlessly.  "Then I guess I'd 
come back.  I... I just want to know.  To know that 
I'm not completely alone in the world."

	Jean studied her hands for a moment.  "Scott... 
I... just think you should know that I... I..." she 
trailed off.

	"Well, well, well.  Isn't this sweet?"

	Both X-Men looked up, to see a young man, their 
own age, stepping from the woods.  For a moment, Jean 
thought she saw his eyes glint redly, but it must have 
been a trick of the moonlight.

	He was tall, as tall as Hank, with wavy brown 
locks.  His face was square and handsome, like that of 
a young army officer or a star quarterback, but his 
clothes were shredded, and blood-soaked in spots.

	"Who are you?" Scott demanded, his hand flying 
to his visor.

	"Easy, friend," the man replied, stepping 
towards Scott and Jean.

	He blinked, and this time, his eyes glowed for a 
moment.

	The young man brushed back his hair with one 
hand, and reached into his ruined jacket with the 
other.  "You..." he said, looking at Scott,  "are 
Scott Summers.  And you, fair maid... are Jean Grey."

	"How do you know our names?" Jean asked.

	And then she gasped as she felt his mind twist 
around hers, and his power swept by hers, a perfect 
mirror image.

	"You can call me the Mimic," Cal Rankin replied 
with a feral grin, whipping out a vial from his vest.  
Ripping out the stopper with his teeth, he hurled it 
towards Jean.  In his other hand, he held a large, 
dark, wood cross like a makeshift shield. 

	She caught the little bottle telekinetically, 
but was unable to stop herself from getting soaked.

	"Jean, are you okay?" Scott asked.

	Jean's brow creased, confused.  "It's just 
water."

	"Dammit," the Mimic cursed, and tossing the 
cross aside, launched himself at Scott.  "So holy 
water doesn't work on you demons.  We'll just have to 
find something that does."

	Scott let loose a burst of energy from his eyes, 
which was met with an identical burst from the Mimic.  
The larger boy collided with the young X-Man and they 
tumbled to the ground, the frost-covered grass 
crunching under their bodies.

	Jean squinted desperately, trying to tell the 
boys apart in the darkness occasionally punctuated by 
bursts of red.  She cursed under her breath.  It was 
too hard to tell them apart.  There was only one 
course of action left.

	She opened her mind, reaching out toward the 
grappling duo.  She could feel the darkness closing 
in, felt Him clawing at her barriers and she knew 
she'd have to be quick, surgically precise.

	In an instant, she distinguished the familiar 
warmth of Scott's mind, and she poised her mental 
sword towards the other boy's psyche.  But just as she 
was about to strike, a violent hand of psychic 
strength stayed her own.

	::Got a hold... uhn... on you, too, pretty,:: 
the Mimic's voice echoed in his head, as he continued 
struggling with Cyclops.

	Jean gasped.  She couldn't hold on much longer, 
not with the Dark One battering at her mind, but at 
the same time, she was stuck in the Mimic's mental 
grip.  She wriggled desperately, trying to escape 
before she was consumed by blackness, when suddenly, 
the storm subsided.

	The Mimic's hold slackened, and the darkness 
bleeding into the edges of her vision disappeared.

	Jean stumbled backwards, falling to the ground 
as her legs refused to support her.

	The Mimic casually slapped Scott away with a 
powerful backhand, and smirked at Jean.  His eyes had 
gone completely black.

	And then Jean knew they were in trouble.



	



	Seven minutes earlier, Henry McCoy picked up the 
telephone.

	"Professor Xavier's School for Gifted 
Youngsters," he said politely.  "Henry speaking."

	A nervous female voice cleared her throat at the 
other end of the line.  "Um, hello, Henry.  This is 
Mrs. Drake, Robert's mother?  Is Bobby there, dear?"

	Hank paused, and wished his brain was working a 
little better at the moment.  "Bobby's… not home right 
now," he replied slowly.

	There was a small silence.  "What do you mean 
he's not home?  It's eleven at night.  Where is he?"

	Think, McCoy, think! Hank's brain demanded.   
"Er, I meant, he's asleep.  He wasn't home earlier.  
But then he got home.  And went to sleep."

	"Well, can you please go wake him up, so I can 
talk to him?"

	Hank cringed.  Maybe he could just hang up.  
"Uh, no, I don't think that would be a good idea."

	"For Heaven's sake, why not?"  Mrs. Drake's 
voice was beginning to get shrill and desperate, a 
sharp New England accent beginning to grate around the 
edges of her speech.

	"He wasn't feeling well today."  Stupid mothers, 
Hank thought to himself.  Damn mothers.  He blinked.  
Mothers...  mothers...  

	"Well, go try.  This is important, Henry."

	Mothers.  Grandmothers.  Genealogy.  New 
England.

	"Mrs. Drake, are you from New England?"

	The older woman fell silent.  "What does that 
have to do with anything?"

	Dunwich.  He'd heard the word Dunwich before.  
Had Bobby mentioned it?

	"Dunwich?  Massachusetts?"

	Silence.

	"Did you know anyone there named Whateley?"

	Mrs. Drake's voice was low and serious.  "Where 
did you hear that name?"

	"I... I haven't..."

	"Where did you hear that name?" she demanded.

	"Professor Xavier has… books.  Of family trees.  
It was in one of them… I don't know why I brought it 
up..."

	"Bastard," she hissed under her breath.

	"Beg pardon?"

	"Not you.  Look, Henry, I need you to do 
something for me—"

	Suddenly, there was a crash from outside, and 
bursts of red light flashed eerily through the kitchen 
windows.

	"Mrs. Drake, I need to go!" Hank yelped, 
dropping the phone and dashing through the hallway.

	"Henry!  Henry, wait!  Henry!" a shrill, New 
England-tinged voice called from the dangling 
receiver.



	



	Jean Grey was scared.

	She'd thought that nothing could be worse than 
giving in to Him... the shadowy tendrils of his 
presence choking away her soul and forcing her out of 
her own mind.

	That was before he gave up on her, and picked a 
new host.

	Scott was down for the count, and now it was 
just her... and Him.

	The Mimic took a step forward, his black eyes 
like holes cut into his body.  "See what you could 
have had?" he whispered.  "See what you could have 
been?  But you had to fight.  He chose me, instead.  
And now, you'll meet your end."

	"You can't kill me," Jean returned, sheer force 
of will keeping the quaver from her voice.  "If you 
kill me, he can't mimic my powers, and you're homeless 
again."

	"Who said anything about killing you?" Rankin 
replied, smiling cruelly.  "You are the one He wants, 
my beauty.  You are the one with the power."  The 
smile widened.  "You grow drunk with it, the power 
Charles Xavier has given you.  He thinks to build a 
trap for us, but in the end, it will spring closed on 
his own neck."  He cocked his head, listening to an 
unseen voice.  "Yes, you are the one He wants, not 
Xavier's empty pet.  And what He wants... I want."

	Jean screamed hollowly, as her mind was suddenly 
assaulted from all sides with the piercing of a 
thousand knives, dripping with acid.

	She saw Wars of Long Ago, where he bathed in the 
blood of innocents, laughing to the red-black skies.

	She felt the heat of absolute burning; of skin-
curling, flesh-melting, bone-charring burning.

	She heard the screams of terror, the cries for 
mercy, the whimpers for release, and worst of all, the 
silence of hopelessness.

	Her nose was filled with the sick-sweet scent 
rot, of decay, of death in its purest, blackest form.

	But worse of all was the taste.  The dull, 
coppery taste that filled her mouth and made her want 
to spit again and again and again.  The dry, dusky 
taste of old, old blood.

	And then it was all cut off as suddenly as it 
had begun.  Jean sank to her knees, dimly aware of the 
Mimic bellowing like a minotaur.  Through bleary eyes, 
she could see him struggling with his own body— 
muscles shifting with sick, wet, sucking sounds, 
joints snapping, skin bubbling and broiling.

	Hank McCoy leapt out of the darkness, all claws 
and teeth and vicious snarls of the sort that 
shouldn't come from human throats.

	Finish him quick, Hank, before he finishes 
changing, Jean wanted to scream, but her own voice 
refused to work.  And then the transformation was 
complete, and a second man-beast turned to meet the 
first.  Bile rose in Jean's throat at their 
savagery—blood and darker things spattered the lawn.  
The smell of burning hair filled the air as the 
Mimic's eyeblasts slammed into the Beast.  Their 
tumbling struggle took them to the small, rocky bluff 
overlooking the lake and as many new cuts and bruises 
sprang up from the rough terrain as from the slashing 
claws and pounding fists.

	In the melee, Jean knew that Rankin couldn't 
focus his mental assault, and, gathering up every bit 
of strength she had left, she launched her own attack.

	It was surgical.

	It was precise.

	It came just as the Mimic's claws raked across 
Hank's face, dividing it into white banks of flesh 
being slowly consumed by thick, red rivers.  Hank 
shrank back, whimpering and wiping his hands 
desperately against his own ruined face.

	The monstrous boy froze, silenced, motionless, a 
statue.  For ten seconds, then twenty.

	And then... then the Mimic began to recover.  
Slowly, he stood and turned, wiping blood (his or 
Hank's, Jean couldn't tell) away from his black, 
soulless eyes.

	Jean stood slowly, steeling herself.

	It was just her... versus Him.

	And she'd just put everything she had into her 
last attack.

	Suddenly, a shape came barreling out of the 
darkness, blasting red and hurtling towards the Mimic 
like a juggernaut.

	Scott Summers hit the larger boy like a sack of 
wet cement, and the two tumbled into the water with a 
tremendous splash.

	Jean stumbled to the edge of the cliff, but all 
she could see were a few faint bubbles rising from the 
dark, dark water.



	



	"Where are you going, Madelaine?" William Drake 
demanded as his wife pulled her overcoat out of the 
closet.

	"Something's gone wrong there, Willie.  Bobby 
needs me."  She held out her hand.  "I need the car 
keys."

	"Now, listen, here, Madelaine.  Whatever it is 
can wait until morning.  It's late.  You won't do 
Bobby any good if you get in some sort of accident 
before you get there.  Tomorrow morning, we'll go 
together, and—"

	"No," Madelaine replied, her voice taking on a 
faraway tone.  "I'll wait until morning, but this is 
something I need to do alone.  There are some frozen 
casseroles in the freezer.  You'll be fine without 
me."

	"...Maddy?"

	She smiled gently.  "Don't worry, Willie.  
Everything will... work out in the end.  But this is 
about family."



	



	They tumbled in slow-motion through the dark, 
cold depths of the cove, a perfectly choreographed 
ballet of falling and flailing and fighting.

	For the first time in his life, Scott Summers 
felt graceful, balanced... a fish back in water.  He 
was on his home turf.

	If the Mimic felt the least bit off his game, it 
didn't show.

	The two fought desperately, manically.  Gills 
bulged, large bubbles of carbon dioxide floating 
lazily from their throats towards the surface.

	The Mimic wrestled Scott away from him, and 
tossed him through the murky water.

	It was his last mistake.

	As they sank deeper and deeper, Cal began to 
shrink, losing the mass he'd gained from Mimicking 
Hank.

	And more importantly, he was losing his psychic 
abilities, as well.

	Just as he tossed Scott from his shoulders, his 
connections to the King in Yellow were cut off 
abruptly, like a sharp knife through tender flesh.

	Cal Rankin came back to himself in a rush of 
fear and nausea.

	Where was he?  What had happened?  Why did he 
hurt so badly, and why was it so cold, and for the 
love of God, why couldn't he breath?

	And then he felt clammy hands on his neck, 
webbed fingers working their way into gills he didn't 
even know he had.  And he could do little more than 
flail helplessly before the darkness set in again, and 
Cal Rankin lay dead on the floor of Spuyer Devil 
Sound.


End Part Seven
(Shadow over Westchester, p8)
Part Eight
"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by 
 madness, starving hysterical...
 Who walked all night with their shoes full of blood 
 on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East 
 River to open..."
--"Howl," by Allen Ginsberg



	Come out and plaaa-aaay...

	Come on, Bobby, come out and plaaaaaay!

	The sun is shining, the birds are singing, it's 
time to play tag and you're IT!

	Laughter, bubbling up like soda pop.

	Come out and plaaaaaaaay!

	Don't wanna.  It's safe and warm in here.

	Nothing I need concern myself with.

	But Bobby, you're missing all the fun!

	C'mon, Bobby.

	C'mon out and play.




	




	He lay in the bathtub, trying to get warm.

	The cove was really cold, and he didn't want to 
catch pneumonia, or something like that.

	That would be bad.

	It had been so cold down there... so cold.

	But not as cold as the feel of flesh under his 
fingertips.

	Dead flesh.

	Dead by his own hands.

	It's the way of the ocean, something deep inside 
his brain reminded him.  Kill or be killed.  You 
killed for your clan.  You protected your clan.  You 
should be proud.

	Scott Summers lay on the bottom of his bathtub, 
watching bubbles float from his gills up to burst at 
the surface of the scalding bath water, and wondered 
if he would ever be warm again.




	




	Jean Grey sat on her bed, her knees drawn up to 
her chest.

	She was the only one left.

	The only one.

	Warren was long gone.

	The Professor was wrapped up in his own 
distorted little world of Good versus Evil.

	Hank had stumbled off into the woods, clutching 
at his bleeding face.  Maybe he was dead now; Jean 
didn't know for sure.

	Scott... the look on his face as he shambled 
from the water still haunted her.  Jean knew that the 
Mimic would not be returning from the watery depths.  
She wasn't entirely sure that *Scott* had returned 
from the watery depths.  He'd been in the bathroom for 
three hours.

	And Bobby.  Sweet little Bobby, who'd slipped 
away from himself so quietly, like a thief in the 
night.  No, not away from himself... into himself.  
Deep into himself, where the Professor had banished 
him.  A hollow little soldier who would follow 
wherever Xavier led.

	Alone.

	She was alone.

	Alone with a killer who'd left his soul on the 
bottom of Spuyer-Devil Cove, and the husk of a boy 
locked deep within his own mind.

	Unless...

	Unless she could get Bobby *out.*




	





	Warren Worthington III perched on the rocky 
outcropping overlooking the cove.

	Glittering eyes in the darkness of his face 
swept out over the surface of the water.  It gleamed 
in the moonlight like oil.

	Worthington scratched peevishly at one wing 
before taking off into the night.

	It was *just like* Summers to waste perfectly 
good food...




	




	He steepled his fingers and leaned back in his 
chair.

	Things had not gone as expected.

	The Mimic should have been no challenge.  The 
Children should have dispatched him without a single 
bruise.

	Instead, the King had reared his ugly head, and 
possibly cost him the tenuous sanity of two of the 
Children.

	Xavier scowled at the thought of tromping 
through the woods the next morning, looking for McCoy.  
Perhaps the boy would have enough sense to wander back 
sometime in the night.  At least to get his wounds 
bandaged.  If there was gangrene, Xavier was not going 
to be pleased.

	At least Summers seemed be embracing his 
newfound abilities.  That was a plus, as soon as he 
got over his own queasy stomach.

	And Grey had stood against the King, which was a 
pleasant surprise.  She would have been destroyed, 
utterly, without the intervention of the others, but 
it had been a good experience for her.  It would 
strengthen her.

	Drake, on the other hand...  what a complete 
disappointment.  Xavier scowled.  He had expected that 
the minor mind-wipe would quell a few of the boy's 
more annoying hang-ups.  Instead, it had caused him to 
retreat into a babbling catatonia.  Perhaps he would 
respond better to direct commands.  It remained to be 
seen.  Either way, the damage was done, there was no 
sense weeping over it.  The boy seemed to have limited 
potential, anyway.

	He glanced at Subject Beta, lying rag doll-like, 
propped against the glass wall.  Her chest rose and 
fell slightly, as it always had, the only sign of 
life.  Speaking of disappointments...

	Xavier shook his head.  As always, tomorrow was 
a new day.




	



	Henry McCoy curled up on the ground and 
whimpered.

	He hurt.

	Bruises and bangs and breaks.

	One of his paws didn't feel like working right.

	Face was worst off—it hurt all over, and seeing 
was funny.  Maybe it was blood in his eye—scratchy, 
sticky, stiff blood that clung to his face all over.  
Or maybe the eye was gone completely.  

	It hurt, that much he knew.

	But at least he wasn't hungry.

	That was a plus.

	He gnawed pensively on the little strip of 
leather that was left.  The little metal bits tasted 
bad, but there was still a little flavor in the 
leather.

	"Scoooooooterrrr!" a near-by voice called.  
"C'mon, boy, time to come in!  Scoooooooterrrrrr!  
Scoooooooooterrrrrr!  Here, pup!  C'mere, boy!"

	McCoy frowned, and dropping the little collar in 
the dust and scratching some dirt over the remains of 
his dinner, ventured back into the shadows of the 
woods.




	




	Erik Lehnsherr stared up at his ceiling and 
tried to think past the drugs Charles had injected him 
with.

	The Children were falling, he knew that much.  
Falling like caterpillars, right after it rained too 
much tea.  Too much tea... that wasn't good for 
anyone, especially not the kittens.  The poor kittens, 
in all the excitement he was sure someone had 
forgotten to feed them.  It was just like Charles to 
forget the kittens, right when he'd set out ginger 
snaps on the counter, so they'd be easier to find.

	Charles, Charles, Charles, he thought.  You 
can't even take care of kittens, even when they're all 
small and green and fluffy.  What makes you think you 
can take care five Children with otherworldly powers?




	




	She knocked gently on his door, as though he 
might be sleeping, even though she knew he was not.

	There was no answer, so she walked in.

	He sat on his bed, much as she had last left 
him, staring blankly out the window.

	"Hello, Bobby," Jean said gently, sitting on the 
edge of his bed.

	"It's going to storm," Bobby replied quietly.

	Jean glanced out the window at the clear, 
cloudless night.

	"Why do you say that?"

	"The clouds are gathering.  The air is thick.  
Can't you taste it on the wind?  It's going to be a 
big one."

	A tear rolled down Jean's cheek.  "Why are you 
the only one, Bobby?  The only one the madness hasn't 
touched, the only one they don't want?  Why you?"

	Bobby only stared.

	"He wants me, Bobby," Jean went on.  "He wants 
me, and he isn't going to stop until he gets me.  I 
think... I think you're the only one of us who has a 
serious chance to... to get away."

	She brushed a lock of hair away from his face. 

	"That's why I'm doing this."

	And then she entered his mind.




	




	Come out and play, Bobby, come out and 
plaaaaaaay...

	Jean stood in front of a small two-story house, 
surrounded by cheery green hedges and a low chain-link 
fence.  The door was hung with funny signs of all 
sizes and materials.  They were all the same—a 
twisted, starfish shape, enclosed by a circle, with a 
single, flaming eye in the center.

	All around her, she could hear childish laughter 
and taunting voices.

	Come out and play, Bobby!  It'll be fun, you'll 
see!

	She stepped forward and tried the door.  For all 
its wards and protections, it swung inward easily.

	The house inside was completely hollow and 
empty, like a doll's house.  The smell of rosemary 
permeated everything, like smoke.

	Bobby sat propped against one wall, hugging his 
knees to his chest, and rocking slowly.

	Carefully, Jean walked forward and knelt beside 
him.

	"Bobby."

	"Don't wanna."

	"Don't wanna what?"

	"Don't wanna come out and play.  I'm tired of 
playing.  I don't like the way they play."

	"Who, Bobby?"

	Bobby tilted his head childishly.  "The Great 
Old Ones.  They can't get in here.  Did you see all 
the Elder Signs?"

	"What are Elder Signs, Bobby?"

	"On the door, silly.  When the Elder Gods 
banished Them, millennia ago, they left the Elder 
Signs behind to keep Them in place.  It's the only 
thing that holds them back."

	"The Elder Gods?" Jean whispered.  "What are 
they, Bobby?  Can they help us?"

	"They're gone, now.  It's just us and Them, now.  
Until we turn.  Then, it's just Them."

	"We can't hide in here forever, Bobby," Jean 
begged.  "You need to come out.  You need to fight 
Them.  We need you, Bobby.  Hank and Scott...  Bobby, 
I'm all alone.  I need you."

	Bobby's brow creased.  "You can stay here.  
You'll be safe here."

	"I can't, Bobby.  This isn't real.  If we don't 
get out and stop them... I don't know what will 
happen, but it'll be bad.  I know that much.  Please, 
Bobby.  Please come out.  Please come home."

	Bobby's face suddenly took on a serious 
expression.  "My mother."

	"Your mom, Bobby.  You need to come home for 
her."

	Bobby nodded tersely.  "Need to come home."  He 
stood up quickly.  "It's time to go home."

	And then, the landscape blurred together and 
melted into nothingness, and Jean felt herself being 
drawn back to her own body.  Drawn down the path home, 
but there was something in the way.

	Something huge and black, with great dark wings 
blotting out all the light.  And then the thing spoke, 
spoke in a voice she had heard before, hammering away 
at her own mind.

	"That's right, my pretty, it's time to come 
home..."

	Jean shuddered, as she was met by a great wall 
of blackness, and His voice, and then there was 
nothingness.




	




	Bobby opened his eyes blearily, blinking away 
the sleep blurring his vision.  

	"Nothing... I need...  Jean, what are you doing 
in my room?"

	Jean sniffed and wiped a tear away with the heel 
of her hand.  "Oh, Bobby, don't you remember?"

	Bobby ran his fingers through his hair.  "N-no.  
I don't."

	Jean collapsed into sobs, grabbing him in a 
tight embrace.

	"Oh, Bobby, everything's gone so horridly wrong!  
Scott... and Hank...  you're the only one I can trust 
anymore!"

	Bobby frowned and patted her hair awkwardly.  
"It's, um... it's all okay, Jean.  I'll protect you, 
at least as best as I can."

	She looked up at him with expectant, red-rimmed 
eyes.  "Oh, will you, Bobby?  Promise me."

	And Bobby looked down into her eyes, green so 
dark that they seemed almost black, and smiled 
nervously.  "Promise."




	
	



	Xavier was just closing up his books when he 
felt it. 

	A sixth sense, perhaps, or just paranoia.

	He turned around towards the glassed-in pen.  

	She had moved.

	Juliet-Golf Beta-113 sat quietly, her legs 
crossed Indian-style.

	Her hair hung in thick chunks in front of her 
face, but her milky-white eyes stared out from among 
the flaming locks.

	"So... you're back," Xavier greeted mildly.

	A single tear stole down her cheek.


End Part Eight
(Shadow over Westchester, p9)

Part Nine
"I'm nobody!  Who are you?
 Are you nobody, too?
 Then there's a pair of us—don't tell!
 They'd banish us, you know."
--Emily Dickinson



	Six a.m.

	Over seven hours of brainwave activity and it 
seemed to be growing stronger with each passing 
minute.

	She sat curled in the corner of the enclosure, 
staring at him balefully.

	Someone was home in there.

	Xavier snapped his notes shut.  Enough wasting 
time.

	It was time to take Experiment Juliet-Golf Beta-
113 for a test drive.




	



	William Drake stood shivering in the driveway as 
he watched his wife bustle about, preparing for her 
trip.

	"I still don't see why I can't come along," he 
grumbled irately.

	Madelaine stopped for a moment, and rubbed his 
shoulder.  "If you're going to stand out here in the 
cold, you should at least go put on a coat."

	"If Bobby needs help so desperately, then I 
certainly think that as his father—"

	She smiled gently.  "William, be quiet.  It's my 
fault he's in so much trouble to begin with.  I don't 
want to put you in danger, too."

	"What's this danger you keep talking about?  
Don't you think we should call the cops if..."

	He trailed off as Jack Simmons jogged down the 
street in the same jogging suit he'd dutifully put on 
every morning at 5:30 am since the day Charles Xavier 
first visited Port Jefferson.

	"The police can't do any good here," Madelaine 
replied, adjusting the carved wooden Elder Sign around 
her neck.  "And neither can you."

	"Then what are you going to do?" Drake demanded.

	Maddie returned a Chesire grin.  "The same thing 
any girl from Dunwich would do.  Fight to get her son 
back.  No matter what he is."




	




	Hank McCoy stretched lazily, the frost-coated 
grass crunching as he shifted position.  He'd curled 
up in a pile of leaves to keep himself warm the night 
before, and now they stuck to him in a way that would 
have been comical if one could ignore the fact that 
most of them had stuck to the half-congealed blood 
coating his body.  Some of it was his own.  Some 
wasn't.

	He sniffed at one arm hesitantly.  He was sure 
it had been broken the night before, but the pain had 
faded down to a mild but persistent throbbing.

	His right field of vision was still empty, but 
whether it was from the caked blood covering his eye 
or any actual impairment to the eye itself was beyond 
his comprehension at the moment.

	And he was hungry again.

	But first things first.  Hank licked at the 
blood on his arm, trying to clean up the appendage.  
The blood was stiff and tacky against his skin, and he 
wanted it off.

	Suddenly, there was a great flapping from above, 
and Hank was on his feet, skittering backwards into 
the brush.

	A dark shape fell out of the sky, dropping into 
a boneless crouch on the cold, dry, forest floor.  It 
sniffed the pool of blood-soaked leaves where Hank had 
bedded down the previous night, then looked up, its 
eyes glittering like obsidian in its dark, dark face.

	And then it dropped an object into the leaves.

	Cautiously, Hank took a step forward, sniffing 
cautiously.

	The creature gave its offering a none-too-gentle 
kick, causing it to tumble forward and roll to a stop 
at Hank's feet.

	It was a rabbit.

	Was.

	It's throat had been ripped out, and its fur 
stuck up in bloody spikes, like a child's stuffed 
animal after candy apple had been drooled all over it.

	Hank looked up, braving eye contact with his 
benefactor.

	"Gowon.  Eat," the thing said, each word ripped 
from its throat like a rusted wire from old concrete.

	Hank took a cautious nibble, and the thing 
reached forward carefully to pat him on the head.

	"Missed you."

	And then the thing that had once been Warren 
Worthington hunkered down in the leaves to watch his 
friend eat.




	




	Harvey "Widowmaker" Whittaker examined himself 
in the mirror.

	Today was the day.

	He was supposed to be a villain of course, he 
knew that.

	It was all a part of the game.

	But today was the day he would taste fame.

	Taste victory.

	He ran his fingers over his slick hair.  
Perfect.

	Harvey turned around, taking in the entire 
outfit.  The black stretchable body suit fit snugly 
over his body, and he was a little embarrassed about 
it.  Grown men, running around in such costumes...  
But that was the way it was done, wasn't it?

	If you wanted a piece of the pie, you needed to 
walk the walk.  Talk the talk.  Wear the funny 
clothing.

	And Harvey Whittaker definitely wanted a piece 
of the pie.

	He could taste it already.




	




	Bobby stumbled out of his room, yawning and 
stretching.  Almost nine-thirty.  Wasn't like the 
Professor to let them sleep in so late...

	He went down to the kitchen, and started to pour 
himself some cereal, but the emptiness of the house 
was grating on him.  Abandoning his breakfast, he made 
his way through the mansion, glancing through every 
room.  He even peeked into Xavier's office to make 
sure the older man wasn't just ignoring his knock.  He 
wasn't.  The office was empty.

	Shutting the door, Bobby ventured up the stairs.  
"Professor?" he called tentatively.  "Scott?  Jean?  
Hank?  Anybody?"

	One by one, Bobby ventured through the empty 
bedrooms.

	Warren's was dim and smelled slightly musty.

	Hank's was messy, as though a twister had swept 
through, tossing books and clothing haphazardly over 
the floor.  The sheets hung off the bed and dripped 
onto the floor.

	Scott's was dark as well and had a dank smell to 
it.  The bed was unslept in.

	Jean's room was merely empty.

	The bathroom door was almost swollen shut.

	Bobby frowned, and knocked.  "Hey, anybody in 
there?"

	He put his hand against the door.  The door, 
though constructed of new wood to replace the door 
Warren had broken, was warped and almost moist to the 
touch.  Bobby tried the knob, but the door refused to 
fit through the frame.

	He put his shoulder to the door and gave it a 
hard shove.

	With an angry groan, the door swung inward.

	Bobby nearly choked in the steamy interior of 
the room.

	Water condensed on the walls and ceiling, 
dripping into widening puddles on the floor.  The 
bathtub was filled to the brim; it was obvious that 
water had ran over the porcelain tub and onto the 
floor soaking the little pile of clothing that sat 
next to its clawed feet.  The mirror was blanketed by 
a layer of foggy steam.

	The room was empty.

	Bobby frowned.  Some of the steam was beginning 
to clear through the open door, although it still felt 
like a rain forest in the bathroom.  Who would leave 
the room like this?  

	Carefully, he stepped towards the bathtub and 
the forgotten clothes, his sneakers squeaking loudly 
on the wet tiles.

	The clothes were blue and gold—an X-Man uniform, 
Bobby realized dumbly.  He started to pick it up—he 
could probably guess its owner by size, when something 
in the tub caught his eye.

	The tub water was cloudy... bits of tannish-grey 
substance floated in it making the water swampy, but 
on the bottom, something red glinted.

	Swallowing thickly, Bobby rolled up his sleeve 
and plunged his arm into the tub.  Belatedly, he 
realized what was clouding up the water—chunks of 
skin.

	He stumbled backwards with the realization and 
his feet failed to gain traction on the soaked 
linoleum.   His feet slammed into the tub, sloshing 
water and skin onto his jeans as his rear hit the 
ground.

	For a moment, Bobby sat on the floor, his eyes 
closed, gathering his nerves.

	And he hadn't managed to grab the red object off 
the bottom of the tub.

	Slowly he stood up, steeling himself.  Skin 
flaked off all the time.  Maybe it was natural.  Maybe 
it wasn't skin...  Maybe it was..., er, it could be... 
hell.  It was skin.

	He wondered if there was something he could use 
to fish the object out of the tub.  After a few 
attempts with the toilet plunger, he realized that it 
wasn't going to work.

	Swallowing the bile that rose in his throat and 
closing his eyes tightly, he knelt beside the tub and 
thrust his arm in, fingers questing desperately for 
the object on the bottom.  His hand closed around it 
suddenly, and he drew his arm out, careful to not get 
anything hung up on his arm.

	Finally, he opened his hand... and his eyes.

	His breath caught when he realized what the 
slick, slimy object in his hand actually was.

	Scott's glasses.




	





	Xavier carefully pulled the car into a 
handicapped space and turned off the ignition.

	He glanced over at the figure in the passenger 
seat. 

	She sat, board-stiff, staring out the window.

	It wasn't fascination, though it was the first 
view she'd had outside of the mirrored walls of her 
cell.  It was simply a direction to look, so she 
looked.

	Xavier surveyed her appearance carefully.  She 
was dressed in a simple blue dress, with a paler blue 
cardigan pulled over top.  Her pale blue stockings 
matched the sweater.  On her feet were patent leather 
Mary Janes.  Her fiery hair was held back from her 
face with a blue ribbon, tied in a bow on the top of 
her head.  He frowned, hoping she looked all right.  
He wasn't quite sure how a girl her age should be 
dressing, but he'd done his best.  She looked strange 
out of the blue and gold uniform she wore in her cell.

	After unbuckling her safety belt, Xavier used 
the lift on the van to lower himself to the ground, 
then wheeled around to open the passenger's side door.  

	"We're here," he announced sharply.  "It's time 
to get out."

	She sat and stared.

	"I know you can here me.  Enough of this 
nonsense."

	Slowly, her head turned, until pale eyes stared 
straight through him.

	Xavier wasn't impressed.

	"We don't have time for this."

	She cocked her head, causing her hair to tumble 
over her shoulder like a crimson waterfall.  A hand 
reached up and began to tug at her hair absently, 
twisting it around the fingers.

	"MADELYNE!"

	Suddenly, the hand tightened on the hank of 
hair.

	"Never forget who is in charge here," Xavier 
said, his voice low and dangerous.

	Her hand tightened, knuckles whitening.

	Xavier's eyes began to narrow, and he reached 
out mentally.

	The second his mind brushed hers, the lock of 
hair gave way, snapping loose into her hand.

	She stared at it blankly for a second, then, 
carefully laying it on the seat like a beloved doll, 
hopped out of the van, and closed the door behind her.

	"Good girl," Xavier congratulated as they headed 
for the building.




	




	Bobby stumbled out of the bathroom, still 
gripping the glasses tightly in one hand.

	"Professor?" he called, his voice cracking with 
fear.  "Jean?  Hank?  Somebody ANSWER me!"

	"I'm in here..." Jean's voice rose in a musical 
sing-song from the other end of the hall.

	Centering on the sound of her voice, Bobby 
dashed down the hall, and crashed into her room.

	Jean sat on her bed, a slim book on her lap.  
She looked up, raising one eyebrow confusedly at 
Bobby's entrance.

	Bobby looked around the room wildly.  "You... 
weren't here."

	Jean blinked.  "Bobby,  I've been in here all 
morning."

	"No.  No, you weren't.  I checked in here, I 
called your name, you weren't here."

	Concern creased her brow.  "Bobby, I was here.  
God, you're so pale, you look like you've seen a 
ghost."

	Still breathing heavily, but slightly more 
composed, Bobby held up his hand, extending the 
glasses.

	"Those are Scott's," Jean frowned.  "Why do you 
have them?"

	"I found them.  In the bathroom.  Scott's gone."

	"I'm sure he's around," Jean replied, setting 
her book in her lap.

	Bobby swallowed stiffly.  "No.  The bathroom... 
it was...  he's gone, Jean.  Trust me.  He's gone."

	For a brief second, Jean's eyes seemed sad, and 
a little greener at the same time.  But then the 
brightness bled out of them, and she looked up at 
Bobby.  "Oh, Bobby, what are we going to do?  Have you 
told Hank?"

	Bobby looked away angrily.  "I can't find him.  
I think... I think he might be gone, too."

	Jean shrank back slightly.  "I... I thought as 
much.  I've been having these... dreams... and..."

	Bobby looked up.  "Dreams?  What kind of 
dreams?"

	She twisted her hands together in her lap.  "The 
awfullest kind.  It's dark, and the ground drops out 
from under me... and sometimes I 'm not me, I'm 
someone else... someone... not quite... human."

	Bobby's eyes narrowed.  "I've had those, too."

	"Oh, Bobby, I'm so scared, and I don't know what 
to do..."

	Bobby gritted his teeth.  "I'll tell you what 
I'm going to do.  I'm going to find the professor, and 
make him tell us the truth.  I want to know what's 
happening to us.  No more games."

	Jean twisted one hand through her hair 
nervously, the coppery strands tightening around one 
finger.  "He's not here.  He left, early this morning.  
I saw him, but I don't know where he was going."

	"But he left his study open," Bobby frowned.

	Jean remained silent, her hand still working 
through her hair.

	"I'm going through his stuff," Bobby decided 
suddenly.

	Jean looked up at him, eyes wide.  "No, Bobby, 
don't.  If he finds out—"

	"What's the worst that can happen?  He'll punish 
me?  Kill me?  Better than turning into a demon."

	"I don't—"

	"Don't worry about it, Jean," Bobby snorted.  
"You stay here.  I'll be back."

	"Bobby..."  Her voice was soft and pleading.  He 
turned slightly.  "Please be careful."

	A grim smile stole onto his face.  "I'll try."

	As the boy walked out of the room purposefully, 
shutting the door behind him, Jean picked up the slim, 
yellow volume in her lap and kept reading.

	Idly, her hand twisted through her hair. 
Suddenly the fingers jerked, wrenching a curling, red 
lock from her scalp.

	Jean yelped at the sudden pain, then glanced 
away from her book at the bundle of hair in her hand.  

	Now, why on earth did I do that? she wondered.

	And then went on reading.




	




	Scott hadn't gone nearly as far as Bobby had 
expected.

	He stood on the lip of the cliff overlooking 
Spuyer Devil Cove.

	Its dark, cold waters lapped viciously against 
the base of the cliff, ramming themselves against the 
grey rock again and again.

	Scott looked down at them, and transparent 
eyelids flickered over glowing, red eyes.  Air rushed 
from the pale, rubbery gills on the sides of his neck.  
He wouldn't be able to breath air at all much longer.

	Into the drink, Scotty boy, into the drink.

	You'll never learn to swim sitting on the edge 
of the pool.

	His body felt dry and heavy, and he needed to 
take to the water soon.

	Such was the way of his kind.	

	There was no reason he couldn't wade into the 
gentle depths of Breakstone Lake, less than a mile 
south.

	Except for the cold, soggy corpse sitting on the 
floor of the cove.

	Scott shuddered.

	Into the drink, boy.

	It shouldn't be like this, he thought to 
himself.  It's not supposed to be like this.  I'm not 
one of the monsters.  I'm an X-Man.  I'm an X-Man.  X-
Men don't kill.  

	He cocked his head.  Where had he gotten that 
idea?  The X-Men might kill, but they'd only kill the 
monsters, right?

	Right?

	He shuffled his feet in the dirt.  It felt 
gritty and disgusting under bare feet.

	Into the drink, boy.

	The foam-tipped waves slammed angrily into the 
cliff.

	Breakstone Lake was just down the coast.

	But Spuyer Devil Cove was where it had all 
begun.

	Might as well keep with tradition.

	Into the drink, boy.  Into the drink.




	




	Xavier sat impatiently in the audience, tapping 
his finger on the arm of his wheelchair irritatedly.

	He'd named her.

	The name had hovered in his head for a long 
time, maybe since the beginning.  Since she stopped 
being a frothing test tube of chemicals and became a 
she.  She became a Madelyne.

	You shouldn't have done it, Charles, he told 
himself.

	You named Davey, and look what happened.

	Look what happens when you care for your 
creations.

	You aren't God, Charles, they aren't people.

	They're Things.

	Had Erik told him these things, or were they his 
own thoughts?

	It was hard to remember anymore.

	They aren't people, they're Things.

	He looked over at the girl seated next to him, 
her hands folded serenely in her lap.

	A small trickle of blood dripped down from her 
hairline.

	Xavier sighed, and pulled out his handkerchief 
to wipe away the evidence of her self-mutilation.

	The girl didn't move or blink.

	Xavier noticed a small boy seated in the row in 
front of him, turned around, and staring intently.

	"Yes?" Xavier asked impatiently.

	"Your little girl sure has funny eyes!" the 
child lisped.  Both his middle teeth were missing, 
which caused him to whistle slightly as he spoke.

	"She's blind," Xavier replied brusquely.

	"Really?  Hi, girl!  Are you really blind?"

	She did nothing.

	"Hey, can she hear me?"

	"Gerald, turn around," an overweight woman in a 
flower-printed dress scolded.

	"Momma, look, that girl's blind an' deaf!" 
Gerald exclaimed.

	"That's no reason to point and start.  People 
are people, Gerald, you wouldn't want her pointing at 
you."

	Things.

	Not people, Things.

	Just like the Children.

	Things.




	
	



	Bobby Drake stood in Professor Xavier's office, 
determination on his young face.

	Unfortunately, he had no clue where to begin.

	The desk was filled with volumes of bland, 
meaningless paperwork.  Statistics on how they had 
performed on various training exercises and written 
exams.

	Books on chemistry and biology and genetics and 
philosophy and strategy.

	No strange, dusty tomes, glowing with power.

	No molding scrolls that would crumble at his 
touch.

	Nothing at all to suggest the Professor wasn't 
the average reclusive academic.  

	Bobby scowled.

	He'd searched the room over – the desk, the 
closet, the file cabinet, the bookshelves.

	He stared angrily at the molding, hoping to find 
an answer in the dark, curved swirls of mahogany.

	He realized that he was staring at the 
tastefully-hidden doors of Xavier's private elevator.

	The one they had been bid never to touch.

	Which seemed like a reasonable rule at the time.

	Especially since none of them owned the key.

	Bobby frowned.

	Desperate times called for desperate measures.

	He opened the elevator and crouched next to the 
key hole, trying to peer through it.  Then he extended 
a tendril of ice into the lock, feeling around the 
tumblers, then hardening it into a frozen key.  He 
twisted it.  The elevator hummed to life.

	Bobby grinned, and reached for the lever.

	To his surprise, the elevator went up—or down.

	Smiling grimly, he pulled the lever down.

	


	

	

	Harvey Whittaker was in his element.

	He strode into the auditorium, reveling in the 
boos and hisses pouring from the crowd.

	He twirled the end of his pencil-thin, handlebar 
mustache, and barked out his trademark hideous cackle.

	The crowd went ape.

	Whittaker leapt into the ring, flexing his 
muscles, and striking dastardly poses.

	The boos increased into a roar.

	"BOOOOO, Widowmaker!"

	"Look at that big hambone!"

	"Unus will make mince-meat of him tonight!"

	Whitaker narrowed his eyes at the man in the 
opposite corner of the ring.  Tall and dark of hair 
and skin, his lips were twisted into an arrogant 
sneer.

	Whittaker had heard stories of Unus.  One of the 
most popular "heroes" on the circuit.  Handsome, dark-
haired, popular Unus the Untouchable.  But the stories 
he'd heard traveled the circuit only through the 
wrestlers—whispered from hushed mouth to hushed mouth.  
Rumors that when you were in the ring with Unus, it 
was real, and you would not win, and there would be 
pain.  Lots of pain.

	Whittaker had scoffed.

	But looking into the man's black, glittering 
eyes, he saw it.  Pain.  His own pain.  The pain of a 
hundred others Unus had twisted, beaten, destroyed, 
while the crowd watched on, cheering blithely.

	The Widowmaker was frightened.

	Then referee blew his whistle, and the two 
cornered off in the ring.

	A hungry smile crept onto Unus' face.

	Widowmaker took a step forward.

	Unus stood his ground.

	The crowd was silent, waiting.

	Widowmaker attacked.

	The second his outstretched hands reached for 
Unus, he felt it.

	A few centimeters from the handsome man's skin, 
was the pain.  The pain that exploded into his veins, 
white stars bursting against his retinas.

	And Unus grabbed hold of him, the pain spreading 
exquisitely through Widowmaker's limbs.  It was a pain 
that refused to numb, renewing itself every second.

	The crowd howled.

	Harvey's mind screamed for release, but it would 
not come.  Words refused to leave his mouth.

	Pain filled his world.

	And Unus smiled.



	




	Xavier sat silently, the only one privy to the 
private torture chamber of Harvey Whittaker's mind.

	To the outsider, they were wrestling as in any 
other match.  Whittaker wasn't even conscious of his 
own moves, locked in the excruciating sting of Unus' 
flesh.

	Slowly, Xavier's lips moved in a single word, 
barely above a whisper.

	"Now."

	Experiment Juliet-Golf-Beta 113 leaned forward 
in her seat.





	




	Unus reveled in the pain of the pathetic 
meatling they'd fed him this time.  The pain, like 
sweet wine, coursing through his body, strengthening 
him, feeding him.

	The power of his ancestors.

	The power of Unus.

	And then, suddenly, the pain of a thousand 
knives coursed through his brain.

	Unus' body straightened into a sudden line, 
every muscle tensing past its limit.  Whittaker was 
still clutched in his tightening grasp.

	There was a sick, wet snap, as their spines 
snapped in unison.

	The crowd fell silent as the two men fell to the 
mat, unmoving.

	The referees rushed forward, feeling for pulses, 
barely noticing the look of pure ecstasy gracing the 
face of Harvey "Widowmaker" Whittaker.

	And then the crowd clambered about the ring, 
wanting an explanation, shouting turning to screaming.

	No one notices as one wheelchair bound man led a 
pale, blind girl towards the exit.




End Part Nine
(Shadow over Westchester, p10)



Part Ten

"Wade in the water...
 Wade in the water, children.
 Wade in the water...
 The Lord's gonna trouble the water..."
--Traditional



	Madelaine Drake let out a deep breath as the 
great, white mansion loomed into view.  Dark ivy 
climbed the sides of the building, choking the 
windows.  

	Shutting off the car, she made her way up the 
crumbling path to the door.  There was no doorbell, 
only a large, unornamented knocker.

	Carefully, she knocked, listening to the loud 
boom echoing into the depths of the house.

	And then she waited.

	And waited.

	And waited.

	Finally, the door opened-- barely a crack-- and 
a pair of dark eyes stared out.

	"Yes?" a girl's voice asked distrustfully.

	Madelaine scowled.  "I'm Madelaine Drake.  
Robert's mother."

	The girl's eyes widened, and then she threw the 
door opened.  She appeared about sixteen or seventeen, 
with red waves of hair falling about her shoulders.

	"Bobby's not here," the girl excused, blinking 
large, innocent eyes.

	"Where is he?" Madelaine demanded.

	"Professor Xavier had to go to a conference so 
he gave us all the day off.  The boys went down to the 
lake to fish.  I had a headache, so I stayed here."

	"When will they be back?" Madelaine pressed.

	The girl shrugged.

	"When will the professor be back?"

	Shrug.

	"Is there some way I can contact him?"

	Shrug.

	Madelaine gritted her teeth.

	"Where's the lake?"

	There was a pause, then the girl lazily extended 
a finger southward.  "That way.  Just through the 
trees."

	"Thank you," Madelaine growled, not meaning it.

	"No problem!" the girl chirped.  "Madelaine's 
such a nice name.  My middle name is Madelyne.  With a  
y."

	"That's nice, dear," Madelaine replied, not 
caring in the least.  "I'm going to go find Bobby 
myself."

	The girl's eyes widened.  "You should be 
careful.  The woods aren't very safe."

	"I'll be fine," Mrs. Drake replied, shouldering 
her purse. 

	"Bye!" Jean called as she watched Bobby's mother 
set out across the lawn.  Then she carefully closed 
her eyes, and reached out to the two barely human 
minds crouching in the woods.  The minds perked up, 
eager for instructions.

	A thin smile slipped onto Jean's face.  ::Take 
care of her.::




	




	Bobby frowned, glancing around the tiny, cramped 
basement lab.  An immaculately kept desk took up most 
of the narrow room.

	Bobby sat down at the desk.

	It faced a large glass window leading into a 
room where the walls were covered with some sort of 
grey padding.  Bobby frowned.  He opened one of the 
desk drawers.  Stacks of thin notebooks, so old that 
the paper was beginning to yellow, sat in the desk.

	He picked on up, and flipped to the first page.

	A series of dates, followed by the words "No 
change."  

	Dates after dates after dates.

	Sorting through the notebooks, the earliest ones 
dated back to 1951.

	In the third drawer was a pad which seemed to be 
the newest.  The content was different as well.  

	Data he didn't understand, mostly involving 
brain waves and heart rates.  Bobby frowned, his brow 
creasing.  What was all this?

	He got up from the desk, and walked over to the 
window.  There was a door to the room, though Bobby 
suspected it was locked.

	He walked over to the door and tested the knob, 
and found himself mistaken.

	Carefully, he made his way into the room.  In 
the back corner, the padding on the walls and floor 
were smushed, as though someone had been sitting in 
the same position for a very long time.

	Bobby walked closer, examining the indentations.

	And then he saw the dark stains, soaked into the 
dingy, grey padding.

	"My God..." he murmured.

	


	




	Food.

	And lots of it.

	Warren crouched in the woods, every muscle taut, 
waiting.

	He watched the old, fat female clumsily make her 
way through the woods.

	The Mistress wanted the woman taken care of.

	Warren was only too happy to oblige.  When it 
was time.

	Suddenly, with a slight shift of weight, a twig 
snapped beneath his feet.

	The woman turned suddenly, her eyes darting 
through the woods.  Her hand grasped at the front of 
her dress.

	Warren couldn't take it any longer.  
"Hnnngrryyyy..." he rasped, and leapt forward, in an 
arc of leathery wings and shadow.

	To her credit, Madelaine Drake never screamed.

	Her hands closed around the Elder Sign about her 
neck and she brandished it like a shield.

	Warren fell back, hissing.

	A grim smile crept onto Madelaine's face as she 
took a step forward.

	Warren winced, torn between the nearly-
overwhelming urge to run and the Hunger... the all-
consuming Hunger.

	She rummaged through her pocket, and pulled out 
a second Sign, tiny and silver, which she hurled at 
the cowering creature.  As it sailed through the air, 
about three feet from Warren, it burst into blue 
flames and hurtled into his shoulder like a miniature 
comet.  Screeching in pain and fear, Warren scampered 
into the woods, slamming his body into trees and 
bushes, trying to scrape off the Sign.

	Madelaine nodded grimly and started to lower the 
Elder Sign in her hand, when it burst into flames.  
Her eyes widened in confusion and horror for a 
fraction of a second.

	The fraction of a second before she was slammed 
face first into the ground, the Elder Flame burning 
through her body, and great, sharp claws, tearing at 
her back.

	As Hank McCoy pulled her charred, torn body back 
towards the mansion, the Elder Sign tumbled away, 
smoking in the grass.




	




	Bobby numbly stumbled out of the dingy, padded 
room, nearly ramming himself into Xavier's desk.  His 
stomach churned and his head swam.

	Blood on the wall.

	There was blood on the wall.

	He'd half expected it to come away on his 
fingers, staining his hand red; a deep incarnadine.

	Bobby realized he'd been staring at his fingers, 
long and pale.

	Something was wrong.

	Everything was wrong.

	Leaning on the desk, he took a deep breath and 
looked up around the room.

	There was another door.

	Another door.

	Who knew what dragon, what manticore, lay behind 
the heavy oak door?

	Bobby didn't want to know.

	But he needed to.

	Mechanically, he stood up and walked across the 
room to the last door.  He began to open it, his hand 
slipping slightly on the cold, brass knob.

	It was locked.

	Xavier hadn't locked the padded room with blood 
on the wall, but he'd locked this one.

	Bobby closed his eyes, and bright frost crackled 
over the door.

	Suddenly, the temperature of the wood plummeted, 
and the door shattered to splinters.

	Bobby frowned.  He hadn't meant to overdo it.

	Tentatively, he crept through the doorway, his 
eyes warily shifting about the stark white room.

	It was large, larger than the office outside.

	A single bed stood in the middle of the room, 
surrounded by strange machines, creating a shimmering 
forcefield around the bed.

	And lying in the bed, white straps holding him 
to the bed, was the man who had attacked Cape Citadel.

	Bobby's breath caught in his throat.

	The man lay, unmoving, his silver hair tangled 
and slightly dingy.

	His face was turned away from the door, and the 
gentle rise-fall motion of his chest seemed to be 
absent.

	Bobby worried his lip with his teeth.

	He couldn't be...

	He wasn't...

	Bobby took a step forward.

	With a wet, ragged breath, the old man turned 
towards him.

	Bobby nearly stumbled, but managed to keep his 
footing at the last moment.  "What's... what's he 
doing to you?" he sputtered.

	"Get out..." the old man's voice creaked.

	Bobby scowled, straightening up.  "Look, I'll 
get you out.  This isn't right."

	"Go," the old man repeated, his voice rising in 
pitch and intensity.  "Leave.  They are Gathering... 
they'll take you, too, if you don't get out of here!  
NOW!"

	"I'm can't just leave you here all tie—"

	Something hard and heavy slammed into the back 
of Bobby's head, and he crumbled to the floor like a 
marionette whose strings had been cut.



	



	"You didn't have to drag that thing all the way 
back here," Jean snarled, tapping her foot impatiently 
on the parquet floor.  Hank whimpered and snuffled at 
her shoes.

	"Well, get rid of it."

	Hank looked up at her, a puppyish look in his 
beetle black eyes.

	"No, you can't take it back to where you found 
it.  We haven't time.  Just get rid of it."

	Uneasily, Hank stood up, and hefted the corpse 
on the floor of Charles Xavier's foyer.  He looked at 
her questioningly.

	Jean sighed, exasperatedly, and sent a mental 
image into his head.  

	Xavier ought to appreciate that, she supposed.  
He's a literary man.

	There was a heavy dragging sound, and Jean 
turned to see Warren emerging from the Professor's 
office, hauling the old man rather carelessly.  Blood 
caked his silver hair—Warren must have clocked him in 
the back of the head, Jean decided.  At least there's 
someone else half-competent around here.

	Warren looked at her pointedly—at least she 
assumed he did, it was difficult to read expressions 
in his black, shadowy face.  He tilted his head back 
towards the study, with its elevator down to the 
hidden levels.

	"Drake," his voice rattled harshly.

	"You knocked him out?"

	Nod.

	"Good.  We will need him.  And the Other?"

	"Gone."

	"Gone?"  Jean's eyes widened with fury.  "What 
do you mean, she's gone?  I need her!"  The girl's 
voice had gone high and desperate with rage.  "What 
has he done with her?"  She quivered for a moment, 
then composed herself.  "Xavier suspects nothing, he 
has merely taken his toy out to the playground.  We'll 
just have to make him bring her to us."

	Warren cocked his head quizzically.

	"Of course he wouldn't."  Her smile twisted into 
something cruel and dangerous.  "But Drake would.  
Leave him.  With the right impetus, he'll deliver the 
Other right into our grasp."  She knelt next to 
Warren's burden, and ran a finger down the side of the 
old man's cheek.  "Come, Worthington," she said 
prissily, not taking her eyes from Lehnsherr's face.  
"Let's go leave Professor Xavier an invitation."




	


	

	Xavier mentally scanned the first story of the 
mansion as he pulled into the driveway.  Empty.  Good.

	He glanced over at Madelyne.

	Currently, the girl was fascinated with her own 
fingers.

	She'd move one, move it back, turn her hand 
over, move it again.

	A dark feeling curled in the pit of Xavier's 
stomach.  

	She was a living weapon, he'd proved that today.  
She didn't need a mind.  It was better for her to 
suffer through life, if you could call it life, as a 
soulless husk, wrapped up in her own catatonia.

	But such it was such a childish gesture, that he 
couldn't bring himself not to think of her as a girl, 
not a weapon.

	He thought of tiny fingers, curling around his 
thumb.

	Tiny baby gurgles he could only hear in his own 
head.

	The tiny, red baby face.

	At the same time, those images mixed with those 
of a young woman of surpassing beauty.  Skin like 
porcelain, hair the color of fall leaves, dressed in a 
modest skirt and sweater, holding her schoolbooks 
close to her chest.  So young, so innocent, so willing 
to help out a lonely, young college professor.

	Until the betrayal.

	Until those green eyes and pale hands had led 
him from his laboratory, from his fortress, and 
destroyed everything, everything he'd worked for, 
everything he cared about.

	Those smooth, white hands had reached out and 
snatched away those soft baby gurgles forever and 
ever, Amen.

	"We're home, get out," he muttered to Juliet-
Golf Beta 113.

	She looked up from her hand.

	It was incredibly disconcerting.

	Xavier had told the truth—Madelyne was 
completely blind.  She was also deaf, and had no sense 
of touch, taste or smell.  Her body lacked the 
receptors.

	It didn't stop her from looking at things, or 
wrinkling her nose at harsh smells, or responding when 
he spoke to her.

	Disconcerting.

	He wasn't entirely sure how she did it—perhaps a 
byproduct of the telekinesis.  Perhaps she merely 
picked up on the observations of the people around 
her.

	It didn't matter.

	It was still creepy.

	Xavier used the lift to get back down to the 
ground, and slowly, Madelyne crawled out of the car 
beside him.

	Together, they walked towards the house, Xavier 
carefully probing for some sign of the Children.  

	It wouldn't do for them to meet young Madelyne.

	And then he opened the door.

	The gleaming parquet was crisscrossed with 
scores and cracks, as though a pack of wolves had been 
using his foyer for a dance floor.

	That was the least of his problems.

	A shallow, but wide pool of blood congealed in 
the cheerful sunlight.  A few splatters had been 
dragged in various directions... some towards the 
parlor, and others towards...

	Xavier's face twisted with rage.

	The door to his study was propped open.

	Madelyne hovering quietly behind him, he hurried 
into the office.  Papers were everywhere, and, upon 
inspection, the cables of his private elevator had 
been slashed to ribbons.

	Ragged claw marks ringed the shaft, and as he 
peered down the dark cavern, he saw a hole had been 
torn in the roof itself.

	Something had climbed down there, and ripped 
through the elevator to get to the lower level.

	Which indicated that someone had been in the 
lower level at the time.

	Xavier spun around and headed for the infirmary, 
where the secondary elevator was.  Like a badger, 
Xavier prided himself on always, always having a back 
door.

	It had saved his life before, and it would 
again.

	Madelyne scampered after him.  He was half 
tempted to make her stay behind, but if... if someone 
was still lurking in the house, he knew she'd be easy 
prey.  Madelyne was a powerful gun, but a powerful gun 
without a trigger finger is just a piece of metal.

	An agonizingly slow elevator ride later, and he 
burst into the infirmary room of the underground lab.

	The room, where, until an hour before, Erik 
Lehnsherr had slept.

	It had recently been redecorated.

	Blood splashed the wall in a bright sunburst.

	Three of his family's good silver steak knives 
protruded from the walls.  The first two were driven 
through two small white lumps, the third through a 
larger, pink lump, barely distinguishable, it was so 
soaked in blood.

	Xavier's mind refused to reconcile what the 
three objects were, but a forth knife, a thin dagger, 
its curved, gleaming blade glittering in the harsh 
infirmary lights, pinned a single piece of paper to 
the wall.

	And lying on the ground, below the bloody 
tableau, lay an unconscious Robert Drake.

	Blood had dripped down from the wall onto the 
boy, soaking his clothes and hair, and streaking his 
face.

	For a second, Xavier thought the boy was dead, 
until he heard a faint, muffled groan, and the boy 
shifted slightly, his face twisted with the emotion of 
unseen dreams.

	"Move him," he commanded.

	Madelyne's eyes glassed, and Bobby's body slowly 
rose into the air,