"What if someone else dies in the Magneto War? What if it went in a very different direction?". Combine that with thinking a little too hard about Denise's Valentine challenge, and you have this story. It hasn't been beta-read so I apologize for the rough spots, and I'm REALLY sorry about the stupid title. I'd also appreciate any feedback for this story -- very much so.

Disclaimer: What's Marvel's belongs to Marvel. I've played merry hell with their universe in this story, true, but I'm not taking it away from them. What's mine belongs to me. Robert Frost's "The Secret Sits" is quoted in the story without permission, as well as "Dante's Prayer" by Loreena McKennitt. No profit is being made from this story, so please don't sue me. The views expressed by the characters in this story do not necessarily reflect my own.

Rated PG-13 for strong language.

Excerpt from "Just Like You", the autobiography of Edmund Mikomino, notable mutant rights activist:

.... many people have asked me why, for [insert diety of your choice]'s sakes, do I care about these so-called misfits of nature. Add a swear word or two, if you like.

Journalists ask this question hoping for blood in the water, bigots because they want a reason (not that they ever needed one) to start lynching "the goddamn mutie-lovers", and others because they hope for a damn good yarn. I've always managed to weasel out of answering, and in one memorable occasion by pointing out that a rampaging Sentinel was trampling on the cameraperson.

We dance round in a ring and suppose,
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

Rest easy. It was never a game to make me seem more of a dark brooding stranger than a geek in a black suit. I'm fully aware of my deficiencies in the mysterious aura department, despite claims to the contrary. And no, of course I'm not looking meaningfully at a certain raven-haired cynic by the name of Ms Lee. Oh no.

(Hang on, kiddies. I'm about to get fuzzy and nostalgic -- look, I'm a cranky old fart. I'm allowed to indulge in reminiscence.)

Maybe I've never talked about it because I feel so far removed from that raw, raw boy in the summer of 2004. He was ignorant, immature, and arrogant. Worse, he was fourteen. The snot-nosed kid with a death wish is less than a distant memory now, as if I had been living through someone else's eyes.

I don't remember exactly when the Summerses moved into the old house next to mine. Bit of a letdown, ne? Apologies to all expecting something like "It was 13 June 2004 when the muties moved in." In those days time went in a blur, and days were marked by noteworthy events such as "about week after the Dead Mushroom concert" or "I dunno, three days after the cops busted Tom?"

But I remember that it was about 5 years after the Magneto Crisis. And I remember clearly the faded blue paint of two trucks that rumbled into the driveway, tyres crunching over the gravel of the cracked pavement. A short hairy guy and a brunette climbed out of the first truck, looking around warily as if they expected an attack. From the second truck came a tall muscular guy and a woman with a white stripe in her hair, arguing about something.

A few minutes later, though it may have been longer than I remember, an inconspicuous sedan stopped behind the trucks. The driver slowly, almost hesitantly exited the car. She helped the sole passenger, whom I immediately realized was blind, to make his way to the house. He walked uncertainly with a cane, leaning against her as he did so.

The sunglasses obscured his eyes and most of the scars that ran across them, but made him look even paler and thinner. But it was the woman supporting him who captivated my attention -- she was a tall black woman with white hair, whose movements were as unconsciously graceful as it was confident. She was (and I'm saying this with awe-struck wonder tuned to High) gorgeous.

It was my first look at the Summerses.

"I wish this wasn't happening."

"You an' me both, Kitty." The hirsute man threw down a cigar butt, grinding it into the cracked cement with perhaps more force than necessary. "But it's what they want, an' I'm not about to argue with them."

"But Logan, it's so wrong!" Kitty protested. Her face was a study in sorrow and anger, uncertainty flickering in her eyes like candlelight. "I've... I've always imagined Ororo being one of us until they pry away the X from her cold dead fingers."

He sighed. "Let go, Kitty. It's been five years. If she ain't changed by now, she never will. 'Sides, it's 'bout time she and Scottie have a little happiness after all they've gone through."

"Together. God, that's one marriage I never thought I'll see," she muttered. Behind them an argument reached its crescendo, Southern and Russian accented voices vying for dominance.

"What's done, done."

She eyed him thoughtfully. "You never used to this resigned before."

"Things change," Logan answered curtly. He pointedly ignored the bickering Rogue and Piotr, concentrating on lighting another cigar.

Kitty leaned casually against the truck, idly sketching on the dust-shrouded hood with a finger. She drew an X framed by a circle, and a militaristic crest on the X's centre. She paid careful attention to the details of the crest, diligently outlining the eagle, the stars and the tri-coloured shield.

"Yeah, things change," she whispered.

Excerpt from the autobiography of Edmund Mikomino:

The aftershocks of the Magneto Crisis had started to fade by 2000. Good ol' US of A tightened its mutant laws, requiring every mutant to register his or her current address, and to have their children tested for the x-factor. Countries which were lax in their patrolling of mutants were openly criticised in the UN -- not that the U(ncoordinated)N(incompoops) have any real political power, true.

On the flip side, the X-Men got pretty good ink. Once it was established that they weren't in league with the Master of Magnetism, of course.

Hoorah. Shower of rose petals. Joyous ringing of church bells. Drum march.

Have I mentioned that after the dust had settled, they were offered a bargain? Join S.H.I.E.L.D. as a superpowered strike team or be hunted as outlaws. The good vibes they were getting were the vibration of a cobweb tightwire, and they knew it. Joining the hallowed ranks of the spandex-and-body-armour-clad wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but it should have been a choice made without a forced hand.

What the public didn't know then was that they lost far more than they gained. The X-Men were never intended to be soldiers, folks, and were never even a paramilitary group until they joined S.H.I.E.L.D. Yet their scars were the losses of war: a dead teammate and two crippled leaders, one physically and both mentally. All in trying to stop a self-righteous bastard from taking over the world and flinging everything back into the Victorian Age.

"Gasp! We may actually have to make toast by hand? What a tragedy!"

Facetious remarks aside, it wasn't surprising to note how condescending the press was. One headline read, "Mutant Outlaws Assist in the Magneto Crisis." Another screamed out, "Traitor to Own Race? X-Men vs Magneto!" Sometimes I wonder if we all would have been so tolerant if it was an ethnic minority making the front page. There probably would have been protests by the various minority rights organisations, threats of boycotts, and hell, maybe even an actual apology from the press. Stranger things have happened.

But the mutants have no one, except themselves.

Ororo turned fitfully on her bed, trying to find a comfortable spot. Her blue eyes surveyed the dark room and finally settled on the window, where faint moonlight shone through the bulletproof glass. Once, the turmoil of her emotions would be accompanied by unseasonal rainclouds. But that was before she locked her powers in chains of iron control, before...

I may just as well get up now, she thought. I will not sleep again tonight.

Beside her, Scott mumbled something in his sleep. She smiled and kissed his cheek lightly. For all they have been through there was still a little happiness at the end of the day, thank the Goddess. Taking care not to wake him, she swung out of bed and made her way out of their bedroom.

She paused for a moment at the top of the staircase. Even after six months, the house still felt strange to her. It lacked the warmth and the comfortable familiarity of the mansion. She still expected Logan to stalk out of the bathroom, grumbling that Robert had frozen the toothpaste. Sometimes Kitty was still awake at this hour, making a cup of cocoa to sip while reading the latest Gibson novel. And Kurt would no doubt bamf by with a quick hello.

Mentally scolding herself for being maudlin, she walked into the designated "study" and switched on the computer. There was a few e-mails she had put by to answer later and now was as good a time as any. Choosing a CD at random, she popped it into the CD player. Ororo rubbed wearily at her eyes, only half-listening to the music.

When the dark wood fell before me
And all the paths were overgrown
When the priests of pride say there is no other way
I tilled the sorrows of stone.

Kitty... Kurt... Hank... She scrolled through the messages, searching for one she had left unopened, instinctively dreading the content. Remy.

From: aceofspade@bayou.com
To: windrider@aol.com

Stormy,

How are you, ma chere? I guess that by now the X-Men have told you that this swamp rat has returned to a life of crime. Dramatic, non? I know you don't approve, but I also know that you understand (no matter what Kate says). I'm not made for S.H.I.E.L.D., and being a thief is better than fighting for something I don't care for. Don't get me wrong, chere. Inside, deep inside, I still believe in the dream. But to be a puppet controlled by Big Brother? That's no better than being hated and feared by the world.

I wish you could have stayed, but I know you can't. I miss you, mon amie.

Remy

"I do understand, old friend," she said softly, wishing he was here to talk to her. "And you will always have my blessing."

It would seem that we both have found it... happier to trade our old lives for new ones. I wonder, was your choice as easy as you made it seem? She sank back into her chair, staring at photos of the X-Men she had hung on the walls.

I did not believe because I could not see
Though you came to me in the night
When the dawn seemed forever lost
You showed me your love in the light of stars.

"Ororo?"

Surprised, she turned to see her husband standing at the door, scarred face etched with worry. His dark blue robe was undone, the belt trailing behind him. Tousled and half-awake, he still retained a ghost of the confident bearing he had as the X-Men's leader.

"I am fine, Scott. Did I wake you up?"

"I don't mind being woken up by beautiful women." He smiled crookedly and walked towards the direction of her voice. "What're you doing up at this hour?"

"I could not sleep." She shut off the computer, sparing one last glance at her former teammates' smiling faces.

"Why?"

"I... I don't know. The past, perhaps? What might have been?"

She captured his outstretched hand, giving in to the sudden urge to hug him tight. Alert to the undercurrents in her voice and the tension in her body, Scott did not pursue the matter further, content for the moment to hold her.

Then the mountain rose before me
By the deep well of desire
From the fountain of forgiveness
Beyond the ice and fire.

"I didn't know you like Loreena McKennitt."

"Hmm?"

"The CD you're playing."

"Oh. It was a gift from Kitty," she answered, her voice muffled against his robe. He stroked her silky hair, feeling her warm breath against his neck.

"I must admit that I prefer her taste in music to Robert's," she added thoughtfully.

"Should I ask?"

"Weird Al Yancovic."

Scott tried not to laugh. "We have a fireplace, 'Ro."

"Do not tempt me," she sighed.

Though we share this humble path, alone
How fragile is the heart
Oh give these clay feet wings to fly
To touch the face of stars.

Tightening his arms around her, he asked, "Would you like to dance?"

Ororo pulled away from him slightly, arching an eyebrow. "An impromptu dance in our nightclothes? How very unlike you."

The shy grin lit up his face. "Are you saying I'm boring?"

"Goddess forbid."

"Good. Let's tango."

"Scott my love, it is my sad duty to inform you that you do *not* know how to tango."

"Details, details."

Breathe life into this feeble heart
Lift this mortal veil of fear
Take this crumbled hopes, etched with tears
We'll rise above these earthly cares.

They spun around the sparsely-furnished room, Ororo delicately navigating their way. His slippers were abandoned without regret somewhere in the dance, along with a good measure of the angst-filled clouds that hung over her earlier.

"Thinking about what might have been... no, forget it."

"Come now, Scott," she chided him.

"I was just wondering..." he paused, uncertain. "... if things would've been different had I fell for you instead of Madelyne."

She looked up at him sadly, for once glad that he could not see her expression. "You would still have gone back to Jean. You were not ready for a new love then, Scott. And Madelyne, though we avoided telling you so, was a substitute for her."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She kissed him. "Your love for Jean is not something I would hold against you."

Scott traced the contours of her face with the tips of his fingers, matching the features with his memory of Ororo. When he finally spoke, his voice trembled. "I... When she died again in Antartica, I didn't think I'd ever stop mourning... I never imagined I'd get the chance to prove myself wrong."

She thought back to those terrible days, remembering the smell of ozone and the sickening thump as Jean's body hit the ground and Scott's agonized sobs at her funeral. She remembered her horror at her inability to save the X-Men, her powers coming to naught as Magneto imprisoned her within cables of steel. And she had struggled helplessly against her claustrophobia as the remnants of the team barely -- just barely -- overpowered the Acolytes.

"I love you, 'Ro."

"I love you too." She pulled his body closer against hers, savouring the whispery kiss he laid on her forehead. "Whatever happens, never doubt that."

Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me
Please remember me.

Various excerpts from the autobiography of Edmund Mikomino:

I guess you could say that we were friends ever since the time Mr Summers discovered me sneaking into their garden on a dare from my friends. You wouldn't have thought that a blind guy could wipe the floor with a healthy teenager, but he did. Odd start to a friendship, but there you go. Maybe they had a latent mutant power that attracts this sort of weirdness....

.... Ororo Summers was the first person outside my family to speak kindly to me when I was suspended from school for being a "disruptive influence". She said she understood the difficulty of being different, and how she had struggled for years to make people understand that "human" and "mutant" were not mutually exclusive. Perhaps, she said, I would have better luck at turning my uniqueness into a strength.

She also said I was a "good boy underneath the ridiculous posturing". I was embarassed as hell, true, but I was grateful all the same. When you feel that you don't have a friend in the world you do either of two things: a) withdraw into a shell, or, b) hate each and every person in the world and make sure they know it.

Sometimes, though, you get lucky and an angel comes down to guide you. Not the commercialized milksops (who should be punted to the stratosphere by their computer-generated halos), but real angels -- servants of a powerful and frightening God. The ones who know about sacrifices and fire and power, instead of mincing around to spread the "Christmas spirit". Sappy as it may sound, to the 16-year-old me she was that angel. She didn't clap her hands and make everything okay, hell no. Instead she dragged me around by the ear until I made everything okay.

"I'm so proud of you, Ed!"

The young man blushed tomato-red as Sophia kissed his cheek. "I'm only graduating from high school, y'know," he mumbled. "And I'm not even valedictorian or anything."

"Darling, two years ago everyone was sure you'll end up serving fries at Burger King before seventeen." She patted his arm kindly. "Look, here's your mom and dad with the camera. Say cheese!"

"Camera?! The hell?!" He looked reproachfully at his mother. "Mom..."

"Be nice, Edmund. I'm sending this to your grandparents."

"Whatever," he said, rolling his eyes. The ordeal, fortunately for him, was over in a few seconds. "I'm just not photogenic, 'kay?"

"You're so cute when you try to smile like that," his best friend grinned. "See ya later, Ms Mikomino. We're taking a walk."

"We are?"

"Yes." She took his arm, steering him around a knot of laughing students. "I want you to meet my cousin."

"This isn't another matchmaking attempt, is it? I still have nightmares about the last one."

"Unless you're gay, no," she retorted. "Say... isn't that the Summerses?"

Edmund craned his neck, nearly colliding into a passing teacher, and was rewarded by a glimpse of long white hair tied into a ponytail. Moments later an aristocratic face came into view, serene blue eyes catching his own.

"Yep, that's them-- what?"

Sophia tried not to grimace. "They're nice people, but they're so... I don't know, boring. You'd think that being mutants and all they'd have a more interesting life, but no..." She made a gagging sound. "And they're so lovey-dovey."

The new graduate hid a smile. Ororo tutored him last year, finding the time to teach him basic lockpicking between Shakespeare and Hemingway. Along the way he had also managed to accumulate quite a number of tips on self-defense from the couple -- her husband was a mean fighter when provoked, despite his blindness.

"You know them well?"

"Not really." She shrugged. "Why?"

"Never mind." He waved to the approaching family. "Here they come."

"I'll just go and talk to my cuz then. Later, hon."

The tall woman looked elegant as always, dressed in a cream-coloured blouse and tailored slacks. Christopher Remy fussed in her arms, gurgling nonsensical baby talk. Scott slid an arm around his wife as she came to a halt, looking almost nauseatingly happy.

"Hello, Edmund," she greeted him. "Congratulations on your graduation."

"Thanks, Ororo." He shook hands with the older man, who said with a smile, "Not bad for the kid who tried to steal apples from my backyard."

"Youthful indiscretion," he said firmly. "I've learned my lesson. Next time, I'll just hire a professional thief."

"I think we know someone who might take you up on that," Scott laughed.

"You didn't drive all the way here just to see me, did you?" he asked anxiously. "I'd hate to trouble you."

"As it is, no," answered Ororo. "We were on our way to see some old friends."

"And one very old friend."

"Scott!"

He grinned, blissfully ignorant of her glare. "Sorry, 'Ro." To the younger man, he inquired, "Made any plans for college?"

"Nope. I still can't decide what I want to major in."

A loud "Mutie freak!" caught their attention, and Scott drew in a sharp breath. An obviously mutant student scurried past a group of heckling seniors, who continued jeering after her even when she was well past hearing range. Ororo's eyes narrowed, even as she comforted her upset son.

"Maybe I should take up psychology or sociology or something. Y'know, to find out why people are jerks?"

The former X-Man gave him an inscrutable look. "The problem lies not in understanding hate, Edmund, but in overcoming it. We know that only too well."

Excerpt from the autobiography of Edmund Mikomino:

I remember the night the so-called Friends of Humanity held a picket -- you heard it right, they held a bloody picket against a couple who'd never even ran over a dog since they moved in -- in front of the Summers home. I saw the fear on Scott's face as his wife strode out to meet the idiots and spoke to them in that inimitable way of hers, part wrathful goddess and part polished diplomat. I saw the shame on some of the faces, utter hatred on the others and I couldn't understand how they can hate someone so beautiful.

Sad to say, that wasn't the end of it.

I was there years later when Ororo held her dying husband in her arms, blood from the gunshots staining her hair red. I saw the sky tear its heart open to grieve with her as she cried and I remember thinking, somewhat incoherently: "I have my family and the law to protect me, but who will protect people like you, Ororo? Discrimination against mutants is still legal. Is this how mutants die, shot by bigots who never even knew them as more than a face to hate? How could someone kill a good man like him? How could humans do this to each other? We're ALL humans, ferchristssakes! Why can't they see it?"

Scott Summers was killed sixty years ago. But in my mind's eye I can still see him struggling to breathe and Ororo pleading him to please don't leave her, as if it happened only yesterday. I see them every single time I see a mutant beaten or killed, and when I see those sons of bitches who proclaim mutants as scourge of mankind.

To all who asked me why I care:

You just got the answer, chilluns.

I spent nearly my whole damn life fighting for equality, and these old bones of mine are too tired to do battle much longer. But if putting these words on paper is what it takes for you, dear reader, to understand why then by all in heaven and hell I'll gladly do it all over again.

If you don't... if you can still look upon the face of a mutant and spit on it for no reason other than because he or she is different... put this book down right now, because I refuse to recognize you as human.

THE END