Fragment
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter, therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
~ Ode To a Grecian Urn, Keats
Nina sensed Remy's words shattering in the air as he spoke. Prismatically, they hung in the light, refracting, bending truth in shades of
green and violet. Brilliant shards of lies; beautiful falsehoods, shimmering with dreams. His words were different things to all of them.
To her, they were carnival rides, bottomless sundaes, red balloons and the wet nose of a puppy. To Stormy, the words became
summer rain and statues of sand; while, to Petey, they were the blue eyes of a girl, the smell of plowed earth and the approving,
forgiving smile of a brother. Rogue's thoughts were too shadowed to read - shifting between heartbreak and joy - glass slippers and
velvet curtains - before resolving into the warmth of skin against skin. Finally, Nina's mind probed the infinite, synergistic artificial
intelligence that was Cerebro. Computer logic, as pure and cold as antiseptic, battled to solve a simple concept: a dream. The infinite
possibility of impossibility, which the subtle current that underlay Remy's words promised. She felt the creature spread its tentacles
into all their minds, riffling through their memories in search of an abstraction that would explain it. He found lock-picks, basketballs,
snowdrops, cirrus clouds at sunset, brown curls, oil-paints, spiders and muddy water but no answer. "Illogical," Cerebro stated, diodes
becoming dim, "Processing and classification of NXM015 terminated. This unit lacks the necessary concepts to proceed. This unit
needs to know: what is a dream?" She sensed his artificial soul slip away, unable to deal with daisies and dogs' noses, unable to deal
with humanity's most vital characteristic. Drawing on Xavier's memories, she thought how sad it was that the creation could not deal
with its creator's most precious gift to all of them - a beautiful dream. Tender-eyed, touched by its broken logic, she felt compelled to
provide it with an answer.
"Simple, doodie-head," Nina replied, slipping her small hand into Remy's one, "A dream is who we could be."