To Sleep, Perchance to Dream . . .

Prologue

Do I sleep, do I dream, do I wonder and doubt?

Is things what they seem, or is visions about?'

He awoke. The cold leads that fed the stasis drug to him fell away and an icy shock went through his body as the reactivation sequence began. The modulated voice of the SynthDroid counted down the seconds until his optimum efficency was regained.

"5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . ."

An arm gripped the side of the stasis pod, silvery in the half-light of the ship's lamps. It shimmered as the entity stood up, stretching cramped muscles. He surveyed the ship. Took in the gleaming panels. The flickering lights. The now-open pod in which he had journeyed from another world.

"Com. . . puter?" His voice cracked with disuse, "I must feed."

"Acknowledged." The Droid replied. "Searching for lifeforms approaching dream state. . . 3. . .2. . . 1. . . Found."

Morpheus, Lord of Nightmares, smiled.

22:40

"Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah. Someone's in the kitchen . . . I know . . . I know . . . Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah, strummin' on the ole banjo!"

"Don't give up your day job just yet." Beast laughed.

"What? You don't like the sound of Robert Drake: Cabaret Singer and Heart-throb Extraordinaire?

"The title is fine. It is the sound of your singing voice to which we object." Storm added, smiling.

"Everyone's a critic." Iceman turned away from the fridge, placing the milk carton on the table,

"Milk, Storm?"

"Thank you, Robert." She said, "I have only recently discovered the relaxative effects of it."

"What? Didn't Achmed El-Gibar tuck you up with a warm glass of milk and cookies every evening?"

"Night was the best time to ply my craft." She took the glass from him, "Unlike some, I had to fight to survive."

"I had to fight." Iceman raised an eyebrow, "Every Thursday was a war between me and mom's meatloaf."

"My money's on the meatloaf," Beast yawned, "Excuse me."

"You're excused, Blue." He grinned, "Maybe you should get some sleep."

"I can't." He replied, "I still have a few tests to conduct on the cells I extracted from Moira McTaggert."

"The Legacy Virus?"

Beast nodded, "Despite my best efforts, I am still no closer to understanding this antigen than I ever was."

"But you shall . . . ."

"While all the time people are dying and there is nothing I can do to save them. People I know and love."

"Revanche's death affected all of us, as did little Illyana's." Storm placed a comforting hand on his arm, "You cannot blame yourself, Henry."

" The dead remember our indifference.'" He stood, "Which is why I can't allow myself the luxury of indifference any more."

"Henry."

"Forget it. I'm too tired to be logical."

"Good night, Beast."

"And to you, my dear goddess." He smiled, "Icecube."

"Night, furball." Drake said, "Pleasant dreams."

23:45

"Ain't ya ever comin' t'bed, chere?"

Gambit smiled at the young woman standing by the window. The moonlight formed a halo around her, turning the white streak in her hair to pure silver, and her green eyes were luminous as she turned to face him.

"In a minute, Remy. Ah'm just thinkin'."

He had a sudden vision of himself as he must appear to her. A devil to her angel. Surrounded in shadow with glowing red eyes. A grin that held more arrogance than humor.

" Bout?"

"Cody." She sighed, "Th' stars always remind me o' him."

"Ya miss him, don' you?"

"Not in' th' way Ah'd miss you if y'all evah left me." She said, "But . . . Ah do."

"Back when I was a pup, I used t'believe dat de stars were de spirits of de dead watchin' down from de sky." Gambit climbed out of their bed, holding a quilt, "Was kinda comfortin' t't'ink dat m'real mere and pere were out dere somewhere."

Rogue was silent.

"Here." He handed the quilt to her, placing it around her shoulders.

"What?!" She asked.

"It be cold. Don' wan' ya t'fall sick."

"Thanks."

"De rien." He grinned, "Can't have m'femme freezin' t'death."

"Do you think Cody is watchin' me?" She asks suddenly.

"Non." He shook his head, "But, if he was, he'd want ya t'be happy."

She smiled, "An' Ah am. Thanks ta you."

"Jus' doin' m'job." He took her hand, watching the way her ring sparkled as the light caught it, "Let's go t'bed, hein?"

"Let's." She kissed him, "An' forget about the stars foh a little while."

Gambit drew the curtains.

23:30

Psylocke could smell the psychic stench, as she slid out of the shadows into the room. Like stale smoke, it permeated the air, eddying in and out of her mind. Playing with her thoughts. Moulding them as if they so much clay. Her mindprobe reached to the source of the darkness. Nothing. No sentience, consciousness, only a mass of nebulous emotions.

"I don't understand."

"Only one of us needs to." A voice replied in her mind, "Unfortunately for you, I am that one."

"Who are you?"

"Open your mind and see."

Her mouth opened in a soundless scream as she fell to the floor.

23:00

"Jean?" Cyclops walked into the room, "Come to bed. You've been searching for long enough."

"I can't, honey." The red-haired telepath removed the helmet from her head, massaging her temples, "You go on without me."

"I know you're worried about the Professor." He rested a hand on her slim shoulder, "I am too, but it hasn't been that long since his last message. We can't assume the worst straight away."

"No." She shook her head, "There was something strange about his last message."

"What? That Lilandra needed him?"

"It was the way he said it - almost as if he was . . .scared."

"In any case, working yourself into a state of exhaustion is not going to help the Professor." He said disapprovingly, "Everyone else is asleep. It's about time you were too."

"Scott. Add the words young lady' and you'd sound just like my father." She laughed, "I'll be up in a few seconds."

"Promise?"

"Maybe."

Cyclops sighed, "Call me if you find him."

Jean smiled and replaced the helmet, continuing her search.

23:30

"Computer? Begin REM sequence on my command."

"Acknowledged."

"Now."

"REM sequence initialised. Input scenario of your choice . . . ."

You have to run as fast as you can just to stay where you are.'

- The Queen of Hearts in Alice of Wonderland

"Get her!"

She couldn't stop. The muscles in her legs burned as she stretched them further than they could go. Her breath came in short, desperate gasps. Sweat poured down her forehead and into her eyes,blinding her. She didn't see the stone. Collapsed. Scraped along the ground, stained with grass and mud.

"Now we have her."

The men approached, holding their sundry assortment of weapons. The ring-leader smiled, showing gaps in his blackened teeth. He stank of sweat and unwashed clothes.

"Y'all know what we do ta muties."

" Specially those that hurt our own."

"Ah'm sorry . . . it wasn't mah fault . . . ."

"Tell that ta Cody, Sabrina." He grabbed her arm, squeezing fingers into her skin. "You will be seein' him soon."

"No . . . no . . . Ah . . . won't." She struggled, "No . . . no . . . ."

"Take her away, boys."

A sharp pain behind her ear and the world went dark. . . .

"Where am Ah?" She murmured as she woke up. Her head ached and she ran her fingers through the blood-matted hair around the wound, grimacing as she did so.

"Lucky I found ya, chere. Else ya would be dead."

"Remy?"

"Oui."

"Thank th' Lawd."

The young thief stepped out of the shadows into the half-light, which filtered through the grimy windows of the room. Rogue recoiled as she saw him - his face was twisted by thick scarring; his mouth pulled up in a permanent sardonic grin; the one socket of his eye empty. A monster out of Victor Hugo's imagination.

"Disgusted, chere?"

"No . . . ."

"Don' lie t'me, girl. I c'n see it written all over ya face - ya t'ink I'm an ugly freak. Ya be disgusted by me."

"No . . . ." She leaned forward, running a hand over the bumpy surface of his cheek, ignoring her inward feelings of revulsion.

"Good. Cause ya made me de way I am."

"What?!"

"When we touched, ya absorbed m'powers an' accidentally' used dem on me." His 'grin' deepened, "Hence de Quasimodo look."

"Remy . . . Ah'm . . . ."

"Sorry, Rogue?" He spit, "Dat don' even come close t'makin' t'ings up t'me. I've dreamt o' dis moment de whole o' m'life - de moment when I get m'revenge on ya."

"Remy . . . ."

"Ya be a t'ief, chere. Worse dan dat, a leech. Everyt'ing ya touch, ya suck de life out of, leavin' dem empty."

"Ah . . . ."

"Ya disgust me." He sneered, "Ya've taken everyt'ing away from me - m'memories, m'thoughts an' now m'face."

She was silent. Shocked. Horrified.

"I hate ya, Rogue. Hate ya more dan ya'll ever know."

The knife gleamed as it came towards her, cutting a wide swathe in the air. She rolled to avoid the blade and landed on . . . soft grass?

"Wake up, darlin'." The blond haired boy smiled at her, "You've been havin' another of your nightmares."

"Cody?"

"Yeah. Y'all drifted off some time earlier an' I didn't have th' heart ta wake you."

"Wish you would have." She shivered.

"What did you dream about?"

"Not sure, but it was pretty creepy."

"C'mon, we gotta be gettin' home if'n we want ta be make th' carnival before it closes."

"Race you."

Cody grinned and started sprinting along the fields in the direction of the town. Sabrina followed close behind him, trying to overtake him. They fell, panting, in the yard of her house.

"Beat you." She said.

"Did not." He stuck out his tongue at her.

"Did too."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Not."

"Too."

"Sabrina Celine Parker!" Her mother walked out of the house, "Look at you! You're filthy an' we're leavin' in a few minutes. Come in an' get washed up immediately."

"Sorry, momma." She stood, shaking the grass off her skirt. " Bye, Cody. See you later."

"Bye, Sabs."

The carnival was a whirlwind of color and noise. Bright lights shone from the rides and attractions. Stalls littered the small field, selling cotton-candy, balloons and toys which would break the instant the carnival left town.

"Step up! Try yer luck! Three shots for a dollar! Win prizes! Only a dollar for three shots!" The man paused for breath, "You, sir! You look like a likely candidate! Win a prize for yer girl-friend!"

Cody grinned, "Sorry. Ah'm savin' mah money foh th' roller-coaster."

"Only a dollar and you can win this marvellous prize. All children *LOVE* T.J. Quack-Quack!"

"No thanks."

"Yer loss, kid." He began his litany anew, "Step up . . . ."

"Come on, Cody." Sabrina tugged on his arm, "We've gotta get inta th' queue foh th' roller-coaster."

"Sure."

"Child." A voice called, "Cross my palm with silver and I will tell you your fortune."

Sabrina turned to the direction of the voice. A small tent, embroidered with stars and arcane symbols, stood in the corner of the carnival. The sign outside proclaimed that it belonged to a Madame Destiny: Prescient.

"Uh, Cody? Y'all go on ahead an' book us a place in th' line. Ah'll be there in a few seconds."

"You ain't gonna go inta that quack's tent, are you?"

"Hey." She shrugged, stepping inside the tent, "Can't hurt."

"Child . . . be seated." The woman led her to a cushion, before taking one herself, "And I will tell you your future."

"Let me guess." Sabrina grinned, "Ah'm gonna live ta be an old woman, meet a tall, dark handsome stranger an' travel across th' water."

"Mock while you may." The woman pulled out a pack of worn cards, "The cards will show all."

"Okay."

"Most strange." Madame Destiny mused, "I have never had a reading such as this before."

"Let me see?" She leant over the table, "Queen o' Swords? Is that bad?"

"Not in itself, no. The Queen of Swords traditionally represents a woman who has been scarred by something that happened in the past." The gypsy looked puzzled, "But you look too young to have been scarred."

"Hmmp." Sabrina said, "An' this?"

"The Chariot represents change. In its position on the table, it means that change is about to happen."

"Death."

"Death is not always literal. In conjunction with the Chariot, I would assume that it means that something must end for change to occur."

"This is creepy." Sabrina stood, brushing away the charms and dried herbs that hung from the roof of the tent. "Ah want ta go."

"Not until the reading is complete." Destiny grabbed her arm with a bony hand, "The future is a book that once opened cannot be closed until read."

"Let me go." She sobbed, twisting free of Destiny's vice-like grip.

"Remember this day well, Rogue." The gypsy's hand dropped to her side limply, "For you have been forewarned, but have chosen to be be ignorant."

"Rogue?! What th' heck are y'all talkin' about? Mah name is Sabrina Celine Parker. SABRINA CELINE PARKER! SABRINA . . . ."

". . . .Celine Parker." She finished, "Now y'all know mah real name."

"It's beautiful, jus' like you." Gambit kissed her hand, "But I have a problem wit'de Parker bit."

"Blame mah daddy." She laughed, "Momma hated her surname as well."

He grinned, "Don' have a problem wit' de name itself - jus' dat I t'ink dat Sabrina Celine leBeau sounds so much better."

"What?!"

"I'm askin' ya t'marry me, Ro . . . Sabrina."

"Remy . . . Ah don't know what ta say." She gasped as he slipped the diamond ring on her finger.

It sparkled like a star in its gold setting - a perfect solitaire.

"Start wit' yes an' finish wit' I will."

"Yes, Ah will." She repeated teasingly, "Th' Ah do's come later, Ah suppose?"

He leant forward and kissed her. His lips were cold. So cold. And as she drew back, she saw the emptiness in his eyes. The moment of understanding was as shocking as it was sudden. The man she loved was nothing more than a hollow shell. A revenant going through the familiar motions.

"What in th' name o' all's holy?"

His face blurred, features changing into another familiar configuration. Blue eyes looked hollowly at her. Auburn hair changed to gold. Contours softened into curves.

"Carol."

"Everything you touch is destroyed! Vampire! Leech! Ugly freak!"

"NO . . . ."

The earth crumbled beneath her and she fell, screaming as she did so. Paralyzed. Unable to move or fly. Cards fluttered down beside her, like the wings of some bird or butterfly. Queen of Swords. Of Hearts. Of Cups. Of Spades. Death. The Chariot. Five of Cups. . . .

And although Gambit's arms were warm around her, Rogue suddenly felt very cold.

Gambler's Ruin

`If a gambler was to toss a coin 100 times, and every time he got heads won a dollar and every time he got tails lost a dollar, probability dictates that he would not win or lose anything. But in real life, the coin always flips heads-down, the gambler always loses.'

Paraphrased from the Lost World

"O- est-il?" He muttered to himself, "Il est en retard."

[Where is he?] [He's late.]

A smell of sulfur - brimstone - and pitch filled the air. The young man coughed, wiping the tears away from his eyes.

"Thank you for your patience." The man behind him had seemingly appeared out of thin air, "I had other engagements."

"Save de excuses f'r someone who cares." He said, "Ya said ya had a final job f'r me t'do. What is it?"

"The same job that I appointed you to do three years ago."

"Mon dieu. Ya mean . . . de one I wouldn' take."

"Yes. But now you have no choice - it is either that or die yourself."

"Fine." He shrugged, "Ya do what ya gotta do ta survive."

"We all do . . . ."

"Yeah . . . we all do. No matter if we like it or not . . . ."

"Remy?" Storm smiled at him as he walked through the mansion door, "What is wrong?"

"Rien." He stepped closer to her, "I jus' be preoccupied, chère."

[Nothing.]

"With?"

"Stormy, I'm sorry . . . ." He whispered, "Don' have no choice."

The stab of the knife was sudden, the blood impossibly red, and he wiped the blade of the dagger on his handkerchief, stained it like a gigantic Ace of Hearts.

"I be so sorry. . . chère . . . ya gotta understand dat I had no choice . . . never did. . . ."

"`Bout what, Remy?" Her voice was as unexpected as it was painful. Rogue. The only woman he had ever loved. The one he had hoped he would not have to kill. The one he knew he had to.

"Mah gawd, Storm . . . she's dead . . .?"

"Oui."

"Y'all . . . killed her?" Her green eyes were horrified, betrayed.

He nodded.

"B. . . but why? She is . . . was your best friend."

"Ya want t'know why, belle?"

"Yeah . . . ."

"Dis is why." He tore the sleeve of his shirt, revealing a row of purple blisters.

"Mah gawd." She looked at them in fear and understanding, "Legacy."

"Oui."

"But why Storm?"

"Long ago a man offered me a contract t'kill all of ya - it was de reason why I came here - but when I got t'know ya better, I couldn' go t'rough wit' it."

"You . . . ."

"Shhh. Let me finish." He sighed, "A few weeks back I found out dat I had de Legacy Virus, dis man promised dat he could cure it - if I finished de contract I had renèged on earlier."

"So . . . ."

"So ya must run - I'll pretend I couldn' find you; dat I tried but ya escaped."

"You have ta kill me too." Her mouth twisted, "Do it, Remy. Kill me."

The knife shook as it travelled towards her, stopping a few inches short of her jugular. Fell to the floor.

"I can't, chère." Tears spilled down his cheeks, mixing with the blood, "I can't."

"Nevah thought you would." She said, "What about Storm?"

"Never wanted t'hurt her." He bent over her body, feeling the shallow pulse that fluttered at her wrist, "She might survive."

"I'm sorry, sugah, but right now, you pose a danger to us all."

Gambit heard Rogue say as pain blossomed in a white-hot flash behind his eyes, dissipating as the world went dark. . . .

Pain.

"Bienvenu à la guilde des voleurs." Christophe smirked as he bent over the boy, delivering another

[Welcome to the Thieves' Guild.]

kick to his ribs. "Bâtard."

[Illegitimate child.]

"S'il . . . vous plaît, `sieu . . . ."

[Please, sir.]

"Tu veux voler notre positions et boire l'elixir de la vie qui appartient a nous." Another kick, "Tu

[You want to steal our positions and drink the Elixir of Life which belongs to us.] [You

as vol, le approbation de Jean-Luc leBeau - tu es son fils maintenant. Bâtard. Tu devrais mourir."

[Stole the approval of Jean-Luc leBeau - you are now his son. Illegitimate child. You should die.]

"`Sieu - je n'ai pas desir, . . . ."

[Sir - I did not want . . . .]

"N'as pas desi, quoi? M'évince?" He snorted.

[Did not want what? To supplant me?]

"Non - je ne le veux pas."

[No. I did not want that.]

"Mais tu as."

[But you have]

"Christophe? Qu'est-ce que fais-tu?"

[Christopher? What are you doing?]

Her voice was concerned and sweet. The voice of an angel come from heaven to help him.

"Rien."

[Nothing.]

"Mon Dieu - Remy. Pourquoi as-tu se bless,? Pourquoi?" She leant over the young boy, wiping

[My God - Remy. Why did you hurt him? Why?]

the blood from his face with a handkerchief.

"Je . . . ."

[I . . . .]

"Tu ,tais jaloux, Christophe." She said contemptuously, "Vas-tu maintenant avant j'appelle mon

[You were jealous, Christopher.] [Go now before I call my father.]

père."

"Mais, Belle . . . ."

[But, Belle. . . .]

"Ferme-la!" She stood,violet eyes blazing, "Tu m'écoures! Tu as beaucoup de courage, non? C'est

[Shut up!] [You sicken me! You are very brave, no? It is ]

très courageux d'harceler un garçon plus petit."

[Very brave to pick on a smaller boy.]

"Mais . . . ."

[But.]

"J'ai dit de la fermer."

[I said to shut up.]

Christophe snorted and turned away, walking out of the door and into the main part of the Guild Hall. Belle shook her head, letting her blonde curls fly around her face.

"Salaud." She touched the boy's cheek, eyes concerned, "Comment ça va, hein?"

[Jerk.] [How are you, huh?]

"Comme çi, comme ça." He shrugged, "Il ne faut pas m'aider, Belle. Christophe est dangereux."

[Okay.] [You musn't help me, Belle. Christopher is dangerous.]

"C'est précisément que je t'aide."

[That is exactly why I am helping you.]

"Oui . . . mais j'ai peur qu'il te blessera."

[Yes . . . but I am scared that he will hurt you.]

"T. Tu me sais meilleur que ça."

[Little one (real cajun!). You know me better than that.]

"Ne m'appelle pas Oa. Je ne suis pas `tite."

[Do not call me that. I am not little. (Again, it's cajun)]

"Desolés." She smiled, holding up her hands in fake terror, "Desolés."

[Sorry.]

"Ça ne fait rien." The grin returned to his face, "Belle."

[It's okay]

"Viens-tu avec moi! J'ai quelque chose de montrer toi."

[Come with me! I have something to show you.]

"Quoi?"

[What?]

"Tu verras."

[You will see.]

Belle ran ahead of him, the corriders twisting impossibly as she found her way through them. She stopped before a closed door, a smile on her face, and opened it.

"Voilà."

[There it is!]

The room was echo-large, her voice reverberated off the walls, like in a chapel or a shrine. The faintest trace of brimstone permeated the air.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est?"

[What is it?]

"Je ne sais pas - j'ai éspèré que tu peux me dire."

[I don't know - I had hoped that you could tell me.]

Remy stepped forward, ran a hand over the glass smooth surface, seeing something trapped in the cloudy amber depths.

"C'est . . . c'est . . . ."

[It's . . . it's . . . .]

A crack opened beneath his fingers, growing wider as he stumbled back in horror.

"Il vit."

[It lives.]

Belle clung to his arm, winding scared fingers around his. The cacoon split in half and a woman climbed out, unfurling her butterfly-wings. They were as beautiful as she was, green dusted with a trace of gold, like jade or opal. She opened her compound eyes, revealing a pure, luminescent shade of emerald.

"Where am Ah?"

" . . . ."

"Ah asked where Ah was." She smoothed the pollen-dust off her dress, as she stood.

"De Guild of T'ieves." Belle managed to stutter, "In N'Awlins."

"Mah . . . Lawd." The butterfly-woman fluttered her wings, spraying them with a light dusting of gold.

"You be so beautiful." Remy whispered as he walked closer without fear, "C'n I touch ya?"

"No." The woman drew back, wrapping her wings around herself, "Although you'll always love me, you can nevah touch me."

"Why?" He stretched out an arm, felt the soft brush of her powdery skin against his, felt the burning sensation that came a few moments later.

Tears trickled down her face, "B'cause mah touch kills . . . ."

He nodded wordlessly, a child learning his first lesson on the road to manhood. That there are some things you will love and never touch, that are close and far away all at once, that are a star....

The stars shone relentlessly down. Cold pricks of diamond in a black, merciless sky, they drilled into his flesh. He reflected how ironic it was that the flames which had taken his parents had provided some light, a rosy illumination that flickered across his face and soul. Beautiful-ugly. He clutched the locket in a hand, blackened by ash and fire, dampened by tears. It was all he had left of his parents. Of his vivacious, laughing mother. Of his serious father with his unexpected smile. Pictures. Hollow, empty memories captured on celluloid and taken out on a bad day to remember the good ones.

"I wonder if ya be watchin' me now . . . ." He whispered. "If ya be in de stars."

"Remy . . . come on . . . we got no time t'be sentimental." Belle's violet eyes glared at him from beneath her dark cape.

"Comin'." He pocketed the amulet, "What be de pinch?"

"Rich witch wit' too much money dan be good f'r her. We here t'make sure she don' have no more."

"Ya be an assassin. Why ya be in on de pinch?"

"Simple. I be here t'make sure dat she don' tell de police `bout our crime. Ever."

His eyes darkened with reluctance and disgust.

"Je comprends."

[I understand.]

"Come on . . . de window be unlocked. Dis be almost too easy." The assassin slipped in through the open window, melting into the shadows of the room. Remy followed her silent lead, graceful as a cat. The moonlight shining through the window illuminated a double-bed and its occupant. A single woman. Her brown hair was spilled across the pillow, a single white streak running along its length. The sound of her breathing the only noise in the room.

"La femme du papillion."

[The butterfly-woman.]

"Ya gonna stand an' watch de prey or do ya job, boy?"

"Fine. Intelligence tells me dere be a safe behind de painting." He lifted it off its hook, revealing a small iron door set into the wall. "Guess de femme watched too many old movies."

One. Two. Three. Listen to the safe. Try to lose yourself in the familiar action. Forget the victim. Forget what Belle will do. Open the door. Remove the small box, watch the jewels spill across your hand. Forget that they are worth more sentimentally than they ever will fetch on the black-market. Shove them into your pocket and the back of your mind. Forget.

"I be done." He said.

"Good. Now it be my turn."

"Wait! Why must we kill her?"

"Mon père said so." She shrugged, "He be de guild leader."

"So we gotta kill a woman b'cause ya poppa said so? Dat be no reason."

"I am an assassin - it be what I do. Don' need a reason." She bared her teeth, "Ya got a problem wit' dat, boy?"

"Oui. I got a problem wit' ya an' ya whole stinkin' guild."

The figure in the bed stirred, her breath becoming less regular.

"Ferme-la!"

[Shut up!]

She leant over the sleeping woman, hand moving down in a quick, practised motion. A snap. The room was silent . . . .

And this time the knife didn't shake or fall to the ground as he plunged it at her. Rogue's eyes were half-astonished as she saw it sheathed in her chest.

"You . . . did . . . it . . . you . . . son . . . of . . . a . . . *"

He turned away, leaving her where she lay on the floor. Turned to a tall man dressed in red and black, with the face of a demon and the soul to match.

"Ya got de elixir?"

"I am impressed, Mister leBeau. I never thought you had it in you." His black lips curl upwards at the corners. "Here. Take it and know that you will live a life bereft of the woman you love, your friends and your precious dream. But know that you will live."

"Non, Sinister. I won' live - I will survive."

"After a while, you learn they are much the same thing . . . ."

And somewhere far above Gambit, above the mansion, above the stars, Morpheus smiled . . .

`And the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls and tenement halls and echo in the sound of silence.'

- The Sound of Silence

"Bright lady - how long is this infernal tunnel?"

A light somewhere ahead of her, a glowing red dot bobbing up and down like a firefly, illuminating a silver, nebulous mass which clarified into body-armor, pale skin and lank hair as the figure approached.

"Callisto." She whispered.

"So, Bright One, you have returned . . . ." The Morlock's armor was stained with blood, "Too late, I am afraid."

"What has happened here?"

"The Marauders came - killed the younger and weaker of us."

"And you left them to their fate?" The white-haired woman was incredulous.

"At least *I* was there. - unlike some who profess leadership but are never around unless it suits them. Unless they have time to come down from their pretty, upworlder fantasy and *pretend* to make a difference."

"That is unfair."

"No, bright one, what is unfair is when children are slaughtered, men and women killed for no more reason than they are scientfically useless."

"That is not my fault . . . ."

"Yes it is." A red light burst from Callisto's hand, hitting the roof of the tunnel, covering Storm, turning the world into so much darkness. She screamed - the cry of a frightened animal, scratching and clawing the mass on top of her to escape. Light. The stone was lifted off of her. Air, fresh and sweet, filled her lungs.

"Don't worry, little girl. It'sokay. We've got you." Strong arms around her, lifting her up, and then the warmth of a blanket around her shoulders.

"Mom? Dad? Where are my parents?" She asked in sudden horror.

"Shhh . . . you rest now and we'll speak some more later."

"Mom? Dad?"

"Hush, honey." A syrupy, southern drawl said, placing her on a bed in an ambulance. "You need your rest."

"But . . . ."

And as she was falling asleep, she heard them speaking in soft whispers.

"Poor thing - she'll be devastated."

"Hate telling a kid that her parents are dead."

"Nevah easy. Should Ah do it?"

"Thanks, Mercy, but it's my responsibility."

Dead. The word cut through her like a knife, scarring her soul. Her parents. Dead. Not alive. Dead. Ashestoashdusttodust. Deaddeaddeaddeaddead.

"Honey." The pretty nurse he had called Mercy looked shocked, "Lawd, Luke. Ah think she overheard us."

"Leave me alone." The child shrieked, "Get away."

She rolled, feet pounding against dust and asphalt as she sprinted away into the cover of the buildings.

"Should Ah go aftah her?"

"No. She'll come back when she's ready. . . ."

She never did. Days drifted into weeks and then into months. Seasons shifted like the dunes on the desert, bringing with them new challenges. Or one challenge. That of survival.

"What is your name, street-rat?" The old man looked at her in suspicion.

"Ororo. Ororo Munroe." She told him.

"So, rat, you thought to steal from the master thief?"

"No." She shoved the bread up the back of her tunic, pressing closer to the wall.

"Child." He said a little more kindly, "Never try to deceive a master of deception."

He pulled her arm, yanking her away from the wall. The bread fell into the dust, spoiled and dirty. Tears dripped down Ororo's face, making wet patches in the sand.

"Rat . . . Ororo." He wiped her eyes with a corner of his robe, "You can spend your life as a petty thief, a pick-pocket and street-rat, or you can become a master of the art of appropriation."

"A master thief?"

"Yes. Something like that." He grinned, "You have courage and skill, I admire that in a person. In an apprentice."

Time passed but Ororo did not notice it. Life had become too busy to think of how little time she had to do so much. Under Achmed El-Gibar's guidance, she grew in skill and prestige, until she was acknowledged as the `greatest thief in Cairo'. She was riding a tidal wave of success, caught up in her own expertise, supremely confident . . . . It was night, as it usually was when she awake, and she had heard of a treasure being displayed at the Cairo Museum. A treasure beyond price - the contents of one of the ancient pharaoh's burial chambers. She had slipped into the building, triggering no alarms, and walked through the echo-hollow hallways. Her prayer as usual was simple: "Goddess, don't let me be caught." The room lay ahead and she pushed open the huge, vaulted door, wincing at the squeak of rusty hinges against iron. She entered, silently or so she had thought, dazzled by the display of wealth spread in front of her. Appreciating beauty for money's sake. A shadow slid behind her. An arm corded with muscle around her neck and a knife against her side.

"Let me go." She screamed, panic-stricken.

A hand clapped over her mouth and she bit it. A muffled swear-word.

"Ya want t'get us caught, chère? Den go ahead."

"Who are you?"

"Jus' de best t'ief in de whole business is all." The knife had not left her side.

"You can take the weapon away from my side - I will not harm you." She whispered, "I am a fellow master-thief."

He laughed, dropping the knife, "Chère - believe me when I say dat ya ain't even near m'class. Could hear ya a mile away."

"How *DARE* you insult me on my home ground?"

"Act'ly ya callin' yaself a master-t'ief is an insult t' m'profession." He stooped over the case of gold coins, "De only reason ya got in wit'out bein' caught was de fact dat I deactivated de security system."

The figure lifted the glass cover and started scooping coins into a small, velvet pouch.

"So?" She asked impatiently. "Who are you?"

"A master-t'ief come all de way from N'Awlins t'invest de pharaoh's money in a worthy cause."

"Which is?"

"Moi."

"Indeed." She smiled, "I am Ororo, student of Achmed El-Gibar."

"Can't say I've heard of him." He stood, moving to another case, picking the lock with dexterity.

"It is most impolite not to introduce yourself." She said.

"Ain't got where I am by being polite."

"It is also impolite to not face a person when you speak to them."

He laughed again, "So it is. M'poppa would be disappointed in me, if I wasn't de best t'ief in de whole guild."

"Might I know your name?"

"Ya might, but den again ya might not." The stranger said, "Au revoir, cherie. An' merci f'r takin' de blame."

Two small objects fluttered to the floor as he ran out of the room.

"What do you mean . . . ." She said to his retreating figure, "What are these?"

She bent and picked them up. Playing cards - the King of Diamonds and the Joker.

"What do they mean?"

The alarm began to shrill and she suddenly understood their significance - she had been played for a fool by the master of the game.

Jail. Dingy grey walls with scratches and graffiti. Barred windows. No sunlight. Only mealtimes and exercise sessions broke the monotony of sleeping and thinking. Thinking and sleeping.

"Goddess, I shall go crazy if I remain here much longer."

She looked at the wall. At the now familiar words of despair and hope. Of faith and misery.

"God watches all of us, including those who are blind to him."

"Count your days - they will end."

"Ahmed loves Dinarzad."

"This day is the only day left for me. At last, I will be free!"

"Fazool 1957."

"Arken Tenna went walking at night. Saw something and died of fright. Now the question seems to be: What did Tenna see?"

"Escape while you can."

She did not know how many times she had read these inscriptions - how many times had she wondered about the minds, the people, who had written them? Now she wondered why she had not seen the truth behind the inscriptions. The truth of her only chance of salvation - escape. She extracted a sliver of metal from where she had buried it in the dust; the day when she had thought of escaping for the first time. Before escape had become her only recourse. Ororo walked slowly over to the door and picked the lock, wincing at the squeak of the protesting hinges as she pushed it open. Trying to ignore it. The guards were not as successful as she at doing so and they swarmed into the room, like ants over a honeycomb. They dragged her roughly in front of the warden, pushing her face into the dust.

"So? You tried to escape?"

She nodded helplessly.

"And you know the penalty for trying to escape?"

She shook her head helplessly.

"Solitary confinement in the box."

"The box?" She whispered from between parched and swollen lips.

"The box." He leered, leaning over her. "Take her away."

Hands hauling her to her feet and pushing her in front of them, ignoring her struggles and curses. A small, concrete room in front of her. Windowless. A single shaft for ventilation. Dark. She screamed - the cry of a frightened animal - resisting their attempts to push her inside. To no avail. The walls closed in . . . .

'I looked down; my clothes hung formlessly on my shrunken limbs; the hand that lay on my knee was corded and hairy. I was once more Edward Hyde.'

- Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson

"Visitor?" The Doctor looked up from his boiling-tubes, brushing his dark hair out of his face.

"The reporter?" The nurse had a long-suffering look on her face, "Tish Tilby? You said you'd discuss the findings of your latest series of tests with her."

"Certainly. Allow me to finish up here and I will be with her in two shakes of an amoeba's pseudopodia." He squeezed liquid soap onto his hands and began washing them.

"Okay . . . but don't take too long. She looks the impatient sort, if you know what I mean."

"Actually I'm finished." He turned the faucet off and dried his hands on his lab coat. "Lead on, Nurse Hatcher."

The corridor of the Legacy Research Institute was deserted, save for a few harried temps and secretaries xeroxing urgent memorandums to various important officals. Henry McCoy hurried along to the lobby where Tish Tilby was waiting.

"Dr McCoy? Tish Tilby of Channel 6 News?" She extended her hand.

"Miss Tilby." He shook it, "I am a great admirer of your program."

"Thanks." She said, "For the compliment and for granting me this interview."

"Both are my pleasure." He smiled, "Anything in the service of science or ratings."

"Hmmp." Tish grunted, "Should we get underway? I need this for tonight's show."

"Take a seat."

"Thanks." She sat on one of the uniform plastic chairs that always seemed to be purchased by medical centers, "You said you had made a breakthrough on the problem of the Legacy Virus. Would you care to explain?"

"Yes." He pulled up a chair opposite her, "We have identified the sequence of bases on the Legacy DNA strand. Bases which seem to suggest that the virus was engineered rather than natural."

"What do you mean?"

"They are arranged in such a way for which even the most dramatic mutation cannot account." He sighed, "I can't explain it - it just seems too regular, too ordered, too pat to be natural."

"Who do you think is behind it?"

"It is too early to make accusations."

"Then you have your suspicions?"

"Not a one, Miss Tilby. Not a one."

"You're holding out on me. I promise to keep it confidential, until you give the say-so." She smiled winningly.

"Miss Tilby . . . ."

"Tish."

"Tish . . . I can honestly say that I do not have the foggiest idea about the origin of Legacy. The foggiest idea about how to cure Legacy. Or the foggiest idea about why you are so obsessed with finding out who unleashed it on the world."

"It's called human interest, Doctor. It sells papers, or sends ratings through the clouds."

"Listen to yourself, Tish." He stood, toppling the chair, "Isn't it enough that people are dying of it every day? Isn't it enough that we have to stand by helplessly and watch while innocents pay for our ignorance? Isn't that enough 'human interest', enough tear-jerking, gritty realism' to send your ratings through the clouds? More to the point - what do ratings matter when compared to a little girl's life?" He shook his head, "Heaven save us from reporters."

"Little girl?" Tish latched onto the words like a dog to a bone.

"No. She is not going to be part of your human-interest' expose." He turned away, "As far as I am concerned, this interview is over. Don't let the door hit you on your way out."

"Thank you for your time, Doctor."

"I wish I could say that it was my pleasure."

Tish smiled to herself, writing a note in her leather-covered book. This little girl could be just the boost her waning career needed . . . .

"Josephine?"

"Doctor McCoy!" The little girl jumped out of bed as she saw him, "Did you bring the candy?"

"Yes I did, sweetheart." He handed her a small paper packet.

Too eager for politeness, she scratched through the collection, pulling out a plastic wrapped gumball.

"Strawberry."

"Your favorite - I remembered."

"Thank you." She flung her arms around his neck. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou."

"My pleasure at least once."

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him.

"Time for my blood to be taken, right?"

"I'm afraid so." He unwrapped a new syringe, "Roll up your sleeve."

She sighed and exposed a patch of bare skin on her arm.

"Don't you ever feel like a vampire, Doctor McCoy?"

"Yes." He grinned, "And I vant to bite your arm."

Josephine giggled, "You know - when you're around, I kinda forget that I'm going to die."

Henry placed the blood into a glass bottle, then turned to face the earnest child sitting in front of him.

"You aren't going to die." He said, swabbing the puncture hole with some alcohol.

"Yes, I am, silly. I have Legacy." She pronounced the last word in a hushed voice, as she must have heard well-meaning adults do, for she was too young for shame.

"And I am working on a cure for Legacy." He held up a selection of Band-aids, "Mickey Mouse or Power Rangers?"

"Pink Ranger, please." She said, "What if you don't find the cure in time?"

"Don't think about that, Josephine. You have to have faith."

"What's faith?"

"Faith is knowing that everything will turn out for the best."

"Yeah, I have that." She grinned, "In you."

"Thank you." He smiled. "I have to go to the lab now to run tests on the blood I have drawn from you."

"Bye, Doc." Her eyes became sad, "Don't forget to buy me the new issue of Teen Scene magazine."

"I won't, Josephine. I won't."

The door shut soundlessly behind him as he left the room, like they all seemed to do in medical centers; then opened once more a few minutes later . . . .

"Who are you?" Josephine squinted suspiciously at the visitor.

"Tell me, how would you like to have your story told to the world?"

"Today's paper, McCoy?"

"Thanks, Nurse Hatcher."

He took the folded sheets of paper from her and opened them, placing it on the table. Slowly, he scanned the headline and, even more slowly, it registered somewhere in his disbelieving brain.

"I don't believe Tish did it . . . ."

"Doc, isn't it cool?" Josephine grinned at him as he entered the room. "I'm famous."

"No, it isn't cool'." Henry slumped in a chair next to her bed, "It is the worst thing possible in fact."

"Why? I'm a star!"

"At the price of what? Your anonymity, your sanctity, your humanity?" He slammed his fist into the table, "D**n - you are going to become nothing more than a pretty tale to leaven the more weighty matters. Legacy will become something touching to shed a tear over while eating croissants or bagels. Massacres, wars and Josephine."

"I thought you would be happy?"

"No - I am not." He sighed, "I wanted to spare you this. I wanted to save you from the relentless dissection of the media. From the lack of privacy, of HUMANITY, which characterizes these hunts."

"Doc." She put her small hand on his arm, "I am dying - if my loss of privacy means that people understand just a little bit better about this . . . this thing which is killing me, then I'm happy to lose it. Besides which, who doesn't dream of being on page one of every national paper? Of being interviewed on Oprah or the Rosie O'Donnell show? Of being the subject of Larry King Live?"

"True." He ruffled her hair, "I just wished to spare you pain."

"Thanks, but I don't need your help. I can deal with this on my own."

"I know you can - which is why I wanted to help."

"Thanks. For everything."

"No, Josephine. Thank you for showing me the one thing I had forgotten."

"Which is?"

"You can try to protect someone from something from which they don't want - or need - to be protected."

"Doc?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Can you get me some makeup?" She grinned, "I'm on Oprah in half-an-hour!"

"She's crashing!"

"Take her to Exam 5!"

"Blood presssure's rising - higher than expected."

"What's wrong?"

"God alone knows - one minute the kid was eating her breakfast, the next she's in cardiac shock."

"D***."

"You said it."

"Call Nurse Rodriguez! Tell her to get over to Exam 5."

"Yes, sir."

"What is wrong with this kid?"

"Legacy - the final stages. Inevitably resulting in death."

"What a pity."

"Yes. It is. On my count . . . 1 . . . 2 . . . 3. . . Now."

"Heave!"

"Gotcha!"

"Josephine? Can you hear me?"

" . . . ."

"Josephine. Blink once if you can hear me."

"Her eye moved - I saw it!"

"Yes, so did I."

"Josephine - you're going to be alright."

"Know . . . that . . . faith . . . in . . . you . . . silly . . . ."

"Josephine. We need you to relax and trust us."

"Going . . . die . . . ."

"No. You're not going to die."

" . . . scared . . . ."

"You're not going to die."

"For . . . you . . . am . . . scared . . . ."

"Why?"

"BP falling."

"Have . . . secret . . . locked . . . inside . . . you . . . ."

"Secret?"

"Heart-rate dropping below safe levels."

"She's delirious, doctor. Hallucinations are characteristic of the latter stages of the virus."

"No . . . no . . . see."

Light. Strange-familiar feelings. A sense of falling and flying. Understanding. Then pain as thread-fine hairs forced themselves through skin. Blue hairs.

"My word, McCoy - you're one of them . . . a mutant. . . . a stinking freak . . . ."

And, somewhere, far far above the concerns of man or beast, Morpheus, Lord of Nightmares, smiled . . . .

Insanity

"Hatred and vengeance, my eternal portion,
Scarce can endure delay of execution,
Wait, with impatient readiness, to seize
My soul in a moment."

-- Lines written during a Period of Insanity' by William Cowper

"Logan?"

"Grrr."

"Logan?"

"Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr."

"Sugah, Ah know you're in there."

A woman. Strange. Not his friend, and if she was not his friend, then his enemy.

"Grrrrooooo awwayyy."

"Hon. Y'all know me better than that."

"Grrrrrrrr."

Why wouldn't she listen to him? Didn't she understand that he held himself under control by the most tenuous of mental leashes?

"Sugah. It's me, Rogue."

Rogue. The woman who had hurt Carol. Carol was his friend. Ace, he had called her. Rogue had hurt Ace. A snarl split his throat in two and he leapt, catching the woman on her legs, knocking her to the floor. She looked so vulnerable, so surprised, as he pinned her down with a claw to her head.

"Carrrrrrrrol."

"No . . . Ah ain't Carol."

"You kgggggilled Carrrrol."

A single stab. The woman's eyes fluttered closed. She had been caught unawares and had not turned her powers on again. Had not thought he would kill her. Had not thought he would be so out of control. Blood. The warm liquid soaked his tattered uniform, dying it crimson.

"Grrrrr."

He lifted her hand and it fell limply to the floor, gold ring dulled by the coagulating plasma. Dead.

"Wolver . . . Rogue?!" Another woman. This one with hair the color of flame and eyes like a cool pool.

"Jeeannn."

"Logan?"

Her arms were soft around him, smelling of soap and flowers.

"Why did you do it?"

"She ghhhurt Carrrol . . . Carrrrrol was frrriend."

"Shhh . . . let me help you." Her mind touching his, stroking it like one would a frightened animal.

Another mind-probe - more aggressive - from another source. A mind-probe that wished to hurt. To kill. To scar. Accusation. Pain. Grief. Hate. Logan shook his mind free from the probes, hiding behind a screen of simple emotions. The screen shattered and he whimpered, backing away into a corner.

Gambit: I have ya now . . . Wolvetraitorine. [Hate]

Logan: leave-alone-not-fault-hurt-carol-she-did-ace-my-friend

Gambit: The woman ya killed was my wife. [Pain]

Logan: get-out-before-i-kil-lyou.

Gambit: [laughter] Ya couldn't kill me if ya wanted to.

Logan: get-out-poking-pain-mind

Jean: Let me help you, Logan.

A screen, blocking out the other unfriendly mind, soothing him with the scent of soap and flowers.

Logan: thankyoufriend

Jean: My pleasure.

Gambit: Dat was low.

Jean: You know he is not in control of himself. You know that he did not mean to hurt her.

Gambit: Tell dat t'Rogue - if she was alive.

Jean: [sympathy] You know my thoughts are with you.

Gambit: Den help me kill him.

Jean: No. I . . . [secrecy]

Gambit: Ya love him? Like I did m'wife? Den ya know we gotta stop him.

Jean: . . .Agreed.

Gambit: Drop de screen.

Jean: NO! Let me do it - I will be kinder than you.

Gambit: Pah. Animal don' deserve it.

Silence. Logan felt his mind being gently probed, then wrapped with fine filaments, cutting off his brain functions. He struggled, breaking free of the psychic sarcophagus which engulfed him. Claws extended and he pushed Jean roughly away, cutting at her in his desperation.

More blood.

The sweet smell of death replaced that of soap and flowers.

Gambit: Ya killed her too?

Logan: is-she-dead-oh-no-oh-nohno.

Gambit: Mebbe I should deal wit' ya personally `stead o' hidin' behind m'mind.

Logan: then-you-i-will-kill-too

Silence. Footsteps echoing down the hollow passageways of the mansion. A young man with hate in his eyes and pain in his voice. A young man who stood over the body of his wife.

"Ya be an animal . . . an' I gotta put ya down."

"Grrrr."

"Sorry, `mon ami'."

The air grew warm around him, the floor-boards vibrated beneath him and began to glow.

"Game over.", whispered Gambit as the world exploded into energy.

"On the contrary, the game has only just begun." Sabretooth bared fangs, "You versus me. Good versus evil. The age-old struggle. But this time evil will win. Good will die."

"You're kidding yourself, bub." Wolverine responded, "We've danced this dance before . . . I won."

"No. Never before like this." He grinned, "Never before with so high a stake."

"What do you . . . ?" Sabretooth pulled a rope, dragging something along behind him. A girl with dark, cropped hair bound with heavy chains.

"Jubilee - leave her out of this."

"She just makes the game so much more interesting. You win, you get the girl. I win, I get the girl. I'm guessing you don't want the latter to happen."

"Scum."

"Let's see if you can fight as good as you talk, runt?"

Wolverine's only answer was to launch himself at Sabretooth, slashing wildly with his claws. Creed neatly sidestepped, extending a hand, cutting into Wolverine's abdomen.

"Tag. You're it."

Ignoring the pain, Logan lashed out with a foot, catching Sabretooth on his jaw. Creed spat out blood and whirled around, countering with a hard right-cross. Fist to cheek. Hand to stomach. Foot to mouth. Blood and sweat fell down Wolverine's face and onto the floor, making wet patches in the dust. A few vultures wheeled over the desert landscape, making descending spirals before looping up again into the clouds.

"You're getting old, runt. I haven't even broken a sweat and you're already gasping like you're drowning."

"Not so old as to forget how to use trickery as well as brute force, bub."

Wolverine's claws slid through Sabretooth's shoulder. Creed yelled in pain and frustration, kicking out and catching Wolverine in the rapidly healing slash across his stomach, reopening the wound.

"Leave Jubilee alone."

"You wish." Sabretooth panted, "But what I am going to do is take down one X-broad at a time, destroying everyone who has ever cared about you. Jean Grey, that filly Rogue, snooty Storm and then Psylocke. One by one, until they all die."

"No."

Claws slashed in a silver blur, raking Sabretooth where they touched him.

"Did that make you mad? Did it, little man?" He grinned, "Good. Mad is good. Lose control. Feel the blood rush to your head - become an animal."

"Won't do it. Won't be like you." Wolverine grunted.

"Then die."

He kicked out, knocking Sabretooth to his knees. "Beg for mercy, bub. Maybe I'll be kind in my killing of you."

"Mercy?" Creed's eyes narrowed, "What makes you think that I need it?"

"You need mercy. We all do."

"Maybe you should ask for mercy yourself."

Creed flipped up, claws on his feet raking Wolverine as he did so.

"Time to die, old man."

"Not today, pup. Or any other day."

The vultures made another arc, dipping beneath the horizon that shimmered with haze and heat. Their harsh cries echoed over the empty landscape. Cries of satisfaction. Monodies. They knew that they would not go hungry that day. The shrill, high voice of a girl as she called out; a brittle thread of sound that shattered the silence as it itself shattered. Like dreams or hopes. Like prayers.

A single tear dropped out of the side of Jubilee's eye as she saw Wolverine lying on the bleached, white sand beyond any help of his healing factor. Holding on to a tenuous string of life. And as that too snapped, the dying man saw the little girl fall to her knees and bury her head into the sand, preparing herself for her fate. "I've failed. . . "

Morpheus stretched, running a hand over the leads which fed the raw emotions to his brain. Emotions which in time would be converted to the psionic energy which powered his metabolic processes. Emotions which were required for his survival.

"Computer . . . how many more are there? I still hunger."

"Five." The SynthDroid replied.

"Only five?"

"In this particular location."

"Then that will have to suffice - I cannot remain here much longer without the risk of running out of fuel." Morpheus' voice became troubled, "Computer. Next scenario."

"Input name?"

"Delta-Rho-Epsilon-Alpha-Mu #78109."

"Processing . . . beep . . . starting simulation: Early Frost."

The voice of the last cricket
across the first frost
is one kind of good-by.
It is so thin a splinter of singing."

-- Splinter by Carl Sandburg

He had driven from his home on Long Island early that morning in response to a distress signal from Cyclops. He realized much later the Cyclops had signaled him with his dying breath. That his last motion had been to depress the button that called him. Him! The last X-Man. They were all dead. Elegant Storm, feisty Wolverine, solemn Cyclops and Beast. Beast, his best friend.

All dead and gone.

"Who did this?" He wondered, bending over the body of Rogue. Seeing the lack of outward injury.

"It was almost as if she was killed from inside."

"Massive neural trauma has a way of doing that to a person."

Her voice. Sweet. Familiar. One he had heard ever since the night she had been inside his head. The night when she had become him. "Emma Frost."

"Congratulations." The blonde woman stepped through the door, "I am impressed. For a second-rate weakling, you're quite the Sherlock Holmes."

"Why, Emma? Why did you kill them?"

"Because I could." She smiled, revealing sharp teeth.

"That's not good enough." "I killed them because I was tired of playing the game by their rules. Of having Charles' success shoved into my face every time I came to visit."

She laughed, "Don't look so outraged, Bobby. Don't say you haven't dreamed of it yourself? Don't say that you haven't hoped that they would all die instead of treating you like the class-clown? Like a freshman?"

"No. I haven't."

"One of the oldest X-Men, and even Gambit gets more respect than you. You were jealous of them all. This was your revenge."

"No . . . "

"Maybe I am part of you. A left-over residue from the time I was in your mind." She said, "Maybe you killed them and I am just a hallucination."

"It's impossible . . . "

"Is it?" Her eyes narrowed, "Look inside yourself and see."

"You're right . . . I did kill them. All of them. And do you know what, Emma ? I don't care. They deserved it. They all deserved it. Maybe now they'll respect me. Maybe now they'll care."

"No, they won't, Bobby." She said as she faded away, "They're beyond respecting now."

"Son?" Martha Drake ran a cool hand over her son's warm forehead,

"Wake up. You're having a nightmare."

"Mommy?" He said, snuggling into her side. "I'm scared."

"No reason to be, sweetheart. I'm right here beside you."

"Mommy? Where's dad?"

"He's out still."

"Where?"

"At the meeting of some club or another. The Friends of Humanity, he calls it. Says it's a social awareness group for people who care about what is happening to America."

"Oh."

"Would you like some warm milk, Bobby?"

"Yes, please."

"I'll fetch some for you right now."

The door opened and closed, and there was the sound of glass being rattled in the kitchen. Bobby turned over onto his side and looked out of the window into the dark night. Light, sudden and golden, washed over him, accompanied by the drone of an engine. A door opened and closed.

"Martha. I'm home."

"William. Would you be quiet? Bobby is sleeping."

"Sorry." He continued in a softer tone which meant that despite how hard Bobby tried he could not hear all the words.

"Man . . . Creed . . . onto . . . something . . . perfect . . . no . . . freaks."

"Honestly . . . you . . . insanity . . . William . . . please . . . think . . . Bobby."

" . . am."

". . .Want . . . grow . . . up . . . hating . . . different?"

"No . . . freaks."

". . . Difference?"

He could take it no more, climbing out of bed, he tiptoed softly to the den.

"Mommy? Daddy?"

"Bobby - get back to bed."

"Please don't fight about me."

"Oh, honey." His mother picked him up and carried him upstairs, "We aren't fighting about you - your father is doing something of which I don't approve."

"What?" He asked, curious.

"Bobby . . . " She pressed his hand and in her eyes was the light of urgency, "Promise that you will never hate someone who is different. In any way."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean - despite how they look on the outside, they are no different from you in the inside."

"Then why would I hate them?"

"Good question, Bobby." She sighed, "Promise me anyway." And he promised.

Adolescence. A time when everything changes. A time when the transition from child to adult is made. Typically, a time when a person rides a roller-coaster, swinging between emotional highs and lows.

Adolescence. Hard enough when one is human, impossible when one is not.

"Come on, Drake. She wouldn't even look at you if you dressed up as Ronald McDonald and danced around the school."

"That's what you think, Anderson." "Tyla is an uberbabe. You are an uberwiener. The two are mutually incompatible."

"Yeah - but how many uberwieners can do this?" Light snow began to fall on Anderson's head, turning into water as it melted. Drake laughed, then stopped suddenly as he saw the terror in his friend's eyes.

"What's wrong? Scared of a little snow?"

"Nothing." Anderson answered quickly, putting up his hands to shield himself. "Get away from me before I get sick."

Drake was confused.

"A little water won't make you sick, Einstein."

"You're a mutie and all muties carry a plague." "Come on, Anderson. It's me. Bobby. Bobby the Loser, Bobby. Bobby, couldn't get a date if he picked one off a calender, Bobby."

"Yeah. Whatever." He retreated, "You could have told me you were a freak before this, you know. If I get sick . . . ."

"Anderson. Come back . . . ." He screamed, "ANDERson . . . anderson."

Like melted snow, tears began to trickle down his cheeks.

"Bobby. The principal spoke to me today about your . . . situation." His father's face was dark with anger, "He told me that you had created a snowfall in the playground."

"Just a little one. On Anderson."

"That doesn't change anything."

"Sorry, sir."

"Sorry won't cut it this time." He yelled, "If you had to choose a time to show the world that you're a freak, couldn't it have been after school?"

"Sir . . . "

"Now the principal doesn't want you back. Scared that you'll infect the other kinds with some fershlugginer disease they believe muties carry. I don't want you here either."

"Sir?"

"I'm ashamed of you, Bobby. I'm ashamed that you turned out to be a freak." He laughed, "It must have been something you did - should have hit you more. Spare the rod and spoil the child, they always say."

"Where will I go, sir?"

"Here." He tossed him a brochure. "It caters for children with special needs. Sounds so bleeding-heart that I'm sure they won't reject a freak . . . "

The text on the brochure blurred into a dark smudge and Bobby battled to focus upon it.

"The Xavier Institute of Higher Learning . . . "

They welcomed him with smiles and laughter when they thought he was not listening. After a while, he grew accustomed to the role of class-clown, the jester in a court of knights. He grew accustomed to but never enjoyed.

He soon tired of their lack of respect, of their expectations of him, but he never showed it. He hid it behind a smile. Behind a quip, which further bolstered their opinion of him. He watched their lives unfold, saw them become liked, loved, respected. Shared their happiness and contributed to it and yet himself never became loved or respected. He was liked, for one cannot help but like a class-clown, a jester, but they never really knew him. Never knew the anger bubbling just below the surface.

Rogue was the final straw. More beautiful than Tyla was. More unreachable than she had ever been. After all, what chance does a uberwiener stand with an uberbabe? And what chance does he have when he is too scared to try? To ask? To be hurt?

So he worshipped her from a distance, hiding it as always behind a smile and a quip, never admitting that he loved her. Her wedding day was the funeral of his hopes although he had smiled and told all the bad, good, old jokes about enjoying the last free moments of her life, because Gambit would make sure that she was securely tied down. And she had laughed and asked how you could tie down someone who could fly, but her eyes had been sad as if she had seen something which the others had not in him. The old joy soon welled up however as the band had begun to play the most beautiful and saddest song ever written and she had walked down the aisle to her destiny.

For after all what chance does an uberwiener have with an uberbabe when his competition is a smooth-talking cajun whose only encounter with "wienerness" has been to buy them from concession stands?

Although Drake died slightly that day, he smiled. Just as he smiled when he used his powers to freeze the blood in his teammates' veins. When he used them to turn their brainstems into the equivalent of a popsicle. When he saw the fear and surprise in their eyes and mistook it as resect. And Bobby Drake was suddenly afraid of what he might do, what he would do, if the blood in his veins ever turned to ice . . .

"Computer. End simulation and suspend subject in state of fear."

"Beep . . . acknowledged. Processing."

"Log on new subject."

"Acknowledged. . . ."

Clipped Wings

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,

When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore: -

When he beats the bars and he would be free;

It is not a carol of joy or glee.

But a prayer that he sends up from his heart's deep core,

But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings -

I know why the caged bird sings.'

From Sympathy' by Paul Laurence Dunbar

"Arise, my servant. It is your master who speaks to you."

He ignored the voice - it had been taunting him for a number of days now, always promising him freedom for his cooperation.

"I am no-one's servant and I have no master."

"I gave you life. You were reborn through me."

"You also gave me death."

"No. I gave you the power of death, my angel."

"I am not your angel."

"Still denying the truth, Warren? Still unable to believe that I am who I say I am."

"Is this all you can do? Hide behind some menacing voice and try to lie to me?"

"I can do much, much more. I am Apocalypse."

"Then why do you need me?"

"I do not. It is you who are in need of me."

"You? Why do I need you?"

"You want to fly again."

"Yes. So?"

"I can make you fly."

"If I do something for you."

"Quite right, my seraph. A small price to pay in return for whatI am offering."

"Your prices are never small. Last time it cost me my humanity."

"And this time it shall cost you your heart."

"My heart? Betsy?"

"As I said a small price for one who offers you freedom. Flight. The skies."

"What do you want with her?"

"She is a fascinating woman in more ways than one. Her exposure to the Crimson Dawn has changed her . . . ."

"Yes. I know that. Why's that important to you?"

" . . . .In ways that are useful to me. That you could not hope to understand."

"Very well. I'll help you, if you promise not to hurt her."

Apocalypse smiled in the shadows where he was hidden.

"I promise."

Betsy Braddock bent over the pale blossom of the lily, touching the velvety petals with a slender finger. She could hear Warren calling her from somewhere in the distance.

"Betsy? BETSY?"

She chose to ignore him. To be selfish. To have time for herself and by herself.

"BETSY?"

"Warren." She whispered, feeling guilty, "The angel who cannot fly. Who has fallen to earth and can never hope to rise again to heaven."

The accident had affected him badly. It had started as a routine Danger Room simulation - as routine as they ever got - but something went wrong. The sim had gone out of control. Warren had crashed to the floor in a blur of feathers, his wings bent beneath him. Beast's diagnosis had been as simple as it was painful - the delicate bones in his wings were crushed, splintered beyond recognition. Warren could never fly again. His wings could not, would not, support him.

"There you are . . . ."

Betsy turned around slowly, silently.

"I didn't hear you."

He nodded, running a hand through his pale hair. A nervous habit, she noted, why was Warren nervous?

"I was wondering if you would like to come somewhere with me."

"With you?" She raised an eyebrow, since his accident Warren had sequestered himself from the rest of the world, almost as if he was ashamed of his current state.

"Yes. Maybe we could take a drive somewhere."

"Sure." She shrugged, "I would love to."

"Great. Get your coat. We have quite a long drive ahead of us."

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

The wind whipped through his hair, blowing it across his face, as he raced down the highway that carved a path around the sea-cliff.

"Slow down." Betsy laughed, "You're going too fast."

Warren nodded and pressed down harder on the accelerator. The car picked up speed.

"Warren? Warren?" She asked, scared. "Slow down, please."

The car moved faster until the rockface became a blur of brown and grey.

"Warren. I'm not kidding. You'll get us both killed." She pleaded, then angrily, "Stop this car immediately. I want to get out."

"It's too late to get out."

"You have a death wish then. Fine, just don't take me with you to your grave."

"No."

"Then slow down before we both end up dead."

"I want to fly."

"This isn't the way to do it. It's dangerous and reckless and . . . ."

Impotent tears trickled down her cheekbones, salty on her lips.

"Sorry, Bets. It's too late to stop."

"No. . . no . . . ."

The car stopped, skidding across the concrete as it did so, burning marks into the grey stone. Betsy looked up at the huge building in front of them, eyes wide with terror and recognition.

"Apocalypse."

"You have done well, my prodigal son."

"You have Betsy. Give me what you've promised me."

"Fine." En Sabah Nur nodded, "Ozymandias, give Angel that whichhe deserves.

The man of stone inclined his head in agreement.

"Poor creature of blood and bone. Flightless angel. The master sees fit that thou art given that which thou most desireth. Yet Ozymandias implores the Archangel to tell him what motivated him to betray the love of his life."

"Freedom."

"Is it freedom?" Ozymandias' dry mouth curved in a smile, "Or hast thou simply traded chains of one kind for another?"

"Shut up and give me my wings back."

"Very well, poor fallen Angel." He sighed, the sound of the stone grinding against stone, "The master who takes away sight and replaces it with eternal vision has given thou thy desire."

"Thank you." Warren said, "Thank you."

"Remember well my words." Ozymandias said, "Thou shalt never be free."

"Maybe not, but I will fly."

"Then fly, but know that, like a nightingale, there will always be someone to tie thy leg with a silken cord. To control thou and pull thou back to earth."

"Perhaps, but at least I can touch the clouds. How many can say that?"

"Everyone touches the clouds in their own way. Not all have sacrificed themselves to do it though." Ozymandias laughed, "Thou hast given up thy identity for its sake. Enjoy thy clouds and know that they are all that thou hast left."

"Yes, but they are more than enough."

"Thou wilt see the first time that thou toucheth them."

"Yes, I will." Angel took five steps to the edge of the cliff and spread his wings, then jumped, hoping for the familiar upliftment. Nothing. Air rushed past his face, the rocks approached. He beat his wings but did not slow his descent. He fell, faster and faster, a bird shot by a hunter, into the merciless, foam-white sea. Onto the spires of rock. And as the world become black, he heard a woman scream.

"Who is next?" Morpheus smiled, "Who shall satiate my hunger?"

"Male. Supposed leader of this group of individuals."

"Good. Link him into the program."

"Processing . . . beginning scenario . . . ."

My life closed twice before its close;

It yet remains to see

If Immortality unveil

A third event to me

So huge, so hopeless to conceive,

As those that twice befell.

Parting is all we know of heaven,

And all we need of hell.

By Emily Dickenson

"I am too dangerous . . . too powerful. This is the only way to ensure the safety of the universe."

"Please don't leave me. I love you."

"Don't you get it? This is beyond you and me. I cannot be selfish."

"Why not? Haven't we been unselfish enough? What's wrong with wanting a bit of happiness for ourselves for once in our lives?"

"This is too important to risk for a few years happiness. Too dangerous."

"My love, you are not dangerous."

"Not now, no, but I could be. It is best for all if I . . . ."

She turned away and rose, like a spark, into the air. She did not say goodbye. Cyclops stood in silence for a long while, watching and not watching for the flash of light which would signify Phoenix's death, and when it came, he turned away and walked slowly home.

Light. The world was transmuted into an intense glare. A flicker of flames. A screen of smoke. Tears streamed down Scott Summers' face, hissing and crackling as they met the hot metal. A woman's hand holding him by the hand, dragging him until it felt that his arm must come out of the socket.

"Honey, come on. We have no time for this."

"Mom? Dad?"

"Scott. Here. Hold on tight to Alex."

His youngest brother was thrust into his arms.

"What about Steven?"

"He's going to stay with us. He said he wanted to."

"I want to as well."

"No. You're the oldest, I need you to look after Alex." She tucked the parachute straps under his arms, "The parachute won't hold three, otherwise there is no way on heaven or earth that I would leave your brother with us."

"What about the other parachutes? What about them?"

"They've caught alight. There's only one left." She bent and kissed him, "Good luck, my son. Know that we will always be with you."

"Bye, bro." Steven looked uncertain, afraid, for the first time in his life. "If we make it out of here alive, I'll find you. I promise."

"Yeah. Until that time, squirt."

"Bye, jerk."

The other boy's eyes were bright with something like sadness.

"Bye, Scott. Alex." His father's hand pushed his shoulder, tipping them out of the burning plane and into the cold air. The parachute, like a grey ash, unfurled and carried them slowly to earth.

"Milbury's Orphanage." Scott whispered to Alex as they sat on the stiff chairs in the polished hallway. "Hope they can take both of us."

His brother stopped sucking his thumb for long enough to say: "They won't. They want to split us up."

"They don't. Miss Argyros promised us they wouldn't."

Alex returned to balefully sucking his grubby thumb. Scott sighed and continued:

"I wonder if Steven's alright."

"He's dead. Like mom and dad."

Alex sounded emotionless.

"Shut up. They aren't."

"Yes, they are, stupid. They're dead and we're going to be split up."

"No we're not. NO WE'RE NOT! NO NO NONONONO!"

"Scott? Is everything alright?" Miss Argyros ran down the passageway and bent towards the child. She smelt of

antiseptic and camomile.

"Are . . . we . . . going to be split up?"

Miss Argyros was silent.

"We are, aren't we?"

". . . Yes."

"But you promised."

"I said I'd try."

"YOU PROMISED!" He stood up and started running in the other direction. Feet pounding against cold tiles.

"I'm sorry, Scott. I'm sorry . . . ."

Her voice became distant, vague, as he put more distance between them.

"I-promised-mom-that-I-would-look-after-Alex-and-now-I-can't-because-of-them-but-mom-wouldn't-care-because-she's-dead-and-dad's-dead-and-Steven's-dead."

"What is your rush, young Summers?"

The voice of a man. Deep and somehow sinister. Scott looked up and his eyes became wide

with horror.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Milbury."

"Milbury? The man who owns this orphanage?"

"Correct."

"I'm the one who is staying here, aren't I?"

"Correct again. A foster home has been found for your brother."

"And not me?"

"No. They did not want an older child such as yourself."

"But I promised mom that I would . . . ."

"Your mother is dead - I do not believe such promises are applicable any more."

"Yessir . . . but . . . ."

"You are lucky that we have taken you. No-one else wanted you."

"But . . . ."

"We are the only one's who would take you. For that you should be grateful."

"But . . . ."

"Let me show you to your room."

"Can I see Alex one more time?"

"I am afraid Miss Argyros has already left - taking your brother with her."

"Oh."

He mutely followed Milbury's lead.

"Down the hallway, two doors to the right." The tall man swung the door open, "Dinner is at six. Be punctual."

Scott walked into the room, closing the door slowly behind him. His eyes swept the room, taking notice of the dingy, gray color that seemed to be uniform for the beds, tables and chairs. He deliberately laid his small case of things on the table, deliberately removed his toothbrush and placed it beside his bed as his mother had taught him to, then deliberately lay down on the gray bed and began to sleep.

"Hey, Scott." The boy's leg stretched out to trip him.

"What's wrong, Christopher?"The nurse asked, "Did Scott fall again?"

"Yeah. He's getting to be terribly clumsy." Christopher bared his teeth in a grin, "Here. Let me help you up."

His nails dug into Scott's flesh as he yanked him up roughly.

"Thank you, Christopher." The nurse looked harried, "And do be more careful, Scott, I don't have time to waste bandaging you every single day."

"Yes'm."

The nurse walked away to attend to a young girl who was in the process of emptying her stomach all over the floor.

"Do be more careful." The older boy mimicked in a falsetto, "We don't want you getting hurt."

"Leave me alone."

"Or you'll do what, geek? Bore me to death?"

"No . . . I'll . . . I'll do . . . this . . . ."

Optic beams erupted from his eyes, knocking Christopher onto the wall. The older boy looked at him with a mixture of fear and disgust in his eyes.

"Freak. You're a stinkin' freak."

"No . . . I . . . don't . . . not my fault." Scott turned away and ran until his lungs burned. Until his legs gave out and he collapsed, panting, in the field which surrounded the orphanage for miles in all directions.

"Hey, jerk."

"Who . . . Steven? Squirt?"

His younger brother smiled at him.

"D'oh. Told you I'd find you."

"Yes. You did."

"Pretty neat trick you pulled back at the orphanage. Sure gave that moron a fright." Steven laughed.

"I don't know what is happening to me."

"You're a mutant. Like me. Like Alex." He grinned, sitting next to Scott on the bank. "We all have different powers, though they're all energy-based. It seems the bump on your head released yours."

"Alex is also having these problems?"

"Yeah. Dad thinks they're a gift though."

"Dad?"

"Not Dad dad. My new dad."

"New dad?"

"Yeah. Mom and dad died in the crash." He sighed, "I survived."

"Who is he?"

"Never mind about that." Steven reached a hand out to him but as Scott tried to take it his hand went right through it, leaving an icy chill that permeated his bones.

"You're a ghost?"

"Close enough."

"A g . . .ghost?"

"Call me that if it helps you." Steven shrugged, "I am simply here to tell you to carry on, no matter how hard it seems, and know that I will find you again. In body as well as mind."

"But . . . ."

"But you will not recognise me." A grin spread across his face, cocksure as ever, "And you will hate my guts."

"But . . . I won't. I promise I won't."

"Like you promised mom? Like Miss Argyros promised you? Like Jean promised never to leave you?"

"Jean?"

"You'll see." The boy started to fade into the bank, dissipate like smoke on the wind. And all the fears and all the sorrows of the past few days came rushing back, cramming themselves into the tight space of Scott's chest, and he began to cry . . . .

"Next simulation. Time is growing short. Who do we have?"

"A Betsy Braddock. I believe you have encountered her already?"

"Indeed. A delicate mind like a butterfly's. I shall crush it quite easily."

"Your orders?"

"Log on simulation: Crimson Dawn."

"Acknowledged . . . ."

Crimson Dawn

Philosopher

`Whilst she yet lives, were Stars decay'd,

Their light by hers, relief might find:

But Death will lead her to a shade

Where love is cold and beauty blinde.'

From `The Philosopher and the Lover: to a Mistress Dying' by John Milton

"Life. Life from the earth's veins to give me life."

The shades laughed, dancing away and skipping amongst themselves.

"Then grasp that life with one hand and do not let go." They held a single appendage out to her and she took it, held it tight, although it burnt like ice.

"Your warm blood becomes cold, creature of the day. Your brightness slips away into oblivion, like a sun that implodes with all silence."

"I . . . ."

"You become one of us and yet worse than one of us. A shade of a shade. Two minds combined to make something less than their parts."

"No . . . let me go."

"You have grasped and you have held and you will never be released."

The shades laughed, disappearing as they slipped inside her. Creating a core of cold inside of her which would not melt. Psylocke slid out of the shadows.

"Elisabeth? What is wrong?" Warren asked her as he entered the room, "Xavier's been calling us for the last half-hour."

Her head snapped around, "Then he should try to call a little louder. I did not hear him."

"Are you going to sit there and wait for him to come to you?"

"Obviously not." She stood, brushing down her silk trousers. "Let's go."

"You've been acting weird for weeks now. Would you like to talk about it?"

"What is there to say? I have discovered that my whole life is based upon a lie. That I am not entirely who I claim to be. That I am two minds in one body."

"I thought Matsu'o removed Kwannon's psychic imprint from your mind."

"He did. But he could never hope to wholly erase all the memories and impressions which I gained from my meld with her. I know things which I have never learnt. Want things which frankly no upperclass English princess should. Can fight like I've been trained to do so all my life."

"You're starting to sound like Rogue." Warren said, "I almost expect you to say that I can't touch you."

The joke was weak and Psylocke did not laugh.

"So? I understand exactly how she feels." She sighed, "The sense of violation. Of having your own mind tainted by contact with someone else's. It is not a pleasant feeling and you are making no effort to try and understand it."

"What!?"

"You heard me the first time. You are being inconsiderate towards my feelings and my pain." She knew she was screaming and did not care, "You do not know what I have been through - especially since Revanche died. I felt her death in my mind, Warren. I know what death feels like and I am afraid. Afraid that I too will - must - die."

"Listen to yourself! So caught up in your own self-pity that you can't see the truth. I love you and I don't want to drag you down by letting you wallow in angst and misery." He seized her shoulders, "I've been through my own personal woe-is-me phase and I can promise you that you feel a heck of a lot better once you get over it!"

She reacted instantaneously, without thought, doing the first thing which came into her confused and troubled mind - the first thing which any ninja-trained assassin would do - she lashed out. Her psychic knife flashed through the air before plunging itself into Angel's chest.

He convulsed before falling to the floor, eyes shut, barely breathing.

"Oh . . . my . . . Warren . . . no . . . ."

She turned and ran, faster than she thought possible, like the hounds on a hunt. Flying like a hawk towards the kill. Like death snapped at her feet with hungry jaws.

"Slow down, Miss Braddock, or I shall have to convince Xavier that we need speedbumps in the hallway." Beast yelled, as he swerved to avoid her.

"I'm sorry, Henry. I need to get out of here." Tears streamed down her face, blinding her.

"Ah'll go aftah her." Rogue said quietly, "Ah know what she's goin' through."

"Best of luck. I am afraid that you may need it."

"Here's hopin' not, Hank." The young woman gave a wan smile, then flew into the air in pursuit of Psylocke. It was many miles down the access road which led to Salem Center before she caught up with her.

"Slow down, honey."

"Stay out of this - you will be glad you did."

"Y'all needs someone ta talk ta. Ah volunteered foh th' job."

"Why do you care about me, Madame leBeau?"

"Lawd. If'n y'all is going ta call me that, Miz Braddock, Ah definitely need ta talk ta you."

"I hurt Warren." Psylocke stopped suddenly in the middle of the road, "He was concerned about me and I repaid his concern by shortcircuiting every neuron in his body."

Rogue lowered herself, until she stood on the ground a few feet away from Psylocke.

"Why?"

"I don't know. He said that I was wallowing in self-pity. That I needed to pull myself out of the pit I was digging for myself."

"Heck, girl, Ah wouldn't've stopped at frying him - Ah'd've broken every bone in his blame body."

"The temptation was there." Psylocke supressed a smile, "But is still doesn't change the fact that I am out of control. In such a state, I can only be a danger to myself and the team."

"There are many kinds o' control - believe me." The younger woman said, "There's controllin' yourself an' your situation; but then there's also lettin' things run their course, even if'n it seems that they're spinnin' out o' control."

"All my life I have longed to be in control of body and mind. Of having them work in perfect harmony. Of not being a victim."

"Ah did as well, but then Ah learnt that there are some things which are completely out o' your hands. That you've gotta sit back an' accept whatevah curve balls life throws ya." She laughed, "An' d'you know what? It turns out that you usually hit a home-run off them."

"Having grown up in England, I cannot fully appreciate the baseball metaphor, but I understand what you are trying to say."

"Good, then y'all'll know what ta do."

"Yes . . . but what I want to do is find the nearest foxhole and bury myself in it."

"You can't. As hard as it may seem at th' time, an' believe me Ah know how hard it can get, you have ta turn back an' face what you've done. That's th' only way ta stop bein' a victim."

"Rogue . . . ."

"At least you've got *that* point if nothin' else." The woman laughed, "Yeah?"

"Why did you come after me? We have never been what you might call friends."

"B'cause Ah've been where you are. Ah know what y'all is going through an' Ah wouldn't wish it on Sinister." She shrugged, "Besides which it's mah turn ta wash th' dishes at home an' Ah'm hopin' that husband o' mine will get th' point if'n Ah'm late enough."

Psylocke laughed, then stopped with an odd choking sound.

"Psylocke? Sugah?"

"Sorry . . . I'm not . . . feeling . . . ."

The world shifted. Became a negative photo with pools of light and dark that dazzled and shimmered before her eyes. The shade standing a few feet away from her danced and skipped closer, before scooping her into all-encompassing blackness.

"You are mine. . . ."

"No." Psylocke shook her head, "I am not."

"Hold on, Bets. Ah'll get you to McCoy."

"Demon. Let me go." She murmured weakly as she struggled. The shade was too strong, holding her in a vice, cutting her off from freedom.

"The shadows claim you."

A door opening into brilliance, the shade danced through and twisted itself around corridors, though a labyrinth. Another shade, bulkier, with an electric blue luminescence that shone around it.

"Drastic measures, my dear Mississippi Marauder? I thought you said you'd stop her, not sap her."

"It wasn't me, Hank. She up an' collapsed foh no good reason."

The garbled voices mocked her, rising and falling in pitch.

"Demons! Let me go!"

"Beast, certainly. Demon, no."

Hands stroking her face, gentle, cold. She snapped her head away, hiding her face from the electric-blue apparition.

"Rogue, hold her down. . . . Merci."

Hands, strong this time, pinning her to cold metal. Hands, like manacles around her wrists. She kicked out, weakly, enough to twist herself.

"Where is Spiral when you need her?"

"The shadows are you and you are the shadows."

"What's this mark on her face?"

"Ah don't know. Guessed Bets just felt like gettin' a tattoo."

"Ah, tattoo-envy. With Cable, Bishop and Nathan around, what else is to be expected?"

"Please . . . let me go."

"Ah can't do that, sugah."

"Cold . . . so cold. . . ."

A prick on her arm. Fire through her veins, burning like ice. The shadows claimed her as she disappeared into darkness.

"You have made your choice, collective\individual. You wished for life from the veins of the earth. To drink of the crimson dawn. Yet, it comes at a price, woman\child."

"Price?" She whispered between parched lips.

"Light. Air. Joy." The shades slipped ever closer, "You have sought the life from the darkest places of the earth, where nothing grows, where nothing lives and breathes and is happy. This is the price, Betsy\shade."

"No . . . NOOOOOOOOO!"

"What's wrong, Hank?"

"I don't know. It's almost as if she is somewhere else. As if her mind is no longer part of her body."

"Lawd help her."

"Somehow I don't think that He is quite where she is. . . . beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep."

"Error! Error!"

"What is wrong?"

"The subject is resisting. The illusion is becoming strained."

"She is waking up?"

"Affirmative."

"We must then proceed with the final victim. If she wakes up, we are in danger of losing all of

them. All of their delicious fear."

"Acknowledged. Logging in final person . . . ."

`The dove descending breaks the air

With flame of incandescent terror

Of which the tongues declare

The one discharge from sin and error.

The only hope, or else despair

Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre -

To be redeemed from fire by fire'

From the 4th poem of the `Little Gidding' series by T.S.Eliot

"1010001 - Processing information on designate: Phoenix."

"Try to process this." Jean Grey lashed out with a telekinetic bolt that impacted with a shower of sparks.

"Malfunction in appendage module. Jettisoning."

The burnt-metal dropped to the floor.

"Compensating for powers . . . 10001110. Compensated. Resistance is futile. We will assimilate you."

"No, you won't." Her telekinetic sheath caught the phalanx, scooped it up and twisted it.

"1010111 . . . we must modify our behavior to ensure success."

"Noted."

"Program: Sara Grey?"

"Affirmative."

The liquid metal shifted, realigned its components to resemble a human woman. A woman which Jean knew all too well. Her sister. She dropped the sheath.

"Sara?"

"Jean?" The woman ran towards her and hugged her. She smelt vaguely like oil and iron. Stretching and elongating, Sara's body wove a web around Jean. Fine tendrils poked themselves underneath her skin, forming a sheath. Organic components smothered her under a blanket of skin.

"Sara? What are you doing?"

"Sara is no more. We are the Phalanx."

"No . . . ." Jean whispered, "No . . . it never happened like this. My sister never attacked me . . . this is just a bad dream."

"Quick." Morpheus said, "Change the scenario - this woman is more powerful than I suspected."

"Acknowledged . . . ."

The stars. Dead souls to some early cultures; bridges between two separated lovers to others. Science had proved them to be little more than giant thermonuclear reactors where hydrogen atoms were forever combined into helium. Yet, to one stellar entity, they were little more than cosmic cafes, places to sate her hunger. Her cry split the sky and drowned all the noise on the small blue and green planet beneath her.

"What was that?"

"Don't know - probably just another jet breaking the sound barrier."

"Oh. . . the SUN! The SUN!"

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's becoming dimmer . . . it's dying."

"You're being paranoid."

"Maybe . . . oh well . . . got pigs to feed."

Another cry. This one triumphant, satisfied, almost smug; but to the inhabitants of the Earth, it sounded like a threnody . . . .

"No! This is not right - I never destroyed Earth's sun . . . . This is just a bad dream."

"Next scenario - I do not understand this. It is almost as if her mind has been amplified by an artificial device. No organism should be able to fully resist."

"Acknowledged . . . loading."

"Scott . . . Scott . . . . Oh love." She knelt over the prostrate figure of her husband, gently touching his face. Blood pooled around him, crimson, coagulating.

"Who could have done this? Who?"

The claw-marks spoke of an animal. Of something rabid, insane. Three neat claw-marks surgical opening his chest. Three claw-marks which were too neat to be animal in origin.

"Me, Red." Wolverine stepped out of the shadows, his claws were blood-stained and filthy.

"Why? WHY?"

"Because I love you an' you were wastin' your time on that goose scupper."

"Damn you."

"Now we can be together, forever. With no Scott. No anyone to get in our way."

"Go away . . . you animal. Did you expect that I would jump into your arms now that Scott's dead? I LOVED him."

"Jean . . . I don't . . . understand."

"No . . . this is not right. Wolverine said that he was happy for Scott and me. That he wanted me to be happy. He'd never do this - this is just a bad dream."

"Overload imminent . . . ."

"I still hunger . . . next scenario."

"Acknowledged."

"Join me and I promise you absolute power. Remember how it tasted? Remember how good it felt? I can give you all that and more - join me. Be my consort."

She hesitated, "But . . . why do you need me?"

"You are Phoenix. One of the most powerful forces in the galaxy - it would be to my, and your, advantage to ally ourselves."

"Yes."

The power coursed through her veins. . . .

"NO! This never happened. I refused Onslaught's offer. This is little more than a bad dream."

With a start, Jean Grey awoke.

"NO! She cannot have broken free . . . if she wakes the other subjects, all will be lost."

"May I recommend a hasty withdrawal?"

"No. Maybe, she will not suspect that her dreams were unnatural."

"That is illogical. There is a 57,893462% chance that she will."

"Humans are illogical. Fear is illogical. Could you not see it in their dreams?"

"Acknowledged. I will suspend subjects in current state."

"Thank you." Morpheus touched one of the leads that fed him their fear.

Jean Grey removed Cerebro and rubbed her temples with one hand - she had fallen asleep at the console, still searching for Professor Xavier.

"Something is wrong here . . . ." She thought, "It's almost as if the whole mansion is holding its breath in anticipation of something happening."

A quick psi-scan confirmed her suspicions. All of her team-mates seemed to be caught in a state of fear, struggling against some unknown force, some dark memory.

"Unless I broadcasted my nightmare, their minds are being manipulated from something outside themselves. Something which needs them all to be terrified."

She tapped her fingers against the metal panel, "Where is Xavier when you need him? What can I do?"

She stood up and started pacing across the room.

"I could go inside their heads - convince them of the unreality of what they are experiencing and implant a psionic suggestion in their heads to wake up." She sighed, "But isn't that a psionic violation of the greatest kind? Of all things, a person's dreams are the most sacred to them, showing every fear and dark moment mercilessly. Do I have the right?"

Jean sat down again, head in her hands.

"Or more to the point - do I have the responsibility?"

Her decision was a reflection of the latter, rather than the former. Jean replaced Cerebro and began her task.

"She is attempting to break into the other subjects' dreams."

"Alea jacta est. We shall see how she does."

"Are you not being overly confident?"

"Not at all." Morpheus smiled, "The one thing that is hardest to rid oneself of is fear, simply because fear has no logic. No point of origin save in the subconscious where no psionic can go."

"You said that about her realising whether her dream was fake."

"Hmmp. Computer, silence yourself and perform diagnostics. When we return home, I will have your attitude-synthesisers reconfigured so as *not* to include doubt and ripostes."

"Acknowledged . . . ."

Dream's End

`Awake, there is no man

Who may my fixed spirit shake;

But sleeping, there is one who can

And oft does he the trial make:

Against his might resolves I take,

And him oppose with high disdain . . .'

From `The World of Dreams' by George Crabbe

Who to free first? All of them were in so much pain. All equally terrified.

`Let me do the easiest first.' She thought, `Scott. My psychic bond with him is the strongest and he has already shared many of his fears with me so the sense of violation will not be as great. The resistance not as strong.'

She steadied herself and drifted in the direction of his mind.

The boy cried. Releasing his fears for the first time in many days. Allowing his emotions to get the better of him.

"Scott?" A woman's voice asked.

Miss Argyros? No. She sounded different. Her voice had a subtle undercurrent of warmth that was both strangely chilling and comforting.

"Who are you?"

He looked up and, as he did, it seemed as the woman was surrounded by a halo of fire. A trick of the light that played through her red hair, no doubt.

"I am Jean."

"Steven said you would come."

"Steven?"

"My brother."

"Scott? You must remember who I am. What I mean to you."

The faint image of a woman saying goodbye. Of brilliant light that filled the sky and faded slowly. Of sticky tears that would not stop. He shook his head.

"I don't know you."

"Then know this." She touched his shoulder, "You are not alone and have nothing to fear. Your family is alive and well."

"Steven said they were dead."

"Steven was wrong."

"That I had broken my promise to Alex by leaving him."

"You broke no promise. You had no choice."

"Essex said no-one wanted me."

"You have friends. People who love and care about you."

She spun a psionic illusion of the team, combining the image with feelings of love and warmth. Scott laughed and Jean could barely hear the words through his amusement.

"That's my brother. I don't believe it."

"Who Scott?"

But she could feel his mind slipping away from her and back into consciousness. She rapidly withdrew, making sure to erase any trace of the night's experiences as she did so.

"Next one."

An angry mind. An animal mind with animal impulses. A mind that strained and seethed like a chained wolf. A chained wolverine.

"Logan." Her mind-touch was gentle, soothing him with the scent of soap and flowers.

"He killed Jubilee." He grunted, tears streaming down his face. "I failed her and he killed him."

"No . . . you didn't fail her. You tried your best to protect her."

"Tell that to her ghost."

"She is not dead. Look."

The image of a girl appeared, solidifying in the air as the illusion became complete. Jubilee ran to Logan and threw her arms around his neck.

"Wolvie!"

"Kiddo." He rubbed her hair affectionately, "Don't ever do that again."

Jean smiled and silently left. She had a lot more to do before this night was over.

"Iceman." She whispered, feeling his fears swell and break over her head. "Hold on, Bobby.

I'm coming."

She found him there, slumped over, head pressed against the wooden floor like a Muslim in prayer.

"Get up, Bobby."

"No . . . deserve to die . . . ."

"Why?"

"I killed them all - can't you see?"

"Why did you kill them?"

"They didn't respect me. They treated me like a class-clown. Like a jester in a court of knights."

"That is why they respected you."

"What do you mean?"

"The ability to make people laugh is a rare and precious talent. You should not underestimate its power."

"True." His eyes cleared and then misted over again in confusion, "Jean . . . ummm . . . not to be ungrateful or anything, but why are you still alive?"

She laughed, "That is a mystery to be solved, Bobby. On your own."

And as she retreated, she could feel a smile of satisfaction and pleasure spread across his face as he woke.

"Sir. She is waking them. Assuaging their fears."

A thinly disguised I-told-you-so lurked beneath the computer's words.

"Silence yourself." He slammed his fist into the console, denting it.

"Szzir? What mzzzust we <frzz> zzddo?"

"Wait. See how the game plays out - perhaps there will be enough fear after all."

"Zzzzz. Unlikely. Read-outs show only 56,78% capacity reached."

"I asked you to silence yourself - do not make me deactivate you."

Silence.

"Three down. Six to go." Jean said to herself as she plunged into complete darkness.

Summoning a fraction of the phoenix power, she created a small, psionic flame which bobbed up and down, lighting the room. Showing the stones and rocks on the wall. An abyss beneath and above her. White objects which fluttered like butterfly wings from the sky. She caught one - it was a torn playing card, Queen of Cups.

"Rogue." She asked, venturing to guess that this dark place was her mind.

"G'way." The woman was curled up on a ledge in a precarious position and she approached, the light bobbing along behind her.

"Rogue."

"Go away unless y'all wants ta be hurt. Ah'm a vampire. A leech. A freak o' nature."

"No. You are a woman. A beautiful, intelligent woman." She said, hopelessly. The scars ran too deep for simple words to heal.

"Ah've hurt everyone Ah've evah cared about - Cody, Carol, Remy . . . all o' `em."

The sentence sounded like a litany and Jean wondered how many times it had been repeated in the privacy of her own mind.

"Her fears are almost a part of who she is." Jean realised suddenly, "To erase them would be to erase a whole block of her psyche. I cannot do that."

With regret, she turned away, planting an hypnotic suggestion that Rogue should wake within a few minutes.

"I'm sorry . . . I wish I could help you more."

"No-one can." The woman said and, in her green eyes, was a depth of sadness that the other had not seen before.

Jean shook off the remaining tatters of clinging darkness and flew into shadow. Into a world which was a strange dazzled place of dark and bright. Psylocke watched her as she did so, more alert than the others had been.

"You are aware that this is not natural?"

"Yes. I believe the others have had their minds manipulated by a malevolent force." The ninja replied, "I came into contact with him earlier."

"Then you will help me wake them?"

"I will try. I cannot promise that the shadows will let me go as they have you."

Jean nodded, "Do your best. I need your help."

Psylocke returned her nod and awoke. Phoenix felt her mind slip away from her subconscious and into reality.

"Still more . . . ."

She did not know whether she could stand the strain for much longer. Seeing the fears of her team-mates had been more taxing than she had thought at first and she was tired.

"Now I have you . . . ." The voice spoke into her mind, strange and inimical.

"Who are you?"

"I am Morpheus, Lord of Nightmares."

"You have nothing to gain here - leave us."

"You are becoming weary. Soon you will fall asleep and then you will be at my mercy."

"Not until everyone else is woken up first."

"We will see." The stranger-mind pulled away.

Jean shook her head, clearing her thoughts for the next attempt.

"No - how can this be happening to me?" Beast screamed as he looked at his arms. At his legs. At his torso. Blue fur covered them

"You are a mutant. A genetic aberration which has adapted itself due to radiation."

Clinical and cold, but the truth. A truth which Henry McCoy appreciated.

"Yes. I have known for a while, but had always hoped that it would not manifest itself quite so aggressively." He whispered, "Obviously, the old saying that: if wishes were horses, beggars would ride, is quite true."

"There is nothing of which to be ashamed - you are a talented physician and a wonderful friend. Your mutation changes none of that, simply your external appearance, which counts for nothing at all." The woman with the flame-red hair smiled, "Besides which you hold the record for most number of Twinkies eaten in an hour."

"Those little golden cakes have some power over me." He admitted, smiling.

"Then don't be afraid of the future. Of not being human. Of being rejected and hated." She rested a warm hand on his shoulder, "You will always have friends. Acceptance. And perhaps most important, more humanity than a lot of other people who are strictly speaking human."

"Thank you." He smiled.

Jean exited his mind as he woke, still basking in the subtle warmth of her words.

"I killed her." The simple words seemed more than Gambit could stomach, "I betrayed her - dem all - f'r m'self. I'm de traitor dey all believe me t'be."

Her presence was like a cool wind, blowing into his mind, although she seemed to be made of fire herself. Phoenix looked down at the young man, cradling the body of his lover in his arms. A body which had single, red stain at her heart.

"You know this is not reality. That this is the product of your worst fears."

"It could be true. Dis could happen."

"No. The very fact that you fear doing this means that you never shall."

She knelt by him,

"You are no traitor. You have proved that time and time again - no-one doubts your loyalty. Not me. Not Rogue. Not anyone."

"But dis . . . ."

"This is little more than a bad dream. Dreams are not reality." She stood, "Most often they are a reflection of the things which will never happen. Things which we fear and desire."

Gambit nodded, slowly releasing his grip on Rogue's stiff body. As it touched the floor, it dissipated into haze and the world evaporated as he woke.

Angel took five steps to the edge of the cliff and spread his wings, then jumped, hoping for the familiar upliftment. Nothing. Air rushed past his face, the rocks approached. He beat his wings but did not slow his descent. He fell, faster and faster, a bird shot by a hunter, into the merciless, foam-white sea. Onto the spires of rock. Pain shot through his body as he impacted, then stopped abruptly. He felt a sense of warmth, security, and he realized that he was flying. That the warmth was the warmth of the updrafts. That the security was that of familiarity.

"Feels good, doesn't it?"

The fire-bird looked at him with a jet eye.

"Yes. It's been so long." He executed a loop-de-loop.

"Come. Fly higher than you ever have before." The bird swooped upwards and Angel followed, until the air became thin around him, and the sky diffused into space.

"I shouldn't be able to do this - I shouldn't be able to breathe."

"So? Who knows what you should and shouldn't do?" She let out a cry and dove into space.

Angel smiled and flew after her. He had the sense of being surrounded by a thousand, dazzling specks of light; planets which looked like so many marbles; all set in an inky blackness like the wing of a raven. And as he awoke, he knew he would never forget the sensation.

"They're all awake."

"What?!"

"They're . . . ."

"It's called a rhetorical question."

"We must make our retreat now."

Morpheus nodded truculently, "Yes. Computer. Plot course for nearest M Class planet with suitable conditions for life."

"Acknowledged. Plotting . . . ." The electronic voice paused, "Error. Object lodged on narcelles. Cannot enter warp at current mass."

"On screen."

A bird of fire with talons gripped around the ship. Wings flapping in a show of incandescence. Jet eyes which watched inquisitively. A beak curved in what could only be called a smile. Her mind-message was clear.

Phoenix: <<Let me help you.>>

Morpheus: <<No.>>

Phoenix: <<Goodbye, `Lord of Nightmares'.>>

"Computer? Status report."

"Beep." The computer sounded tired, as far as it was possible for a machine to do. "Damages to the narcelles and fuel tank."

"Fuel contained as percentage of capacity?"

"Beep. Processing. 0%."

"They're empty."

"Affirmative."

"Any chance of replenishing them?"

"Negative. Fuel tanks require pure adenosine triphosphate to facilitate reactions."

He cursed under his breath.

"I knew I should have fitted the ship with a non-organic drive as well."

"How far are we away from the nearest planet?"

"1.54263 light-years."

"Can we reroute power from the life-support systems to power the ship?"

"Affirmative." A pause. "Your chances of survival would be 43:1 though."

Morpheus nodded, "Understood. Reroute power and plot course for nearest M-class planet."

"Acknowledged. Plotting course . . . course plotted."

"Where is our destination?"

"Chandilar. M-class planet in Shi'ar system. Estimated population: 9 billion humanoids."

Morpheus lay back, conserving energy for the long trip ahead of him. If he were to survive, he must use as little of his stored fear as possible. Enough to keep alive and no more. And, although the Lord of Nightmares would have never admitted it to himself, he was scared.