X-CLAVE: DISCOVERY
PART TWO
--(c) 1997 M. O'Quinn

Sunday, the 24th
5:16 a.m.

The French call it a "white night".  A night without sleep, where it
might as be broad daylight outside for all the peace the darkness
brings to a troubled mind.

After five solid hours of lying open-eyed in the darkness, Vann
finally sat up and switched on the light.  It was pointless to drive
herself to distraction for what would now be, at best, two or three
hours' sleep.

Trying not to look at the photograph on her nightstand, she pulled on
a robe and wandered out into the hallway.  All the other doors were
closed, the corridor still and quiet in the gloom.  Vann padded on
soft bare feet down to the stairway, hoping she could remember where
the kitchen was supposed to be.

She wasn't really surprised to find light spilling from the open
kitchen doorway.  She had already guessed that several people in the
mansion were probably early risers.  The scent of fresh-brewed
coffee--chicory, from the smell of it--made her feel marginally
better as she anticipated a nice hot cup.  Her sagging sprits
somewhat bolstered, she crossed the small secondary dining room and
walked into the kitchen.  

The black-and-white tiles were cold under her feet.  There was only
one figure sitting at the large table, a half-played game of
solitaire laid out before him.  He looked up and smiled as she walked
in.  He didn't look very sleep-deprived.

(But with those eyes,) Vann thought, (how can you tell?) 
"G'morning," she murmured, taking a white cup off a hook.

"*Bonjour, petite*," Gambit replied, sounding too absurdly cheerful
for the hour or her mood.  "Pull up a chair.  Sit."

"Well, I wasn't intending to sit on the floor," she replied, a bit
too flippantly.  She sitrred in cream and sugar aplenty into her
coffee, and then sat beside him where he had indicated she should. 
She gave a cursory glance to the game in progress.  "Red four on the
black five."

"Ah, you anticipate my action. *Un belle femme dangereux*."  He made
the move, quickly disposed of the rest of the loose cards, and began
putting them into pack order.  "*Commentalle-vous, cherie*," he said,
"do you play *'viente-un'*?"

"Blackjack?  Not really.  I know the game, but I'm way outta
practice."

"I teach you a few tricks of the trade, *non*?  Then you can 'old
your own wit' de likes of M'sieur Wolverine."

"No thanks.  I'll leave that to the girl I came here with.  Miry."

"Ah, *oui*.  I 'eard that *mon ami* 'ad found 'imself a new
chew-toy."

Vann giggled.  She couldn't help it.  "Deal, you silver-tongued
devil."

"Dealing, *ma belle petite*, is Gambit's specialty."

                  *             *             *

Sunday, the 24th
7:48 a.m.

Robert Drake quietly climbed the steps leading up to the belltower,
following the faint chiming sound which had greeted him upon waking. 
At the top of the stairs he found what he expected:  a lone figure,
silver and slender, limned in shimmering gold by the light of the
rising sun.  Galatea was standing at the east opening of the
belltower, her sterling hair ringing whispers in the morning breeze.

Bobby smiled.  "Now *that's* a belle worth waking up to," he said.

"Oh--!"  Galatea turned around, one slim silver hand going to her
lips; her hair rang as it swirled about her.  "I...I'm sorry, Mr.
Drake.  I didn't mean to wake anybody up."

"Point one:  'Mister Drake' is my dad, or my grandfather.  My name is
Bobby.  Point two:  you didn't wake me.  I was just wondering if
somebody had hung windchimes in the belltower, that's all."

Galatea's cheeks turned a darker silver.  "I guess I can get my hair
cut--"

"Don't you *dare*!  It's beautiful, Gale.  Really."  Bobby showed her
his most charming smile, to which she shyly responded in kind. 
Encouraged, Bobby moved to stand beside her.

Galatea turned around and looked over the vast grounds, over the
snow-covered lawn towards the ice-adorned forest and the frozen lake
beyond.  "It's all so--so *big*," she breathed.  "I've never seen
snow before.  It's beautiful."

"'Beautiful' is the word," said Bobby, though he wasn't looking at
the view.  "You should see it in the spring."

"Are there flowers?"

"Thousands."

"*Ooh*..." Gale leaned out of the window and over the snowy ground. 
"How deep is it, do you think?"

"Six, seven inches, maybe.  Not bad."  Gently Bobby took her arm and
pulled her back to keep her from falling out of the tower.  "Hey,
after we grab some breakfast, would you like me to teach you how to
build a snowman?"

Gale beamed at him, her cobalt eyes huge and grateful.  "Would you?"

"Sure."

She hugged him, and Bobby smiled, warmth building in him that had
nothing to do with his extreme tolerance for cold.  He took her hand
and together they walked down the spiral stairway.


                  *             *             *


7:57 a.m.

For the first time in her life, Miryoko Kagami didn't wake up alone.

She opened her eyes in a strange bed, in a strange room, with a
strange warmth curled up against her back.  When she looked down, she
discovered a massive, hairy arm--the bicep nearly as big around as
her waist--wrapped snug around her torso, one large hand possessively
cupping her breast.  Moving slowly and carefully, she lifted her arms
out from underneath the blanket, shuddering at the unexpected
coolness of the room.  She shifted bit by bit until she was on her
back and was able to look at her sleeping companion.

Logan's rough-hewn features were completely relaxed in slumber.  The
multiple lines written by time and trouble were magically erased,
making him look surprisingly young and unexpectedly vulnerable.  She
hadn't noticed before how unexpectedly thick the fringe of his lashes
were, nor had she seen the fullness of his broad mouth.

He was...beautiful.  Not the beauty of "pretty boys", but the beauty
of a primeval forest, wild, untamed, its depths unexplored.  

She noticed with some amusement that he appeared to have a day's
growth of beard on his chin, even though he'd been clean-shaven when
he'd come to her the night before.  He was so...*hairy*.  Not only
was the hair on his head thick and straight, standing out of its own
accord in spite of its length, but black curly hair covered his
chest, arms, legs, even his back.  

*You aren't exactly what I anticipated as my first lover, Mister
Logan-I-Don't-Even-Know-If-That's-Your-Last-Name-Or-Your-First.  I
always liked my dates tall, blond, Caucasian, and relatively hairless
below the neck.  So who do I end up losing my virginity to?  A short,
dark, hairy-beyond-belief stranger whose full name I don't even
know*.  She reached out a timid hand and brushed a stray black strand
of hair away from his brow. *Oh but I could get used to waking up in
this man's arms every morning*...

...*where the hell did THAT thought come from?  I don't even know if
he really likes me or if I'm just a convenient bed-warmer.  I know he
wanted me the first time he saw me, but whether he's done with me or
not...I don't know.  Trying to read his surface emotions is like
trying to decipher one of those curved-mirror paintings without the
glass cylinder...and what I can make out tells me he wouldn't welcome
any effort to intrude further, even if I stooped to such behavior*.

On an impulse, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips. 
When she drew back, his eyes were open.  Deep, piercing eyes, the
color of the heart of a glacier set against a relentless blue sky,
and Miry knew profoundly that they could be every bit as cold.

But they weren't cold now.  They were as warm as the smile he gave
her.  "Mornin', darlin'," he whispered.

A wave of gentle affection suffused Miry, and she realized it was
coming from him, meant for her.  "Morning," she smiled back.  She
turned to face him, shivering as her breasts and back slid out of the
blankets into the chilly air.  

"You cold?"

She nodded and snuggled against his broad chest.  "A little."

His arm slid under her, while his other hand pulled the blankets up
close around them both.  "C'mere, darlin'," he murmured into her ear,
sending delicious tingles down her spine.  "I'll make ya warm."

He did.

This time, the lovemaking was as slow and lingering as the passion of
the night before had been frantic and insistent.  There was no
urgency, no hurry to end it, because it was so sweet for them both. 
Instead of a sudden, fleeting rush of ecstasy, the climb to bliss was
gradual, the climax prolonged, and the suffusive afterglow all the
sweeter for it.

After a while, Logan broke the warm golden silence.  "Darlin'?"

"Mmm...?" Miry snuggled up closer.  

"You said ya was havin' bad dreams last night.  Anything ya care ta
tell me about?"

Miry nipped at the inside of her bottom lip and took in a deep
breath.  "Well...I remember everything was grey.  I couldn't see
anything.  I couldn't hear anything.  I could feel my heartbeat, feel
myself breathing, but I was struggling for every breath and I
couldn't move.  There was cold metal on my face..."  She reached her
hand up to her cheek, as if to reassure herself.  "I couldn't think. 
I felt as though I were held in some kind of--of stasis.  Trapped
between light and darkness...or maybe between sleeping and waking..."

"Or maybe livin' and dyin', darlin'?"

She raised up to look at him.  His burning-glacier eyes were dead
level on her. *He knows,* she thought, and shuddered.  His warm arms
tightened around her.  "Yes, exactly.  I hadn't thought of it that
way, but that's what it felt like.  Dying, without being able to die. 
Horrible..."

"Weren't no dream, Miry."

She stiffened.  "What do you mean?"

"Yer an empath, right?  Somebody who can feel things other folks're
feelin'?  I think maybe you got tuned inta somebody without knowin'
it--somebody besides me."  He gave her a squeeze and let go.  "C'mon
and get dressed, darlin'.  I gotta show ya somethin'.  Somethin' that
might help ya understand."

Miry knew that at some point she and Logan would have to have a
serious talk--about their inexplicable, irresistable attraction to
each other, about whether their personalities were even half as
compatible as their bodies seemed to be.  For now, however, she
accepted the situation as it was and rose with Logan to dress.

                  *             *             *

8:51 a.m.

"Oh..."  Miry stood over the Shi'ar preservation capsule, Logan's arm
around her shoulders.  She pressed her hands to her mouth and sucked
in a deep breath through her fingers.  "Oh, my God...she's just a
*baby*...how...?"

"Some kinda virus that only attacks mutants, accordin' ta Charley and
Moira.  Plays the devil with altered DNA structures and causes the
whole mess ta self-destruct.  Me, I figure my healin' factor'll keep
me alive f'r a while, but that don't help folks like Illyana." 
Wolverine laid his huge hand lightly on the transparent canopy of the
capsule.  "Poor kid.  Ain't like she ain't been through enough hell
as it is.  Here she's back ta where her mutant powers ain't even
active, and still the goddamned virus cut 'er down."

"What's that thing on her head?"  Miry's voice was a roughened
whisper.  "That--helmet...?"

"Some kinda stasis device.  Keeps her in suspended animation, till
they c'n find some treatment for 'er.  Only thing is, Moira's of the
opinion that she's too far gone f'r any cure to make any difference
now, but they can't take her off the thing till her big brother gives
the go-ahead, and he's gone AWOL and won't respond to Charley's
callin' him.  Till he gets his act together and comes back, the poor
kid's stuck."

"Caught between living and dying," Miry whispered.  Her hand stole
out over Wolverine's where it rested on the capsule.  She looked
around at him, her golden eyes turned almost yellow by the
underlighting in the ward.  "Logan, I'm not just an empath.  I'm a
healer.  I might be able to help her."

"I don't know, darlin'.  This ain't no skinned knee we're talkin'
here."

"I've had my empathy since I was born.  My healing ability didn't
come to the fore until I was twelve.  Did you know my father was
*hibakusha*?"

"Hiroshima or Nagasaki?"

"Hiroshima.  He lost his whole family when the bomb fell.  He never
planned to marry, and when he finally did, thirteen years after the
*pikadon*, he told my mother he didn't want children.  She did,
though, and that's how I happened."

"Yeah, she struck me as a woman used ta gettin' her own way."

"When I was twelve, I was diagnosed with leukemia.  My mother did not
react well.  I--well, I guess I wished it to go away so hard it
finally did.  Three months after confirmation of my diagnosis, the
disease was *gone*.  Ever since then, I've *never* been sick--not so
much as a cold."

Wolverine looked hard at her.  "You got a healin' factor, darlin'?"

"If you want to call it that.  Only I found out I could use it on
other people, too, not just me.  Right before you found me, I healed
a little girl's broken leg.  I have to do it on the sly, of course;
or at least I have till now."  She looked down at Illyana's half-
obscured face.  "I worked as a candy striper in a hospital during
high school, in the children's ward," she said softly.  "While I was
on duty, a lot of kids made 'miraculous' recoveries.  The few
I...lost were too far gone by the time I got to them to help.  My
father had forbidden me to tell anyone of my abilities, so I kept
them a secret.  I wanted to go into medicine--but my father stopped
me.  I gave it all up because he asked me to."  Her shoulders
straightened.  "But that's finished now.  I don't have to hide
anymore.  If there's anything I can do for this little girl--for
anyone--I want to do it.  I have to try."

Within minutes, Moira MacTaggert and Professor Xavier were in the
isolation ward, along with Jean Grey and Shadowcat.  

Xavier's countenance was stern, harshly underlit by the fluorescent
glow from Illyana's capsule.  "I perceive your sincerity, Mirror," he
said, using the code name he'd chosen for Miryoko to address her,
"but I must admit to some reservations.  However confident you are in
your healing abilities, it would be certain death to remove Illyana
from the stasis device at this point."

"Is death nae better than her current state, Charles?" Moira cut in. 
"The child's a vegetable as she is.  Even if we should find a cure
for the virus noo, 'twill be too late tae restore her, sae far has
the disease progressed in her system.  We cannae leave her to live
out her life as a vegetable."

"It's not that simple, Moira," Jean said, her soft voice a
counterpoint to the Scotswoman's righteous anger.  "Even if we
disagree with Charles' decision to use the Shi'ar stasis device, now
that Illyana's on it, we have to have Peter's consent to take her off
it.  It's his decision, not ours."

Xavier looked up at the half-Oriental woman.  "Are you certain you
can save Illyana's life?  Would you be willing to risk removing her
from stasis?"

Mirror chewed at her bottom lip.  "I won't know until I examine her. 
To do that, I'll have to touch her.  Do you have to take her out of
stasis for that?"

"No; opening the preservation capsule will not disrupt the stasis, so
long as we don't keep it open too long."

"It won't take long for me to find out."

"Professor..." Kitty swallowed hard.  "I can't stand seeing Illyana
like this.  What if Peter never comes back?  Are we just supposed
to--to keep her here?  For how long?  Months?  Years?  The rest of
her life?"

"The decision doesn't rest with us, Katherine."

"Then *who*?"

"Ms. Pryde...?"  Mirror put a cool hand on Kitty's shoulder. 
Understanding shone from her golden eyes.  "If I can help her," she
said, "I will.  If I can't--if she's beyond all help--I'll say so."

Uncertain how to accept comfort from a complete stranger, Kitty
merely nodded.  

"Moira," said Xavier, "please open the capsule."

Moira tapped a sequence of keys on a pad at the head of the capsule,
and with a pneumatic hiss the cover popped open.  The quiet room was
filled suddenly with the sound of slow, labored breathing.  

"Oh, God," Kitty whispered.  Moira took her hand.

Carefully, Mirror raised up the cover and stepped forward.  She
smiled sadly down at the tiny body on the bed, and put one hand on
the child's breast, another on her stomach.  She took a deep, quick
breath, her head snapped back, and her eyes turned from gold to
silver, shot through with rainbows.  Shimmering silver light haloed
her head, ran down her arms to her hands and enveloped Illyana's
still form.

"How'd she ever manage to do *that* without nobody noticin'?"
Wolverine muttered, half to himself.  

"Sh," Jean admonished, watching closely.

After about a minute and a half, the light winked out.  Mirror took
her hands away.  She was trembling, covered in a light film of sweat. 
She took a half-step back, faltered; Wolverine put an arm around her
back to steady her.  "Easy, darlin', easy.  You okay?"

"Not...really."  She reached up a shaky hand to wipe away sudden
tears.  "I...I'm sorry, Professor.  There's nothing I can do."  She
gulped in air, turned to face Xavier.  "I can't heal her while the
stasis field is in effect--and the instant you take that helmet off
of her, she's going to die.  Period.  Essentially, she's already
dead."

Kitty choked a sob and turned to press her face against Moira's
shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Mirror said again, knowing how foolish it sounded, but
not knowing what else to say.  "I'd trade my life for hers if I
could--but it wouldn't be of any use to her now.  Oh sure, I could
keep her from dying for a while, but it would take all my strength to
hold her, with nothing left to spare to heal her; and when I got
tired...If I'd gotten here a week ago--two days ago--maybe I could
have saved her, but..."  

Wolverine pulled her close against him.  "Hush now, darlin'," he
said.  "We get the picture."

She crammed her fist against her mouth to shut herself up, blinking
back more tears.

Wordlessly Xavier reached up as high as he could from the chair,
caught the edge of the transparent cover with his hand, and shut the
preservation capsule over Illyana, sealing her in once more.

                  *             *             *

10:17 a.m.

Vanessa--Pixie--was just making her way upstairs to try to sneak in a
few Z's before lunchtime when she felt it:  a wave of misery,
despair, and painfully sharp self-disgust so thick she almost choked
on it.  Vanessa wasn't nearly as sensitive an empath as the girl from
New Orleans was supposed to be, but she would have had to have been
completely headblind to have missed the raw snarl of hurt feelings
coming from the corner room in the women's dorm.

The door was open just a crack.  Pixie poked her head in.

The New Orleans girl was curled up in the middle of her bed, face
down on folded arms, weeping quietly.  At the creak of the door her
head jerked up.  "Lo-Logan...?"

"No, 'fraid not.  'S me, Vanessa.  Or maybe I should say 'Pixie',
like the Professor named me."

"Oh."  Mirror sat up, swiping at her eyes and forcibly composing
herself.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't realize the door had come open."

*Reckon I'm not the only one who's miserable around here.  Aw well,
misery loves company, they say*...Pixie stepped inside the room. 
"Homesick already?  Or is it any of my business?"

"Oh, it's all right.  It's just--oh, God.  I don't know what I'm
doing here."

"Seems to me you knew pretty well yesterday, when you were following
that scruffy-looking Wolverine feller around."

A jolt of pain shot through Mirror at that.  "I'm not even so sure
about that anymore.  I know how I feel about him--I want to be with
him.  He fills up a big gaping hole in my life I never knew existed."

"Maybe you should be telling him this and not me."

"I'd love to.  Only problem is, he stalked off almost an hour ago and
made it very clear he didn't want any company."

"You shouldn't oughta take it so personal.  Mister Wolverine seems
like a mighty private person, and I think you rocked his world
something fierce."

"Right now, how Logan feels about me should be the least of my
worries."  A short, bitter laugh.  "It's not, but it should be."  She
folded herself up and wrapped her arms around her drawn-up legs. 
"You know what the worst part of being an empath is, Pixie?"

"Not getting state holidays off?"

She tried to laugh.  It didn't work.  "I can *feel* what everybody
else is feeling."

"Ain't that sort of what empathy is, honey?"

"I can feel Dr. MacTaggert's frustration at not being able to do
anything.  I can feel Kitty's absolute misery and her need to just
have it all over with.  I can feel the Professor's guilt and
impotence, how much he blames himself for it--"

"Whoa!  Blames himself for what?  What are you talking about?"

Mirror took several long, deep breaths to compose herself.  "Well,
Pix, there's this little girl downstairs in the med-lab..."

                  *             *             *

10:18 a.m.

"...I said no loitering, kid, and I meant it.  Now why don't you take
your little twitch self and hustle on somebody else's property?"

"You think I'm *tricking*, Spam-for-brains?  No way."  Jubilee shoved
her eyeshades down over her face, crossed her arms, leaned against
the doorpost, and took a "just-TRY-to-move-me-I-dare-you"  I'm
waiting for a friend, that's all.  You got a problem with that?"

Sean Barclay,  bartender and half owner of the Auger Inn, shifted his
six-foot-two, two-hundred and thirty-pound bulk.  Somehow he found
this teenaged terror more intimidating than a man of his size and
status should.  "I got a problem with you being underage and
therefore a threat to our liquor license.  Why don't you meet your
so-called 'friend' at a soda shop or something?"

"Hey, don't be too rough on the lady, Sean."  A pasty-faced man with
three days' stubble, slicked-back smut-colored hair, and a prominent
beer belly shoved his ponderous way out of the door.  "Hey, good-
lookin', you out for a good time with ol' Sparky?"

"Ugh."  Jubilee pushed away from the wall and backed up, teetering on
her rollerblades.  "I just remembered, I got an appointment with my
dentist--in Jersey.  'Scuze me--"

She tried to turn and bolt, but "ol' Sparky" shot out a sweaty white
hand and grabbed her arm, bringing her up short and nearly sending
her feet out from under her.  "Now just hold on a minute, sweet
thang.  I can make it worth your while.  Just give me a chance..."

"Leggo'a'me, you greased-out porker!"  Jubilee fought valiantly, but
she couldn't get leverage enough in her skates to pull away from him. 
She was just drawing back a fist to poke in the middle of Sparky's
face when the door behind him swung open again.

"*I'll* give ya a chance, bub."  A big hand reached up and planted
itself firmly on Sparky's meaty shoulder.  "One chance ta let the kid
go.  Otherwise, yer gonna haveta tussle it out with me."

"Leave him to me!"  Jubilee raged, inwardly grateful for the rescue. 
"I can take care of this lug all by myself--with one 'blade tied
behind my back!"

Sparky grunted and let Jubilee go.  "Sorry, Logan, m'man.  Didn't
know she was yours."  He stepped carefully around Wolverine, who
watched him with cold narrow eyes.  "Man after my own heart--got a
taste for young meat, do you?"

Wolverine snarled deep in his throat.

"Okay, okay; none of my business.  See you later, bud.  Give her one
for ol' Sparky, won'tcha?"  With that, the greasy-haired man shuffled
back into the bar.

"I'd like to give *him* one," Wolverine intoned.  "Maybe three.  Or
even six, dependin' on my mood."

"If I've told you once, Logan, I've told you a hundred times," Sean
said,  "not in my place.  You got a problem with one of the other
patrons, you take it outside and off the property.  Remember what
happened the last time."

"Aw, Sean--didn't I pay ya for the damage to the place?"

"It's not the damage to the place I'm worried about; it's the damage
to our rep."

"Gimme a break.  Everybody knows the Auger Inn's the meanest hellhole
inside thirty miles o' Salem Center."

"'Hellhole' is one thing.  'War zone' is something else again. 
Though, if you ever want to reconsider coming on as a bouncer..."

"Soon's I switch careers, Sean, I'll letcha know.  Be seein' ya." 
Wolverine looked at Jubilee.  "C'mon, Jube.  Let's blow this pop
stand."

"Where'd you hear *that* one?"  Jubilee groused as they hit the
sidewalk.  "'Leave It to Beaver'?"

"In New Orleans, matter o' fact."

She snorted.  "From your new lady friend, no doubt."

Wolverine said nothing.

"Honestly, I don't know what you see in her.  She's not all that
pretty...not really.  I mean, she's okay, but she isn't good enough
for you."

Wolverine said nothing.

"I mean, what do you need with a girlfriend, anyway?  I mean--besides
the obvious.  I know men have these urges and all, but you're a tough
guy, right?  It's not like you really need anybody or anything.  You
said so yourself.  So, I mean, it would be really cruel to get this
girl's hopes up and all when you're just gonna dump her at the
first--"

Wolverine said, "Jubilee."

She popped a bubble.  "Yah?"

"Leave it be."  By this time they'd made it around to the parking
lot, where Wolverine's Harley-Davidson was parked.  He hunched down
to fiddle with the combination lock.

Jubilee huffed.  "What's with you, Wolvie?  You haven't been this
surly since Mariko and Silver Fox both bit the big one in the same
week.  I thought after we pulled you out of your psycho head-trip to
Russia, you'd be okay.  Did you take a second helping of attitude
pills this morning, or what?"

"Jubilee."

"Yah?"

"Did ya just come down here ta diss my 'tude, or are ya tryin' ta
make a point?"

"Hey.  I was worried about you.  Okay?  There.  I said it."  She
leaned against the side of his cycle, folded her arms, and pouted. 
"I mean, this isn't the first time you've left without saying
anything to anybody, but I saw the look on your face when you were
wheeling out your scoot and...well...."  She ducked her head.  "I
just thought maybe I'd follow after and keep an eye on you, is all. 
I didn't want you getting some punk to beat you up again or
anything."

"Wouldn't matter if I did, darlin'.  I'd heal in less time than it
takes ta mop up--"

"But it would still *hurt*!"  Jubilee snapped, pounding her fists
against the leather seat behind her.  "I don't know if this concept
can penetrate that adamantium skull of yours, but seeing somebody in
pain that you--you--oh, what's the use; you never listen to anybody
anyway.  Mister Hot-Shot Loner...."  She pushed herself away and
skated off a few yards away.

"Hey, Jubie."

She stopped, but didn't turn around.  "What."

"Got a new accoutrement for my scoot I thought you might be
interested in."  The sound of something metal clacking into place.

"What?  A pair of fuzzy dice?  A plastic Jesus for your handlebars?"

"Check it out."

She turned around.

Wolverine was standing behind his motorcycle.  A tow line, like the
one used by water-skiers, was hooked to the rear of his seat.  He
held the wooden crosspiece out to her, offering it with a smile.  "Ya
wanna hitch a ride, darlin'?"

It was a ridiculous idea, but it appealed greatly to Jubilee's sense
of the untried.  "Hey, aw*right*!"  she laughed, her bitter mood
vanishing like a popped soap bubble.  She skated up, took the handle. 
"Let's ride, Wolvie!"

"I hear ya, darlin'."  Wolverine mounted his bike, kicked it into
roaring life, and sped off.  Jubilee sped over the asphalt behind
him, whooping and laughing into the wind.

                  *             *             *

10:32 a.m.

"...You mean there's a little girl down there just...hanging between
life and death?"  The very concept made Pixie's stomach churn. 
"That's awful."

Mirror nodded.  "I know.  I feel the same way you do about it.  But
the Professor's right; by strict medical ethics, they can't
disconnect her without the consent of her next of kin.  And from what
they tell me, he's gone off somewhere they can't find him."

"They found us, didn't they?"

"We didn't know we were being looked for, and we didn't actively
*not* want to be found."

"So what can we do?"

"Right now?"  Mirror sighed.  "Nothing. *If* Illyana's brother
decides to come back, and *if* he consents to have his sister removed
from the machine, even though it means she will die, it still won't
make any difference.  The damage done by this damned virus has
affected her molecular structure.  It would take me hours to repair
it, and I couldn't hold her depleted system together for more than a
few minutes."

Something was nagging at the back of Pixie's mind.  It as as though
Mirror's words triggered a deeply buried memory, something she had
never remembered, something from years and years before she was even
born.

(Crazy,) she thought.  (How can you remember something from *before*
you were born?)  She dismissed the thought--or tried to.  The
*feeling*, that little nagging feeling, refused to go away.

"Pix?"

"Hm?  Oh, sorry, Miry.  I didn't mean to ignore you."

"Listen to me."  Mirror scooted to the edge of the bed and sat beside
her.  "Going on and on about my troubles and woes when you've got all
kinds of grief and plenty of your own."

"Oh, I'm all right."

"Oh, and I'm Amaterasu Omikami, the Queen of Heaven."  Mirror ducked
her head down a bit; she wasn't used to talking to someone shorter
even than she was.  "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it.  I
just want you to know that I'm willing to listen if you need to
talk."

That little nagging feeling in the back of her head was still
bothering her.  Pixie somehow thought it would make it go away if she
*did* discuss her problems with someone else.  "Well...have you met
the one they call 'Archangel'?"

"The blue guy?  The tall one, without fur?"

"That's him."

"What about him?"

Pixie sighed.  "I used to be engaged to him."

"What happened?"

"He died.  He wasn't always blue, you know.  He had wings--white
ones, with feathers--but I didn't know that at the time.  I didn't
know he was a mutant any more than he knew I was.  Then, about two
years ago, I heard he'd lost his family fortune and run his plane
into the side of a mountain and died."

"My God."

"Mine, too."  Pixie stood and walked over to the window.  Mirror's
window overlooked part of the forest that ran around and behind the
mansion; beyond the line of trees stood a ridge of low hills covered
in a dusting of new-fallen snow.  "Until last night, I never knew
he'd survived.  I didn't get much of a chance to talk to him; but
he's not the same person he was."  She tried to laugh.  "I guess
dying kind of changes a person's outlook on life."

Mirror studied the smaller woman's form, framed against the light
from the large window.  The sky outside was a pale whitish grey,
promising more snow before nightfall.  "Do you love him?" she asked.

Pixie was quiet for a long time, and Mirror began to think she
wouldn't answer.  She didn't need to.  Mirror already knew.

"No," Pixie finally said.  "I'm not sure I ever really did.  He was
the first boy who was ever really nice to me for any reason besides
who my daddy was.  His family had more money than God, so he didn't
care where I came from.  I guess I had sort of a schoolgirl crush on
him.  I would have married him.  Maybe we would have even been
happy."  She turned around and faced Mirror, folding her arms over
her generous breasts.  "But my daddy got antsy when all the anti-
mutant stuff came down, and after he got involved with Senator Kelly
and his witch-hunters.  He broke off the engagement so the
Worthingtons wouldn't discover that the Covington-Smythe girl was one
of the freaks his buddies in Congress was hunting."

"It seems your father is a very...confused man."

"He's a cold-hearted, hard-assed hypocrite.  But that's obvious to
all but the dead."

"Does he know you're here?"

"No.  And I don't care whether he finds out or not at this point." 
Pixie took a defensive stance, ready to fight if Mirror should accuse
her of being a "bad" daughter.

Mirror intended on doing no such thing.  As if she had any room to
talk about familial duty.  "What *do* you care about?  Why did you
come here?"

"Followin' a man, same as you; only mine's prettier."

"Not Archangel, I take it."

"Not hardly."  Pixie sat on the wide windowsill, one leg cocked up
under her.  "Seriously, I think I came here 'cos I didn't have
anything better to do, and it sure beat hell out of the pit of misery
I was digging for myself back in the mountains.  I'm not sure I buy
into this 'X-Men' business, but I'm willing to stick around and see
what the deal is and if it's worth giving a shot.  How about you? 
Are you gonna kick some mutie-hater butt for Jesus?"

"Well--for Amaterasu, maybe."  Miry reached behind her, snagged a
pillow and hugged it to her.  It occurred to her that this was the
pillow on which Logan had slept in her bed the night before, but she
took that concept by the scruff of its neck and shoved it back into
the rear compartment of her mind so she could think.  "I didn't come
up here to join the X-Men," she said.  "Now that I know what they're
about, though, I'd like to do what I can for them.  See, I have this
slightly skewed concept of *karma*.  Not karma as in New Age/crystal
people/neo-hippie karma, but as in Shinto-Buddhist karma.  I
wasn't...I was born as sort of an accident.  I guess you could call
me a 'whoops' baby."

"You were adopted?"

"Well, no.  But my father didn't want children, and my mother did. 
So she got one.  She wanted to give my father a son, though, and when
I came along I wasn't exactly what she wanted.  Adoption is more or
less against Japanese tradition, so my parents elected to keep
me...though if *Roe v. Wade* had come through about five years
earlier I might not even be here.  At any rate, I was born with all
these...abilities...which my father took as proof of my impurity. 
All my life, I think, I've felt that I was spared the gross
deformities and congenital defects many *hibakusha nisei* are forced
to deal with.  That's 'second generation atomic bomb survivors' to
the clean world."  She smiled.  "I was given the ability to share
others' pains and joys, and the ability to ease or engender these
feelings in others.  I was also given the ability to heal any hurt,
any disease.  Am I supposed to pretend I don't have these abilities
when so many are sick or hurt, and so many more have emotional scars
that need tending?"

"You don't have to convince me, honey."

"I know.  Forgive me.  That's another thing I have to learn:  I don't
have to justify my existence every five minutes anymore."

"You tryin' to tell me you came here just to play a mutant Florence
Nightingale?"

"Of course not.  I'm no liar.  I didn't even have the whole picture
of what I was coming into when I followed Logan out of my father's
shop in New Orleans.  All I knew was...for the first time in my life,
I wasn't ashamed of what I was.  He brought me that freedom, and I
didn't want it to leave with him, so I followed him."

"And here I thought you were just followin' your hormones."

"Well, that too, I guess.  I don't think until yesterday I even knew
what hormones were."  Mirror leaned forward on the pillow.  "Okay. 
Your turn.  I've told you my life history; you get to tell me yours,
if you want."

"Ain't that much to tell, honey, that I ain't already told.  Poor
little rich girl Senator's daughter sprouts wings at the age of
twelve and gets practically disowned by her family; then at seventeen
she reads in the paper that her ex-fiance ran his plane into the side
of a mountain, and a year later she gets swept off her feet by a
smooth-talking pretty-boy Cajun and spirited away to a big house in
upstate New York and finds out that her dead ex-beau is a live X-
Man."  Pixie leaned back against the side of the windowsill, hands on
ankles.  "You could print my life story on the back of a trading
card."

Someone knocked at the door.  Mirror shoved the pillow to one side
and scooted forward off the bed, almost hating herself for the rush
of blind hope she felt.  "Come in."

It wasn't Logan who opened the door and looked in, but the tall black
woman with snowy white hair.  "Miryoko," Storm said in her rich
contralto, "your mother is on the telephone for you."

"Thank you, Storm."  Mirror looked over at the woman on her
windowsill.  "Um, Pix, I've got to get that; I've been trying to talk
to her since I got here."

"'Sokay.  I understand."  Pixie slid down to the floor.  "Nice
talkin' to ya."  She walked briskly towards the open door.

Mirror followed her out, turning the opposite way down the hall.  She
paused and looked back at the retreating Pixie.  "Maybe we can talk
again later, okay?"

"Sure."  But that wasn't tossed back with much conviction as Pixie
vanished into her room.


*             *             *



11:02 a.m.

"*Oui, maman...trŠs bien....pas que je sache...chut, maman, ne pleure
pas...*"  Mirror stood at the hall telephone, hand on hip, her stance
echoing defiance while her voice still held the steady patience of a
loving if slightly wayward daughter.  Yes, she was fine; she had no
quarrel with her parents as far as she knew; hush, mother, don't cry. 
"*Je ne se quand, maman...cela d‚pend...oui, maman...quand
meme...sans doute...au revoir, maman.*"  She didn't know when she was
coming home, it would depend...yes, she would call if she needed
anything, depend on it, without a doubt.  After saying goodbye, she
put the phone down into the cradle with only slightly more force than
necessary as a tiny growl issued from the back of her throat.  "*Je
ne le tol‚rerai pas*! " she snarled.

"You won't put up with what, darlin'?"

She'd been waiting almost all morning to hear that low, rough voice
that sounded behind her, but it still made her catch her breath and
spin around.  Wolverine was leaning on the banister at the top of the
stairs, watching her with an odd mixture of amusement and concern.  

His presence, as always, was something of a rush to her.  Just by
being in the same room with her he did things to her perceptions that
she didn't completely understand.  "Ooh..." She waved a hand at the
telephone.  "My mother.  She finally rang back to give me the third
degree about what I thought I was doing running off to New York with
some stranger, and how *dare* I tell her I didn't know when I was
coming home."

"What did ya tell her?"

"That I was going to school here, I'd send her the paperwork in
Monday's mail, and once I get settled I'll come back home and tell
her everything."

"Everything?"

"I have to, Logan.  I can only dodge her questions so long, and I
don't lie for any reason.  I'm terrible at dissembling."  Mirror ran
a hand through her asymmetrical bangs and leaned against the wall. 
"And if you think my mother's bad..."  She sucked air in through her
teeth.  "*O yo, koibito*," she said, lapsing into her father's native
tongue, "*itsu o-Chichi-san ga kitaku suru ma de, matte itsu...*"

"What happens when yer pa gets home?"

She didn't even register the fact that he had understood her somewhat
stilted Japanese.  "That's when the real ordeal by fire will begin. 
He'll probably call out the Japanese National Guard out to bring his
wayward offspring home."

"Japan don't have a national guard, darlin'."

"Whatever."

Wolverine pushed away from the banister and walked over until he
stood face to face with Mirror.  His stormy eyes looked directly into
hers.  "If ya knew it was gonna cause trouble, babe, why did ya come
all the way up here?"

She met his penetrating gaze without flinching.  "Because if I'm
going to belong to someone, I'd like to have some say in who I should
belong to."  It wasn't what she'd meant to say, but she knew it was
the truth as soon as she'd said it.

"Do tell."  He folded his thickly muscular arms across his broad
chest.  "Care to go into detail on that, darlin'?"

She cast a glance left and right, up and down the upstairs hallway. 
"Isn't this a little public for a personal discussion?"

He scowled.  "Yer right, darlin'.  Name the place."

"Neutral territory?"  (So you can walk out whenever it suits you--
just like this morning,) she thought but didn't add aloud.

He gave her a brittle smile.  "I know just the spot."

She followed his lead down the hall and up a narrow, spiraling
staircase into the central bell tower.  (Tres Vertigo,) she thought. 
Wolverine perched on one open windowsill, withdrew the stub of a
cigar, and lit up.  Mirror looked out another window to see the
silver girl, Galatea, engaged in dedicated construction work out on
the snow-covered grounds with one of the X-Men--Iceman, she thought,
though it was hard to tell from this distance.  The bell tower was
completely open; Mirror shuddered a bit at the rush of cold air after
the warmth of the stairway, but she suppressed it quickly.

"Now then," Wolverine said, flicking ashes out the window, "what's
all this about 'belongin''?"

Mirror turned to face him and put her hands down beside her, braced
against the sill.  She straightened her shoulders, took a deep
breath, and realized she had no clear idea of how in the world she
was going to answer him.  She decided to let the words come out as
they would, and hoped she would make some sort of sense.  "When you
walked into the shop yesterday, something happened.  I don't
understand it, and I don't think you do either,  but we both felt it. 
Something in you called, and something in me answered."

"I think we got that much straightened out already, darlin'."

"For the first time in my life, I felt like I had a choice.  I could
have turned you out and let you walk away alone, and my life would
have continued in its safe, predictable course until one or both of
my parents died and some safe, predictable man came along to marry
me; or not, in which case I would have ended up just another
eccentric old spinster lady with a little shop in the Quarter, just
like a dozen other eccentric old spinster ladies with little shops in
the Quarter.  I didn't think of that right at the moment, mind you,
only in retrospect; and, quite frankly, the prospect gives me the
slow screaming willies."

Wolverine took a long drag on his cigar and emitted a cloud of hazy
blue smoke into the cold air between them.  "But ya didn't turn me
out."

"No.  I left the shop with you.  Without a glance backwards, without
a second thought and without a single regret.  I had no idea what I
was letting myself in for, but I felt safe with you."

He laughed at that.  "Oh, darlin'--if you'd only known--!"

"I'd have gone with you anyway.  Now that I'm here, now that I
understand what this place is really all about, I want to stay.  Not
just for you, but because I believe I was given my abilities for a
reason:  to help people.  I know that sounds hopelessly idealistic,
but it's the truth.  What's the good of being a healer if you don't
use it to help people?"

"Nothin' wrong with that," he murmured, but she felt something tweak
at him--something like disturbance, or discomfort; it was hard to
tell.  He shifted his position on the opposite sill, turning to look
outside at the lowering sky.  His craggy profile was stark against
the greyish light filtering through the clouds.  "Gonna snow again
before nightfall," he said.  He seemed so alone, inside himself. 
Almost lonely, in a way that was both familiar and tiresome.

Suddenly she wanted to go put her arms around him, but she quashed
the impulse, sensing he wouldn't appreciate the gesture.  "I'm not
trying to screw up your life, Logan," she said.  "It's been screwed
up enough."  Again, one of those things that just fell out of her
mouth that she knew was true as she spoke it, but she didn't know
*how* she knew it.

Glacial eyes flickered in her direction, and Wolverine pitched the
stub of his cigar out over the snow-crusted roof out of sight.  "You
don't know nothin' about my life, babe," he said.  It was almost a
growl, like a warning away.

Mirror swallowed hard and forged ahead.  "I know you've been hurt,"
she said.  "Bad.  I can feel your pain."

This time he *did* growl--low in his throat, through clenched teeth,
ending in something almost like the snarl of a panther.  He turned
his back on her.  "Goddamned mindreaders," he rumbled darkly. 
"Always pokin' around in people's heads..."

Mirror took a deep, cold breath, trying to still the rising swell of
defensive temper inside her.  "Logan...I'm not trying to mess with
your head.  I'm sorry.  I don't mean to intrude."  She took a step
towards Wolverine without realizing it.  "If it's any comfort, I
don't know why you hurt.  All I can do is feel it, deep and festering
like an old wound that refuses to heal.  I can no more ignore that
than you could ignore the cry of a wounded animal caught in a
bear-trap."

*That* analogy must have hit home; he sucked in breath and whirled on
her, dropping into a half-crouch.  His hands curled into fists, and
his forearms tensed.  His eyes almost weren't human any more.  They
were the eyes of a wolf, or a hunting cat--some primeval predator
ready to pounce.  

Heart beginning to race, she stood her ground.

After a moment, he straightened up and his hands loosened.  "Point
taken, darlin'," he said, his voice almost normal, but still with a
gravelly undertone.  "Don't get me wrong; I...like you, prob'ly more
than I should, considerin' my track record with women."

There was a considerable amount of anguish hidden just under the
surface of *that* statement.  Mirror held her tongue.

He took a step towards her, spreading his open hands before him. 
"It's just that I don't want a nice kid like you swimmin' through the
slimy cesspool that passes for my mind."  He tapped his temple with
two thick fingers.  "Better'n you've tried to sort out the mess
swirlin' around between my ears, darlin'.  If Charley Xavier can't
fill in the cracks or straighten out the kinks, you don't stand a
chance."

"You could let me try."

Smiling, he shook his head.  "I know you think you want to help me--"

"I *do* want to help you."  In spite of the cold, she felt her cheeks
getting hot.

"--but you can't."

"I *CAN*!"  Her sudden shout rang off the brass bell; she clapped a
hand over her mouth and glanced out the window to see if anyone had
heard her.  The only people in sight were Galatea and her companion;
they were involved in a raucous snowball fight (he was winning,
mainly because he could pull his snowballs straight out of the air,
which confirmed his identity), and they didn't react at all.  Nor
could she hear them, although it was clear that they were laughing
and generally cutting up.  The brisk breeze spirited away sounds from
so far off.  She steeled herself and turned back to face Wolverine. 
This time it was she whose hands fisted, whose arms tensed so tight
they almost shook.  "You don't understand," she whispered.

"Maybe I do, Mirror," he responded, deliberately using her code name. 
"Better than you."  He walked right up to her, staring her down,
brows lowered close above his eyes.  "So why don'tcha spare us both a
lotta grief and a world o' hurt, and get yer feelers outta me?"

Mirror's iron control snapped.  Her head jerked up, her eyes flashed
almost yellow, and she bared *her* teeth at Wolverine.  "Because.  I. 
*Can't*!"  she thundered at him.  "I'm an empath, you thickheaded
*numbskull*, and every channel I have is tuned in to you. *It doesn't
turn off*."  She threw her head back, exposing her white throat, and
glared down her nose at him.  "And if you can't deal with
that--'bub'--then you might as well rip my throat out here and now."  

His eyes glittered at her, and she saw a flicker of red in the icy
depths.  She knew then, profoundly, that given the proper
circumstances Wolverine wouldn't hesitate to do exactly as she
suggested.  But still she didn't back down.  "Something in me sounds
with something in you," she said, and she even managed to keep her
voice down.  "Like two notes that always make a harmony with each
other, a resonance that goes clear through to my bones.  That won't
stop till I stop breathing."

"That can be arranged, babe."

"No doubt."  She was scared.  He knew it, and she knew he knew it. 
Even so, she didn't back down.  "Killing me will stop it--but it
won't change the fact of its existence.  And I don't understand it
any more than you do."

His hands shot out and grabbed her bare arms.  She jumped.  His hands
were warm.  How could they be warm?  They were warm.  

He looked deep into her eyes.

"Can't very well kill ya 'fore I figure out what's goin' on between
us," he murmured, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

Something in the back of her mind whispered she had, just now, been
in more danger of death than she had ever been before in her life;
but that now the danger had passed.  She swallowed.  "No," she said,
"I don't suppose you can."

She didn't try to pull away, but waited for him to release her.  He
didn't.  His mouth came down hard on hers, and she didn't resist. 
Didn't want to.

He bore her backwards down onto the rough wooden floor and had her
then and there, in the cold open air of the bell tower, and she
welcomed him with a whole heart and a willing body.

                  *             *             *

11:24 a.m.

"You cheated, you mean thing!" Galatea accused, giggling, as she and
her erstwhile opponent stood on the back patio.  She shook her
ringing hair, scattering powdery snow across the flagstones.  "No
fair making your own snow."

"Hey, a snowball fight was *your* idea," Iceman reminded her.  "I
warned you I was an expert, but you just *had* to pitch the first
volley."  He dusted off his T-shirt and shorts--his nature precluded
the need for special protection against the snow.

Galatea was likewise lightly clad, in a tube top and cutoff jeans. 
The cold didn't seem to bother her any more than it did Iceman.  "I
hit you fair-and-square," she said proudly, drawing herself up.

"That you did.  Of course, you had no idea you were going up against
Deadly Drake, the terror of the snowbanks."

"I still say you cheated."

"Galatea, me proud beauty, if there's one thing you'll learn here at
the mansion, it's how to use your powers effectively against an
opponent.  It's just your hard luck that snow isn't metallic.  If we
were using iron filings instead of crystallized ice, you'd've kicked
*my* can all over the yard."

"And I play a mean game of pinball, too."

"I'll just bet you do.  Remind me never to challenge you."  He
stamped his feet to shake loose most of the snow still clinging to
his sneakers.  "I think we're about as dusted off as we're going to
get.  Want some cocoa to take off that nonexistent chill?"

"Love some."

Iceman slid open the patio door and bowed low, gesturing broadly. 
"After thee, fair lady."

Galatea giggled in a most charming fashion and slipped inside. 
Iceman watched her with growing appreciation.  (Not only is she
gorgeous, she's absolutely sweet.  I don't think she could put on
false airs if she tried.  I think she likes me, too.  Time will
tell...)  He strolled in after her, carefully shutting the door
behind him.  (Who knows?  Maybe the Drakester is finally going to get
lucky.)

Galatea settled on a barstool while Bobby retrieved the milk from the
refrigerator.  He poured mugs for both of them from the plastic
pitcher and popped them in the microwave.  "Making things cold is no
problem for me," he said as he set the timer on high for thirty
seconds.  "But since my old buddy the Human Torch would be a little
peeved if we called him all the way up from Manhattan just to heat up
the milk for us, I guess we'll have to settle for nuking it."

After the milk had been successfully "nuked", Bobby stirred a
generous helping of Hershey's syrup into Galatea's mug, then his own. 
"Marshmallows?" he asked.

"Please."

He complied and handed her the chocolate.  "Shall we retire to the
den, where I believe there is kept stoked a cheery blaze within the
fireplace ensconced therein?"

Another bout of giggles.  "You sound like Dr. McCoy," Galatea
twittered.  "Too many fancy words."

Bobby scrunched up his face.  "Dammit, Jim, I'm an X-Man, not an
etiologist!"

"Etymologist."

Bobby paused in the hallway.  "Huh?"

"An etiologist specializes in the origins of diseases.  An
etymologist studies words."  She passed him and entered the den. 
"Are you coming, Bobby?"

He kick-started his brain.  "Oh.  Yeah."  He followed her and settled
on the sofa with her, still reeling from the quiet, matter-of-fact
way in which she'd corrected him.  Suddenly Bobby got the impression
that not only was Galatea Malloy not the airhead everyone thought she
was at first meeting, but that she was, in fact, not an airhead at
all.  Her voice was sweet and lilting like a young girl's, and her
social skills were obviously lacking a bit, but obviously her
perception was as sharp as anybody's.  Not only did she supply him
with the proper word, she immediately understood what he was talking
about even when he used the wrong term.  (Strange girl.  But then,
aren't we all strange?  That's why we're all here.  Anyway, she's
pretty, she's sweet, and she's single.  And I'd really like to get to
know her better.)

He dropped an arm around the back of the sofa behind her with
practiced casualness, careful not to look at her.  She didn't sit up,
pull away, or protest, which he took as encouragement.  They watched
the fire for a few minutes.

"So," Bobby said, "like the place so far?"

"Oh yes," she said, smiling.  The firelight flickered golden shadows
over her silver face.  "I can't wait to begin training.  Uncle Simon
did his best to help me learn to use my powers, but we were never
really able to determine the practical upper limit of my powers. 
There was no way to measure the kinetic strength potential, not to
mention the fact that control variables were virtually impossible to
isolate.  We're not even sure exactly how my metal-affecting
abilities operate.  Uncle Simon is fairly sure that it has something
to do with the manipulation of electrons on the molecular level, but
I consider that unlikely.  My own pet theory involves localized
fluctuation of the natural electromagnetic fields inherent
in...Bobby?  Are you all right?"

(*Duh*.)  "Yeah, sure.  No problem."

"Oh, I'm sorry."  Galatea ducked her head, cheeks darkening.  "Here I
am, holding forth about the mysterious origins of my powers like some
self-important ninny.  Please pay no attention to me."

He reached out a finger to put under her chin and tilted her face up
to his.  "My dear Galatea," he murmured, leaning closer, "paying
attention to you is, at the moment, all I want to do."

She blinked at him, her expression open, passive, receptive.  Her
eyes had no pupils, but were the color of cobalt-tinted glass,
radiantly translucent, like perfectly optical sapphires.  Her lips
were pewter-colored, but they looked full and soft and warm.  

His mouth was five inches from hers and closing when Wolverine
stomped into the den.  "C'mon in closer to the fire, darlin'," he
said to the woman behind him.

Galatea sat up and away from Bobby.  "Oh!" she said.  "Good morning,
Miry."

"Good morning, Gale," the Oriental replied, backing up towards the
fire.  She, like Wolverine, was coated in a fine dusting of snow. 
Her clothes were slightly damp.  "Brr!  I like snow--we don't get
very much of it in New Orleans--but it's going to take some getting
used to."

"It doesn't snow at all in New Mexico," Galatea said, taking a sip
from her cocoa.  "I love it."

"So do I.  But it's *cold*!"

"So?  Cold doesn't bother me."

"Oh."

"Thanks a lot, Wolvie," Bobby grumbled, so soft under his breath that
Galatea didn't hear him.  Wolverine, however, did, even from across
the room.  He looked up, glanced from Bobby to Gale, and hitched his
shaggy eyebrows.  Bobby's lips narrowed into a thin line and he
nodded, tersely, once.

One of Wolverine's eyebrows twitched upwards: *Oh, well*.  "Warmin'
up, darlin'?" he asked his companion.

"Yes, thanks," Mirror replied.  She looked at Wolverine and smiled
with a warmth more penetrating than the fire in front of which he
stood.

"C'mon, furball," Bobby muttered under his breath.  "You got lucky,
why won't you give somebody else a chance?"

"Did you say something, Bobby?" Galatea asked.

"Uh--no.  Just got a frog in my throat."

Galatea frowned, concerned.  "You'd better be careful.  It's cold
season, you know."

"I didn't think the Iceman could catch a cold," Mirror said.

"Viruses don't care about what temperature it is."  Galatea pressed a
cool silver hand to Bobby's brow.  "You don't have a fever, though,
so I guess you don't have much to worry about."

"He looks a mite hot under the collar to *me*," Wolverine said, half-
smiling.  Bobby shot him a warning look which the older man pointedly
ignored.  "He's practic'ly sweatin'."

It was about that time that Mirror snagged a clue.  "Um...are we
interrupting anything?"

"No," Galatea said, at the same instant that Bobby retorted, "*Yes*."

She looked at him, her brow furrowing.

Wolverine huffed into the sudden stillness.  "Let's go scare up some
eats, darlin', so's the Good Humor man can make time with the silver
lady."

"Um...yeah."  Mirror let Wolverine take her wrist and haul her out of
the room.  "See you later, Gale," she tossed back over her shoulder
just before she vanished through the door.

"'Bye, Miry," Galatea called back.  Then she turned wide, earnest
eyes on her companion.  "Bobby..."

"Yeah?"

"Were you?"

He sat up, concerned at the note of confusion in her voice.  "Was I
what?"

"'Making time' with me?"

"Uh--well..."  (Thanks a whole heaping bunch, fuzz-for-brains.) 
Unable to honestly deny his ulterior motives, Bobby opted for a
humorous response.  "Maybe a little.  A couple seconds, here and
there.  May eventually work my way up to a whole minute at a time." 
It was working; Galatea was smiling.  "'Course, you gotta be careful
with that kind of thing.  One guy made a whole extra day once, way
back in the Middle Ages, and it threw the whole year out of whack. 
It became known around the world as the 'Gregorian Calendar Scandal',
or 'Gregscam' for short."  That earned a giggle, and he went on,
encouraged.  "You can't imagine the confusion; everybody was living
on Daylight Savings Time year round, and they hadn't even invented
time zones yet.  It got to where calendars went out of date six
months before they were printed.  Eventually they managed to pin down
that troublesome extra day, but it pleaded the Fifth and got time off
for good behavior.  Through plea bargaining, they got it arranged so
the extra day would only show up once every four years, and then they
stuck it behind February and hoped nobody would notice."

She was laughing outright by now.  "Silly!  That's not the way it
happened."

"Oh yeah?  Were you there?"

She struggled to regain her composure.  "No.  But were *you*?"

"Heck, no.  But it's a good story, you've got to admit."  (And a
narrow escape disguised as a graceful change of subject,) he added to
himself.

                  *             *             *

12:54 p.m.

Wolverine's room was almost purely functional:  plain wood-framed
bed, Army-green blanket, plain white cotton sheets; an unfinished
wood nightstand; a utilitarian chest of drawers with a plain-frame
mirror hung on the wall above.  There were few personal effects
visible; the nightstand had shelves piled with books, mostly
hardcovers with a few Zane Grey paperbacks mixed in.  Atop the
nightstand, next to the flea-market-issue plain ceramic lamp, was a
framed photograph of Logan standing with a Japanese woman; both were
in traditional ceremonial kimono, holding hands and smiling.  

The obvious joy in his face, the lack of shadows in his eyes, made
the Logan in the photo look like a stranger.

Lying next to the photograph on the nightstand was a small leather
pouch with a hand-beaded abstract design, like an Indian medicine
bag.  The contrast with the photo was conspicuous, and Miryoko
wondered what one had to do with the other.

She knew better than to ask.

She understood what a concession it was for Logan to invite a woman
he'd known less than a day into his private quarters.  (Twenty-one
hours, since three-thirty yesterday--not even that, accounting for
the time difference.  Twenty hours, and in that time I've left the
only home and life I've ever known, turned my back on the only family
I've got, pledged myself to join a band of social outcasts who risk
their lives on an almost daily basis, and made love twice with a man
I hardly even know--and know better than I know myself.

(O and all I want right now is his arms around me--STOP IT!)

A serving tray with the remains of a cold-cut lunch lay between them
on the floor.  Miry sat with her legs folded under her, sitting on
her heels, hands resting on her knees.  Logan had his legs crossed,
smoking the remnants of yet another cigar.  He'd shed his jacket and
flannel shirt and was now wearing only his black undershirt and faded
jeans.  

Miry took a sip from a half-full Coke can that was no longer ice cold
and tried not to think about how appealing she found him, or about
how much she wanted to shove the tray aside and climb into his lap.

The minutes passed.

Logan finally broke the silence between them.  "I got somethin' to
say."

She sat the can down, straightened up, and faced him.  "Okay."

He sucked in a long, slow breath, leaned forward to drop his cigar
butt in his beer can, exhaled, straightened up and looked her in the
eye.  "I don't know what's goin' on between us.  I don't know where
it come from, and I don't know where it's gonna take us if we follow
it.  All I know is, it feels more *right* than anything that's
happened to me in the past year and a half--maybe since I joined up
with Xavier.  If you're willin' to see this thing through, wherever
it leads, then I'm willin'."

For a minute, maybe more, she just looked at him.  Then she said,
"You have one hell of a way of asking a girl to go steady."

"What do ya say, Miry?"

"I say:  yes."

"Good."  Logan reached out and set their tray off to one side.  Then
he held out his arms for her.  "Now, c'mere.  I been wantin' you in
my arms since we got ourselves alone."

"Funny," she said as she scooted across the floor to him, "I've felt
the same way."

"Ya coulda said somethin', darlin'," he told her as he gathered her
into his lap.

She put her arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. 
"I didn't want to pule and whine about it.  I don't want to crowd
you."

"Sweet little girl like you ain't gonna bother me much for room."  He
wrapped his arms around her, encouraging her to cuddle up to him,
which she did.  "Other way 'round, more like.  What a fine young
thing like you wants with an old hairy fireplug like me..."

"I *like* hair," she murmured against his skin.  "And you're not a
fireplug.  A *carcajou*, maybe, but never a fireplug."

                  *             *             *

3:32 p.m.

Archangel wheeled down through the clouds, plunging down from the
high clear blue above back down through the blanket of crystalline
mist towards the ground.  Gravity plucked at his slender form, an
insistent and unrelenting pull resisted only by the power of his
razor-feathered wings, flashing silver in the filtered winter
sunlight.

He broke through below the cloud cover and swooped low over the
mansion, almost disappointed that there was no one to buzz.

Or almost no one.  

His shadow passed over a small figure sitting hunched over a patch of
bare ground near the edge of the forest.  The curly strawberry-blonde
hair marked a familiar petite form, and he immediately dropped,
spreading his wings to break his fall at the last moment.  The
rushing sound of air made the woman on the ground look up, her round
blue eyes open wide and her mouth forming a perfect pink O of
surprise.

"Afternoon, milady," he said, touching his feet to the ground and
carefully folding his wings.  "Anything interesting going on?"

Pixie stood up; the top of her head didn't even reach his shoulder. 
"I was just listening."

"To the moles?"

"To the plants.  They're sleeping, you know."

Archangel bit the inside of his cheek briefly to keep from laughing. 
"Um...yeah."

Pixie cocked her head, smiled patiently.  "Part of my 'mutant
talents', as the Professor calls them, is the ability to sense the
bioelectric activity produced by most, if not all, naturally-occuring
Earth flora.  In other words, I'm a tree-hugger."

"Whatever."  He smiled a little, to let her know he wasn't making fun
of her, before he said:  "Do plants snore?"

"Not exactly.  They do sing, though.  Not with sound, of course." 
She spread her arms out and pirouetted in place.  "Spring's the best
time, you know, when the first flowers come up and show their faces,
and the sap rushes up from the roots of the trees and pushes the
leaves out to catch the sunlight...it's like a dance, when everything
blooms and the woods come alive."

His smile widened as he watched her.  "You should talk to the
Professor about starting a garden back here," he said. 

She paused in her momentary dance and looked at him, face lighting
up.  "Do you think he'd let me?"

"I don't see why not.  If it'll help you develop your 'tree-hugger'
abilities, he'll probably give you class credit for it."

"You darlin' man--"  Pixie ran forward and hugged him before she
thought twice about it.  Then, abruptly, she stiffened, pulled back
and looked up at him.  

His luminous eyes softened, and he stroked a hand down the back of
her curly hair.  "Still friends," he answered the question in her
eyes.  "Always."

"If things had been different..."  She trailed off, chin quivering.

"Then they wouldn't be the way they are."  Gently he kissed the top
of her head.  "It's all right, Vann.  Think of it:  the X-Men gave me
a reason to live, not once, but twice in my life.  It can do the same
for you."

Blinking hard to hold back tears, Pixie shook her head.  "I don't
know how great I am at world-saving..."

"It's something you kind of have to learn as you go along.  Just
remember you're not alone any more.  There aren't people telling you
you're weird, or a freak, or less than human."

"I never had that anyway.  Daddy woulda died if anybody ever found
out I was--"  She gasped and backed off a few steps, hands going to
her mouth.  "OhmiGod! *Daddy*!  He and Mama have no notion where the
hell I am!  What if they come up to see me and find I'm gone?  Lord,
my Lord, he'll call out the National Guard, the FBI, the CIA, the OSI
*and* the NRA!"

Warren laughed; he couldn't stop himself.  "Calm down, Vann.  You can
always call him."

Pixie scowled and planted her hands on her curvaceous hips.  "And
tell him what?  'Hey, Daddy, I've run off to join the X-Men--you
know, that band of mutants your buddy Kelly's always bitching about--
so don't wait up for me'?  Do you know how fast he'll have the law
out here to arrest all and sundry for kidnapping me, without asking
whether I came willingly or not?"

Still chuckling, he reached out and put his cold hands on her warm
shoulders.  "Vann, you're of legal age; he can't force you to leave. 
And you *don't* have to tell him about the X-Men.  You decided to go
to college after all, and you've found a very private--and
*discreet*--institute in upstate New York.  You applied on a whim and
you were accepted with a grant, so it won't cost him a dime. *That*
should appeal to his mercenary nature."

"And how was I supposed to hear about this wonderful place?"

He winked.  "From an old friend.  Let him wonder who."

The wind taken out of her sails, Pixie's righteous indignation
deflated.  "Well...maybe."

"Come on."  Warren reached down and took her hand.  "Let's go inside
and get the Prof's thoughts on this.  You'd be surprised how
persuasive he can be with the most unlikely of people."

"I'll just bet."

The pair wandered through the well-trampled snow towards the mansion,
unaware of the shadowed figure watching them from an upper back
window.  Red-on-black eyes narrowed, and the figure stepped back,
letting the curtain fall into place with a minimum of movement.

Neither Vann nor Warren noticed.

                  *             *             *

Westchester County, New York
Tuesday, the 9th, 9:18 p.m.

     *From the Files of Charles Xavier, Ph.D., Director of the
     Xavier Institute for Higher Learning:

     I am pleased with the progress our new students have made
     over the past few weeks.  I believe we have made quite a
     find with Galatea; the upper limits of her electromagnetic
     powers seem to be set only by her ability to tap and
     channel them.  She is a very apt pupil, and quite
     receptive to constructive criticism.  She has displayed
     the ability to actually generate electrical energy; Storm
     is teaching her how to direct these energies, much as
     Storm herself channels the lightning created by her
     weather-control powers.

     Mirror, too, is making remarkable progress.  She already
     has the same remarkable control over her empathy that Jean
     Grey first exhibited when I originally made contact with
     her--possibly because, like Jean, Mirror has had her
     empathic sensitivity since birth.  Her healing ability
     manifested itself at puberty, but she also has excellent
     control over that power.  Thankfully, she has had no
     opportunity as of yet to put these powers to any great
     test.  Nothing more serious than a dislocated shoulder
     suffered by Iceman during a Danger Room exercise has
     manifested itself.  In addition to her mutant talents,
     Mirror has demonstrated considerable skill with the
     Japanese fighting sword.  Wolverine has assessed her
     abilities in this area and declared her to be capable of
     holding her own against anyone this side of Shingen or his
     old teacher, Ogun.  He has even admitted that she is
     better with a sword than he himself--although he was quick
     to point out that he could still trounce her soundly if
     allowed to use his claws.  I have not asked him to
     demonstrate his capability to make good his claim.

     I must admit to some concern over Pixie.  She doesn't seem
     to be putting a whole-hearted effort into her training. 
     She has also put off contacting her father, against my
     advice.  I sense a great deal of uncertainty in this young
     lady.  She's not sure if she's ready to commit to our
     purpose.  I would be the last one to coerce her, of
     course; our work is far too dangerous to expect anyone
     with anything less than total dedication to sign on.  I
     have allowed her to put off making a final decision and
     still continue with her training, hoping that she will
     make whatever decision she feels is right for her at the
     earliest opportunity.  Time is running short, however, for
     it is only a matter of time before some enemy or other
     pops up to challenge us.  The brief peace we have enjoyed
     can't last forever.  Foremost in my mind is the threat of
     Magneto, who is still gathering his army of followers
     somewhere above the Earth's surface.

     In closing, I must make a note of my ongoing concern about
     the whereabouts of Peter Rasputin.  He has refused all
     attempts to make contact with him, and even Cerebro is
     unable to detect any trace of him.  This may be because he
     is not reverting to his armored form.  If so, that would
     probably mean he does not intend to return any time soon. 
     In a desperate attempt to bring him back, Kitty Pryde has
     gone out in search of him, to at least attempt to make
     contact.  Meanwhile, Illyana continues to linger between
     life and death in the isolation ward below the mansion. 
     Whether my decision to place her in the Shi'ar stasis
     device was a mercy or a cruelty would seem to be a moot
     point, since to remove her from it would surely mean her
     death, and therefore we cannot do so without the consent
     of her only living relative.  That is a consent he seems
     most unwilling to give.  I can only pray that the
     situation is resolved as soon as possible.  Meanwhile, we
     must endure, for we have no other choice--for ourselves,
     for those like us, and for the world as a whole*.

                  *             *             *

Westchester County, New York
Wednesday, the 10th, 10:02 a.m.

Professor Xavier surveyed the group assembled in the center of the
training area affectionately known as the Danger Room.  Wolverine,
Rogue, Beast, Cyclops and Gambit stood in a tight knot, backs to each
other, watching the walls warily.  In their midst were the three
potential new members:  Galatea, Pixie and Mirror.  The newcomers had
all seen the established X-Men going through their paces before, and
they had each been through numerous training sessions over the past
weeks.  This was their first run-through with the Danger Room
programmed for anything like a normal setting.  The potential for
injury was an acknowledged hazard, and while the threat level was not
set at its highest, a freak accident might actually result in a
potential fatality.  Every X-Man who walked into the Danger Room
understood that peril, and accepted it.  The new recruits were
understandably nervous--or at least two of them were, since Galatea
never seemed to worry about much of anything.  Mirror had one hand on
the sheathed katana at her belt, while Pixie stood empty-handed and
wide-eyed between Rogue and Gambit.

"Blue Team ready," Cyclops announced.  

"Begin," Xavier announced, and nodded to Jean and Bishop, who were
manning the secondary monitor stations in the observation booth.  

Six crimson metal forms materialized out of thin air.  "Battle
'droids!"  Cyclops warned, taking a defensive stance.

"Tell me something I don't know, Cyke," Wolverine retorted, extending
his claws.  "Best watch yerself, darlin'," he said to Mirror.  "I got
work to do, I can't hold yer hand."

Mirror's golden eyes flashed as she drew her katana with one smooth
motion.  "I can take care of myself, thank you!"  she shot back at
him as she charged in low.  Her face was a tranquil porcelain mask as
she neatly hamstrung the nearest 'droid.  Wolverine saw without
comment, but he half-smiled in silent approval.

"*Touch‚, Ma'm'selle*," Gambit said, approving as he drew his ever-
present deck of playing cards.  "Allow me to deliver de *coup de
grace, s'il-vous plait*."

"Shut up and hit somethin', sugah!" Rogue told him, flying up into
another 'droid's face and dispensing a smart uppercut.

"Your wish is my command, *chere*."  Gambit pressed a spread of five
cards between two fingers.  The very substance of the pasteboard
began to glow with inner energy; he flung them with practiced ease at
the crippled 'droid's head.  The missiles exploded on contact with a
blast of concussive force.  

Mirror rolled out of the way as the remains of the 'droid toppled
over, coming neatly to her feet, sword still in hand.  "Hey, *mon
ami*," she called out, "give a girl some warning next time!"

"All's fair in love and war, *Ma'm'selle Miroire*."

"And as the bombshells of my daily fears explode," Beast quipped,
neatly dodging ramrod blows delivered by robotic arms the thickness
of the average tree-trunk, "I try to trace them to my youth."

"Whitman?" queried Pixie, who hovered ten feet above him, pink wings
fluttering in agitation.

"No; the Indigo Girls.  The song 'Galileo', to be precise.  A true
modern classic."

Galatea held yet another 'droid suspended in the air, both her hands
glowing opalescent blue.  Her brow was glistening with sweat, but she
showed no other signs of strain.  "Okay, Cyclops," she said, "I've
got it.  Now what do I do with it?"

Cyclops fired off a series of rapid eye-beam shots at an advancing
'droid.  "Use your metal TK to destabilize its internal structure,"
he advised.

"You mean it's okay if I break it?"

"That's what we're here for!" Wolverine yelled as he demonstrated his
words by ripping into a metal torso with his claws.

"I don't have to if you don't want me to.  I can always scramble its
CPU without--"

"Just *do it*!"  

"Okay."  Galatea made a small ripping gesture with her outstretched
hands, and the 'droid simply disintegrated into its component parts,
which rained down on the floor with multiple clanks and clatters.

Pixie felt completely helpless.  She had no weapon, no offensive
powers that anyone had been able to determine.  She didn't even have
a slingshot.  (What am I doing here?) she wondered, watching the
fight below.  With two 'droids incapacitated and one severely
damaged, the X-Men seemed to be making severe inroads on their
adversaries.

The 'droid knocked off its balance by Rogue regained its footing and
knocked her to one side.  Rogue crashed hard into the wall and
rebounded, catching herself in mid-air, shaken but not the least bit
hurt.  "Now, was that nice?" she asked no one in particular.

The 'droid turned towards Gambit, who was getting ready to fire off
another handful of charged-up cards at Cyclops' adversary.

"Gambit, look out!" Pixie shouted, flying towards him.

Gambit looked around just in time to see the 'droid behind him turn
unexpectedly and take a wide swing at Pixie.  She was flying up too
fast to be able to dodge.

"Vanessa!" he yelled, snapping his arm around to throw his cards.  He
was too late to stop the swing of the 'droid's arm as it passed
through the air where Pixie had been a wing-beat before.

She simply wasn't there any more.

"*Quoi*--?!" Gambit ducked as his close shot rearranged the structure
of the 'droid's torso, and it obligingly fell over.  He looked hard
at the space where he'd last seen Pixie, and finally saw the flutter
of tiny wings, about the size of a tiger swallowtail butterfly. 
Pixie was still there...but she had *shrunk*.  She now hovered in the
air, doll-sized, wings quivering.

"Gambit...?"  A tiny voice, small and high and faraway-sounding.

Wolverine finally delivered the telling cut to his 'droid, and it
fell.  "C'mon, Cajun," he snarled, "earn your keep!"

Gambit held up a hand, and Pixie fluttered down into it.  There would
be time for questions and wonderment later.  He put her up on his
shoulder.  "Hang on, *petite*!" he told her, snapping out his
extendable quarterstaff.  Pixie fisted miniscule hands in his collar
and did as she was told: she hung on.

Gambit launched himself over towards Beast, who was still dodging
piledriver fists.  He seemed to be quite enjoying himself.  "'A' for
agility," he sang in a remarkably fine baritone, "'B', my bon
vivantry/'C', I'm a cutie with long arms..."

Gambit vaulted high off the ground and smashed both reinforced boots
into the 'droid's left optical receptor.  He rebounded off, executed
a perfect retrograde tuck-and-roll, and landed squarely on his feet. 
The robot faltered, shuddered, shook itself, took one step towards
Beast--and he kicked its leg out from under it and it keeled over and
was still.

"Five down, one ta go," Wolverine announced.  "Hey, pretty-boy, get
yer ass in gear.  Yers is the last one standin'."

"Allow me to help," Mirror said, jumping forward with her blade at
the ready.  She delivered a neat, perfectly executed roundhouse cut
aimed at the 'droid's left leg.  It was the same move she'd used to
cripple the first 'droid, and it would have worked--if this unit
hadn't blocked her cut with an outstretched, well-armored forearm and
moved her blade aside.

"The Danger Room learns from your attack modes," Cyclops told her. 
"You can't expect to hit it the same way twice--*look out*!" he
shouted as the head swiveled towards her.  This particular 'droid was
designed with force beams built into the optic receptors, and
parrying its blasts while dodging those that slipped past had taken
Cyclops more time than usual to take it out.  Mirror saw the "eyes"
flaring, tried to jump out of the way--and tripped over a stray bit
of debris, landing flat on her back.

Cyclops opened his visor and hit the 'droid dead center with his eye-
beams--just as the 'droid's force blast engulfed the woman on the
floor.

"*Miry*!!" Wolverine yelled.  He leapt half the length of the Danger
Room, past the falling 'droid disabled by Cyclops, and landed at her
side.

The Danger Room went quiet.

Up in the control booth, Jean sat forward, frowning.  "Professor...?"

Xavier looked as startled as he had when Pixie had unexpectedly
shrunk.  "It seems this is a day for surprises."

Mirror was sitting on the floor, not in the least bit hurt, but with
an almost comical look of surprise on her face.

She was glowing the same pale blue-green as the 'droid's force-blast
had been.

"Miry?"  Wolverine crouched beside her, leaning cautiously forward.

"Don't touch her!"  Cyclops warned as he and the others gathered
around.

"I ain't that flamin' stupid," Wolverine snapped, sheathing his
claws.  Then, in a gentler tone, "You okay, darlin'?"

"I...think so."  Mirror raised her glowing hands and looked at them,
then up at Wolverine in confusion.  "Logan--what the hell--?"

"You absorbed the force blast from the 'droid."  Bishop's deep voice
boomed over the speakers.  "Do you feel any internal pressure
building?"

Mirror looked up at the dark form above her behind the control room
glass.  "No," she said, "and I don't have to go to the bathroom,
either."

Scattered chuckles greeted that.  

She looked down at herself, plucking at her black leather jacket and
stirrup pants.  "How do I...get rid of it?" she asked.

"Do some push-ups," suggested Wolverine.  "Maybe it'll go away."

Mirror glared sideways at him.

"You have to discharge the energy potential," Bishop advised her. 
"Try to remember how you pulled it in, and just let it go."

She looked up at him.  "Let it go?  You mean--"

A greenish nimbus flared around her.

"Everybody *kiss dirt*!!" Wolverine yelled, throwing himself back. 
Everyone hurled themselves prone, some covering their heads, Gambit
covering the tiny form on his shoulder with both hands.  

A moment later a force-blast erupted from Mirror, hurling the junked
battle 'droids away against the walls and sweeping the area in a
three-meter radius around her clean of debris.  A blast like wind
washed over the prone X-Men, but no one was hurt.

Wolverine was the first to get to his feet, cautiously.  Mirror still
sat in the middle of the Danger Room floor, the area around her now
swept perfectly clean.  She wasn't glowing any more, although her
skin looked a little flushed.  She looked at her hands, patted her
sides gingerly, and looked up at him.  She grinned crookedly.  "Wow,"
she said.

Wolverine extended a hand to her.  She took it.  Nothing went boom. 
Grinning, he pulled her to her feet.

A chime sounded, the indicator lights on the wall flashed green, and
the double-reinforced door slid open.  Almost a minute later
Professor Xavier's hoverchair glided into the room, flanked by Bishop
and Jean Grey.  "It seems this morning held its share of surprises,"
he said.  "Well done, X-Men.  A competent performance from all of
you."

"Nice o' you ta say so, Charley," Wolverine muttered.  He pulled a
cigar from his belt and casually lit up.

"As for our newcomers:  Galatea, the midst of battle is hardly the
time for conversational debate."

"I'm sorry, Professor."  The silver girl shifted her weight from one
foot to the other, looking down.  "I wouldn't have behaved that way
in the middle of a real fight."

"The object of the Danger Room is to treat the threats as real ones. 
Sometimes they are real.  However," he smiled, "your distaste for
wanton, wholesale destruction is a..." His eyes tracked towards
Wolverine.  "...refreshing change."

The Canadian blew a cloud of thick bluish smoke in his general
direction.

Galatea drew herself up primly.  "Waste not, want not," she said.

"To choose simple incapacitation over total obliteration is always
preferable--when such an option exists.  It's better for you to ask
questions here--brief ones.  In the field, where no orders have been
given, you must learn to trust your own judgement."

"Understood."

Xavier nodded and looked at the woman standing next to Wolverine. 
"Mirror, your skill with the katana is apparently not your only
offensive capability, as we had previously believed.  You seem to
possess a form of energy absorption not unlike Bishop's; however,
whereas he automatically converts all forms of energy into a single
type of force, you seem to project the same manner of energy you have
absorbed.  We will have to run some diagnostics to determine what
types of energy you are capable of channeling."

Mirror grimaced, rolling her eyes.  "Another afternoon under the
microscope."

"You won't be fully field-ready until you learn to control this
newly-discovered ability.  As for you, Pixie...where are you?"

"Here."  Pixie hopped off Gambit's shoulder and grew to her full
height, hovering about two feet off the ground.

"Ah, yes.  Your shrinking ability was another unexpected benefit. 
You seem to have it under reasonable control.  Were you aware of it
before today?"

Pixie bit her lip.  "Well...sort of.  I done it once, a long time
ago, but I guess I must've forgot I could do it."

"That's one hell of a thang to forget, sugah," Rogue commented.

"Rogue, honey, there were times I wanted to forget I was a mutant
altogether.  I'm sorry, Professor.  I would've told you if I'd've
remembered."

"That's all right, Pixie.  It served you in good stead.  After
Mirror's examination, I'm afraid it'll be your turn."

"Whatever you say, Professor."  Pixie sounded less than enthusiastic,
but she was at least agreeable to the idea, and for that Xavier was
grateful.  He was ready to take any sign of cooperation as favorable.

"All in all, there was, as always, room for improvement.  Even so,
the newcomers handled themselves rather well for their first time
out.  I expect to see marked improvement by the next session. 
Dismissed."

"Hit the showers, people," Cyclops ordered.  "It's almost lunchtime."

The rear doors at the back of the Danger Room were revealed as the
heavy shielding rolled back.  

"*  propos de d‚jeuner*," Gambit said, smiling at Rogue, "what say we
give that delightful little Italian place in town a try, *mon
chere*?"

"If you're buyin', sugah, I'm willin'," Rogue replied in her lilting
Southern twang.  "Just let me freshen up a little first..."  She blew
him a kiss and sauntered off towards the showers.  The discourse
between them would probably never amount to anything more than a
harmless flirtation, Rogue knew, by simple virtue of the fact that
she was unable to touch another person without draining the life-
energy from them.  Gambit enjoyed the game as much as she did, and
neither one was serious, so no harm was done.

Pixie watched the exchange without comment.  She was incredibly
confused by the perceptions she was receiving from Gambit.  He seemed
to like her--he had been concerned about her--but he hadn't flirted
with her since shortly after her arrival at the mansion.  Combined
with the fact that her own current outlook on life was resoundingly
negative, and that was coloring the impressions she received from
everyone, she had all but completely given up hope on establishing
even a friendship with the Cajun, never mind anything more.

It didn't help matters much when she turned around and saw Mirror
cuddling up to Wolverine, who wasn't protesting in the least.  

"Do you really think I did okay?" she asked him, arms stealing around
his neck.

He put his hands around her waist and pressed his forehead to hers,
smiling a little.  "Yer a regular little hellraiser, darlin'.  You
could take just about anybody in this room."

"Oh, yeah, right.  Not."

He grinned.  "'Cept me, of course."

"Don't you think *anybody* can take you?"

"If I'm ready for 'em?  Nope."  He pulled her closer against him. 
"I'm the best there is at what I do, darlin'."

"As if you didn't prove that this morning."

"Yeah.  That, too."

"Oh, *gag* me."  Pixie stalked past them, tossing back over her
shoulder, "can't y'all keep your hands off each other for two
seconds?!"  She stomped through the door that led to the women's
showers.

Mirror started to follow her, hesitated, and turned troubled eyes to
Wolverine.

He jerked his head.  "G'wan, darlin'.  I'll meet up with you
outside."

Mirror followed her hopefully-soon-to-be teammate, but Pixie rebuffed
all overtures and offers of consolation, and finally Mirror had to
abandon all efforts or risk compromising her own principles, which
clearly left no room for uninvited intrusion, either verbally or with
her powers.  She could tell Pixie was miserable, but couldn't discern
why.  That was kept too close for a surface scan to pick up, and
Mirror couldn't and wouldn't probe any deeper without permission.

Whatever problems Pixie was going through, she seemed determined to
deal with them on her own.  Mirror hoped fervently that she could.

Pixie was almost past caring, one way or the other.

                  *             *             *