Tel Aviv, Israel, 1954

The city was almost too much to bear.

His mother and stepfather had moved him out of the city late in the war; so many people fled the bombing that nobody commented on it. He'd gone to small schools and private tutors, avoided town as much as possible. Even the ship hadn't been too bad, because he'd forced himself to sleep days and be awake nights, when only a few people were up. But now they were driving through a city, through streets where people were crowded together, alert and alive and thinking --

"Are you quite all right, Charles?" Dr. Avidan called, smiling at him from the seat of the jeep. Charles Xavier did not trust himself to reply aloud, but he forced himself to smile. He clutched his satchel closer to him, trying to concentrate on the feel of the leather in his hands, the weight of it on his lap. Dr. Avidan apparently took that for a yes and kept driving.

Yeshara Avidan was not at all what Charles had been expecting, and he supposed she wasn't what his mother had expected either. He had thought he would be put into the care of an old woman, gray and wizened, not someone who looked to be only ten or twelve years older than himself. He had confessed his darkest secrets and traveled halfway across the world on the power of this woman's words, on the hope he'd found in her letters. He wouldn't have minded if she'd been -- a little grayer. A little older. Somebody who knew more.

But then, who knew more about this?

"You must be tired," she said. Her voice was amused, if warm, when she added, "Hot, too."

"You're better dressed for this weather than I am," Charles said. He'd worn his best suit, gray flannel. Dr. Avidan, who wore a simple cotton dress and bare legs -- his mother would be horrified -- looked much more comfortable. He shifted his satchel awkwardly under one arm, tried to brush his damp black hair away from his sweaty brow. "But -- yes, I wouldn't mind freshening up."

Freshening up? That sounded like something his mother would say, and Charles flushed; fortunately, Dr. Avidan was likely to assume that was only from the heat. Charles wanted very much to seem like a grown man, a traveler, somebody worthy of joining a great experiment, rather than what he was -- a schoolboy who'd finished his A-levels just a few days before boarding the ship to Israel. He couldn't help reading her, of course, but he could sense only a light amusement and a strong concentration on the road; one of the reasons he'd come to Israel was to learn how to read more of a person's mind -- or less -- at will, instead of the random, powerful flashes that now ruled him.

Dr. Avidan just smiled as she kept maneuvering through the traffic, which seemed to operate on some wholly different scheme of speed and right-of-way. "Best take off your jacket. We have a long drive ahead, and it's only begun once we get out of town."

Town, she called it. Tel Aviv was as large a city as Charles had been exposed to since childhood, with the exception of the ghastly day he'd had to board the ship in Liverpool. Slowly, surely, Charles began to have the sensation that every choice he'd made -- not just since hearing from Dr. Avidan, but, quite possibly, in his entire life -- must have been in error, because they'd all conspired to bring him here.

But -- if he were ever to find answers, to find out what made him different, this was the place to start looking. Others, he thought. There are others like me.

Dr. Avidan kept making polite chit-chat as she steered him through the crowded streets of Tel Aviv in her battered jeep. Charles paid less attention to her words than he ought to have done; instead, he kept taking in this new city, trying to take the full measure of its difference. The brilliant sunlight, the whitewashed buildings, all of that was interesting in a travelogue sort of way. Yet there were other differences too, differences that flowed beneath the surface. Forcing himself into some calm, Charles tried to focus outward. They were moving too quickly, and people were too matter-of-fact, so Charles couldn't get a sense of any given individual. But of the group of them, all together: a fierceness, a pride, a pain that flowed deep. That much anyone might have guessed, Charles figured -- but he felt it. He knew he could tell Dr. Avidan that -- it would be new, just telling someone out loud what he was sensing -- but she knew that much about him already.

All in all, he was glad when they left Tel Aviv and made their way to Beir Sheva, and from there into the brilliant light and blessed quiet of the desert.

Finally, after a few hours that left Charles damp with sweat and his forehead prickling with incipient sunburn, they arrived at a white building, quite isolated and modern in the middle of sand dunes and stones. A few palm trees clung to life near the building, so some water had to be nearby; still, the tallest of them reached only about as high as the roof of the two-story structure. A placard on the front and lettering on the two other jeeps parked there read: BEN CANAAN PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL.

"Don't mind that," Dr. Avidan said, obviously watching his face as he read it. "That's just our cover."

Did they have to use that for cover? They couldn't have come up with another story? But as they came closer, Charles was distracted from his chagrin as he felt a spark inside the house: a flash of emotion, and behind that the silhouette of a consciousness. Charles tried to put words to what it was that mind felt --

Curiosity. Jealousy. Hope.

Two soldiers at the door (soldiers?) nodded as Dr. Avidan ushered him inside, taking him through cool corridors with mint-green linoleum on the floors. "These are the research labs where we'll all be working -- not that anybody's working at this time of the evening. If I know them, they'll be right in here." She pushed open a door that Charles saw led to a large dining hall, and called, "Come meet our latest arrival!"

"At last," said a deep voice. Charles turned to see a tall man, with gray-white hair that defied his unlined face, striding toward him. Behind his handsome face, Charles could sense a strong mind, a stronger will, a sense of deep focus. "Adael Ben-David. I wrote to your mother."

"She mentioned you," Charles said with a polite smile. "I think you must be very persuasive."

"Time for you to find that out for yourself. Ah -- here we go -- Charles Xavier, this is Hazim al-Bariq --" A Middle Eastern man, perhaps 40 years old, bowed his head cordially. "-- and Albinka Landau." A painfully thin girl was standing in the far doorway, as if unwilling to come any closer. Charles smiled politely. She smiled back, just for a moment, before her stare went blank again; he felt a kind of darkness closing back over her and knew the coolness of its shadow.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Xavier," Hazim said. "Perhaps now that you are here, we will make some progress."

Tension in the room -- nothing too thick, but enough for Charles to notice. He forced himself past it. "I hope that we shall, Mr. al-Bariq."

A chubby woman, all brown curls and bright eyes, came running from what must have been the kitchen, pushing her way past Albinka. "What? You brought him here before I had supper ready?" she said in a thick Italian accent, shaking a finger at Dr. Avidan. Then she flung her ample arms wide and wrapped Charles in an embrace. "You don't call me Miss Giordano. You call me Marcellina."

"Marcellina," Charles repeated faintly. He would have agreed to call her Queen Mary or Minnie Mouse, anything to escape the hug. But then he saw Albinka smiling again -- just a little -- and some of the darkness he'd sensed in the room lessened. When Marcellina gave him one last squeeze, he exaggerated his distress -- and heard a very tiny giggle from the doorway. Albinka covered her mouth with her hand, as though she was afraid she'd been heard, but Charles could still sense the flickering of happiness inside her.

Ben-David said, "And Erik Lensherr."

Charles looked behind him to see a boy -- no, a man, but not much older than himself. He was thinner than he ought to have been, and he had a shock of dark hair that stood out like Beethoven's. At once, Charles understood that this was the person he'd sensed before -- the one who was curious and jealous and hopeful, all about him.

He held out his hand as Erik came down the stairs. "Pleased to meet you."

Erik hesitated for a moment, then returned the handshake. "We're neighbors, you know. They've got us on the ground floor over in the north wing. The smallest and most cramped rooms in the whole place, aren't they, Hazim?"

"Again with the grumbling," Hazim said, shaking his head. "Always, this one is grumbling."

"Better us there than the ladies," Charles said.

"Wonderful," Erik said. "They've sent me a gentleman." He was smiling, but Charles had the distinct sense, both in words and emotions, that a test was being given -- and Charles wasn't passing it.

Of course, if he concentrated enough, he could MAKE Erik like him. However, Charles had long since learned, doing that rarely worked exactly the way he wanted it to.

"We must let Charles wash up," Dr. Avidan said. "From the smell of things, it won't be much longer until dinner."

"I suppose I've got to help you with your trunk," Erik said. Charles wished he hadn't put the port stickers on it -- they looked so sharp when you had ten or twenty or fifty, but three just looked stupid --

"One moment," Ben-David said. He held his hands out in a way that made it clear he meant to make a bit of a speech. Feeling more tired and shabby than ever, Charles tried to muster up some interest. "We finally have you all together. After years of research, we've found you. Erik and Albinka came to us first, but we knew they couldn't be the only ones born different."

Born different, Charles thought. That's one way to put it. On the stairs, he heard Erik shift, a physical sign of the impatience that thumped inside him like a drumbeat.

"All of you have been made to feel like strangers your whole lives. Like freaks, perhaps. But the state of Israel believes you have gifts that can work for the good of our country. Perhaps we can learn to recreate your talents, give them to soldiers and scientists who might use them. And in turn, perhaps now that science has unraveled DNA, we will be able to undo your mutations if you wish. We may be able to make you normal once again."

Charles frowned. All around him, he felt a sense of hope and longing -- except from Erik. When he turned to glance over his shoulder, he saw Erik giving him a hard stare. Then he smiled, a short, bitter smile that Charles knew was more genuine than anything he'd said before.

The rest of Ben-David's speech was ordinary enough -- gratitude of the state, free to come or go, good of mankind, et cetera. Charles said nothing else until he and Erik were heading down the corridor to their rooms. Then he murmured, "You didn't like that either."

"Being made normal?" Erik said, scorn in his voice. For the first time, Charles realized Erik wasn't British; his accent was almost perfect, but there was a hint of something else, somewhere else. "Ben-David's a fool. He thinks everyone wants to be just like him."

"I've thought about it, sometimes," Charles confessed as they went through the door. "But I don't want the -- this -- it gone. I just want to know how to control it."

"How to use it," Erik prompted, tossing Charles' trunk on the table with astonishing ease. He was smiling now in earnest, and Charles got the sense that he didn't smile all that often.

"How to use it. Exactly." For the first time in too long, Charles felt something relax deep inside him. No need to hide anymore. No need to pretend.

"About time someone like you got here," Erik said, flopping across Charles' bed. He looked younger, then, like they really were the same age. "The others, they hate what they are. All of them. I can't make them see straight, not with Ben-David going on all the time about how he's going to fix them. As though they were broken clocks with bad springs."

"The older two count on Ben-David -- Hazim less so, I think, though I'll need more time to be sure. Albinka's more confused and uneasy, at least as far as I can tell," Charles said. When Erik stared at him, Charles explained, blushing a little at saying it out loud. "I can tell what people are feeling. Sometimes what they're thinking -- that comes and goes." He hesitated before saying the next; it was more frightening to his mother than anything else, and sometimes to Charles himself. But if anyone would understand -- "I can make them think what I want. Do what I want. Not all the time, but often enough. More often, as I get older."

There. It was out. And Erik wasn't backing across the room or running away. Instead he felt -- no denying it -- impressed. Charles suppressed the urge to smile.

Erik said only, "That's the best power you could possibly have."

Power. Charles hadn't even thought of it that way before, as a power. He filled with an unexpected pride, and suddenly the words were gushing out of him. "I felt it the first time during an air raid. We were in the basement, Mother and Father and the neighbors, and suddenly it wasn't just me being afraid. It was all the fear, everyone's, all put together. I made everyone calm down." He had been all of four years old at the time, and he'd done it by snuggling into his blankie, but there was no way in hell he was going to tell Erik that. "At first that's how it was; it only happened when I was really keyed up, me or everyone around me."

"Yes," Erik said. He was more remote now; Charles felt a current of deep melancholy go through Erik, formless and swift, before being pushed aside.

Uncertain, Charles said, "Was it like that for you? The first time you used -- your power?"

"Yes," Erik said. "It was something like that."

Paris, France, 2006

A new show about the Fauves had opened at the Centre Pompidou; Magneto thought it rather a pity that he would be unable to attend. He enjoyed art of many eras and schools, and had bored Mystique by dragging her through the Prado and the Uffizi after they'd secured those areas. She'd turned into a Brancusi statue for him once, which was splendid; pity she took so little interest in expanding upon the game.

He'd take her through the Louvre someday soon, he resolved. Perhaps the antiquities would prove a bit more inspiring for her.

"Any word from Mystique?" he asked Avalanche.

"The hostages are secure. All the cops and news crews are outside." Avalanche nodded as he looked down at his handheld unit. "Should be all over CNN by now."

"Excellent. Screener should be arriving here shortly, but I will take charge of him." Avalanche cast him a look, but he did not ask for explanations. Most of the Brotherhood understood that they would not be forthcoming, not before Magneto was ready. "After you finish up, you should go to the Centre and prepare for our guests' arrival."

Nodding, Avalanche returned to his work. Shock waves began rattling the city again, and Magneto suppressed a smile as he heard screams, glass breaking, the whine of car alarms. The Pompidou Centre trembled before them, its multicolored tubes quivering in the seismic rumble. Avalanche was a one-man earthquake, and his presence had been sufficient to strike fear in the heart of Paris. Of course, the damage he did was immense and indiscriminate; whatever Avalanche went after was frequently of little use afterward. That was why Magneto never used him for genuine first strikes. He meant to own the world, not a pile of ashes.

But to create an instant terror, sufficient to drag Xavier's X-Men across the ocean if the hostage crisis alone wouldn't do the trick? Avalanche was the man.

Havana, Cuba

"Do we really need to do this?" Rogue said.

Bobby felt every muscle in his body tense -- in his jaw, his back, his hands. The last thing any of them needed was Rogue asking questions. Anybody asking questions.

Bobby and Rogue -- along with everyone else -- were headed down the hotel's grand staircase. Cars were waiting to take them to the airfield, where their jets were being fueled up right now. Even with the Beast's and Forge's enhancements, they'd still be four hours getting to Paris. Most of the others were hoping they'd be in time to stop the Brotherhood's latest attack. As Bobby and a handful more knew, they were right on schedule.

"Seems like we might as well let him have the French," Bobby said. "If anybody deserves to sit through a Jerry Lewis film marathon, it's Magneto." The teasing sounded so natural. Like he really meant it.

Rogue believed it; she gave him the half-amused, half-irritated look that accompanied most of his jokes these days. "This isn't Magneto's usual style, though. Taking hostages at an art museum? I mean -- why?"

"Why does Magneto do anything he does? To scare the shit out of human beings, which I have to admit the guy's pretty good at. The point is, people are in trouble, and it looks like it's up to us to help."

"We can't show up every time Magneto moves anymore," she said quietly. "We have to save ourselves for when it counts."

It counts now, Bobby wished he could say. Magneto's followers are mostly with him out of fear, not loyalty. If they had other voices to listen to -- other choices, other options -- they might not stand by his side. Magneto can't be destroyed from the outside; that's why we're going to take him down from within. This counts more than anything else we've done since we lost the school.

But he knew that if he told Rogue that, she wouldn't keep it to herself. She'd tell Cyclops or Storm, neither of whom would accept the risk. Bobby had already made up his mind that the risk was acceptable -- and others had, too. Too bad Rogue never would.

Cannonball, who was running downstairs just ahead of them, turned his head. "This might just be the beginning of an attack on Paris. If they get Paris, they'll get France. Once they've got that coast --"

"I know, I know," Rogue said. A lock of white hair fell across her face, as it so often did. Bobby felt the familiar pang of wanting to brush it back from her forehead and knowing that he couldn't. Although he'd known it was coming for months, the fact that he wouldn't see Rogue again -- not for months or years, and maybe not ever -- hit Bobby hard. For a moment, he saw her face in a way he hadn't lately: her full lips, her dark, heavy-lidded eyes. It had been so long since he'd let himself remember just how beautiful she was. "It's just -- we're going to lose people. Again."

"I can't believe you," Shadowcat said, tossing her hair as she came up beside Cannonball. "Rogue, excuse me for saying it, but it sounds like you've lost your nerve."

That was too much, even as cover. Rogue's chin snapped up, and her pace grew quicker as she started catching up to Shadowcat. "Kitty, you had better take that back right --"

"That's enough," Cyclops interjected. Bobby started; he hadn't even realized that Cyclops was coming up behind them. "Rogue's right about our resources. Magneto's changed his pattern. But that's all the more reason for us to figure out exactly why." He paused, then said loudly, his voice carrying through the crowded lobby, "Anybody who doesn't intend to go with us should let me know now, so I can figure what strength we've got going in."

Nobody wanted out. It was the first time in a long time that nobody had.

They went out into the sunshine, into the still-punishing heat. Rogue's form seemed to get swallowed up in the light, so bright it hurt Bobby's eyes.

Paris, France

The Centre Pompidou was not the usual museum -- instead of marble and arches, it was made of brilliant, multicolored metal tubes that framed odd spaces. Still had the boring paintings on the wall, though, so Pyro wasn't sorry he'd given it a miss. Instead, he landed jet duty, which was better, even if it wasn't as much fun when they weren't in combat. He set the Condor into standard holding pattern, circling above the city in a tight radius that made him feel just a little bit off balance. He didn't mind that. It was worth it to put all the humans in mind of vultures.

"I hate this holding pattern," Screener said. "It makes me airsick."

"Head on outside and hover, then," Pyro said. "You don't have to deal with it if you don't want to."

"Can't stay anyway," Screener said. He lifted his chin with a very unusual pride; the resemblance to Bobby was stronger, then.

Pyro frowned. "You can't? What, you just get to take off in the middle of an operation now?"

Screener shook his head. "I'm not taking off. Magneto has a special mission for me, he says."

Since when was Screener one of Magneto's chosen few? Pyro had always felt like he was one of those -- or at least as close to it as anyone besides Mystique ever got. Screener was just supposed to be the batteries. Come to think of it, Screener didn't look exactly thrilled about his promotion, but he was happier to be picked than to be left behind. Pyro didn't blame him.

"Special mission." Pyro refigured the autopilot so the plane would dip lower, so the quick opening and shutting of the door wouldn't create turbulence. "Yeah, good luck with that."

"Maybe I'll need it." Screener hesitated at the door. "You can go no lower?"

"Not without scraping off the top of the Eiffel Tower. Not that I'd mind." He took a couple minutes to enjoy the sight of the panicked crowds in the streets, the writhing of the multicolored throng. "They always lose it, when we show up. It's always the same. Always gonna be the same."

Screener earnestly said, "Nothing stays the same. Not really. You can't think like that, Pyro. If you think like that, you're letting the past do the thinking for you. Me, I think it is smarter to --"

"Stop stalling, okay?" Pyro didn't join the Brotherhood to just get more lectures, much less from kids. "Do you need me to land this thing for you?"

The taunt got Screener going, as Pyro had known it would. He said, "No. I can be my own transportation." Quickly he opened the door; before the air could rush about too wildly inside the plane, Screener flew out and shut it again. His figure streaked down through the twilight sky, getting lost in the slate roofs of the Left Bank.

Pyro felt a strange, coiled pressure inside him. Whatever was going on -- it wasn't business as usual. In other words, it wasn't what they'd been told.

He didn't like secrets, unless they were his own.

"I still don't see why they've chosen this place," Cyclops said. They all stood together on a smaller airstrip just outside the city; it was abandoned, Bobby realized, because nobody was taking short flights into Europe anymore. "The Brotherhood could get hostages anywhere, and there are dozens of more secure locations."

"Perhaps Magneto wishes something new for his wall," Nightcrawler said, flicking his tail in irritation. "And why Avalanche? This is all most strange."

"I don't like the sound of this," Storm said. "Something is not right here."

Bobby's heart seemed to freeze inside his chest. He forced himself not to look over at Shadowcat or Cannonball. Not now, he thought. We're so close.

In truth, he wasn't afraid so much of Storm or Cyclops figuring it out. He was afraid that any moment, he'd open his big mouth and say out loud what he'd tried so hard not to think the last six months. I've lied to you, I lied, I had my reasons but I lied. The little voice in his head kept saying, It's not too late. You can still turn back. This doesn't have to happen.

And then he thought about all the people that had died, all the people that would die if things kept going just the way they were, and he kept his mouth shut.

Cyclops looked doubtful -- at least, Bobby thought he did, it was always hard to tell with the visor -- but said, "Everyone look sharp. He's trying something new, and there's only one way we're going to find out what it is. Everyone who can move fast, take someone who can't. Rogue, stay with the jets."

She nodded. Bobby took one last look at her. He'd never stopped to realize how hard it would be, knowing that it was the last time. She wasn't even looking back, just scoping out her guard duty; somehow that made it worse.

Nightcrawler put his arms around Cyclops and BAMF! was atop a tall spire with him, then BAMF! again into the night. Bobby grabbed Shadowcat's arm and began creating a pathway of ice. As they slid upon it, gathering speed, Shadowcat whispered, "Should we -- Bobby, should we --"

"Too late," he said.

Caliburn Falls, British Columbia, Canada

"You might want to pick up another case," the old guy said. "Gonna have our first real storm of the season, next few days, it looks like. Might not be gettin' across those roads for a while."

"This is fine," Logan said. He forced himself to smile a little as he said it. Couldn't afford to be memorable for any reason, unfriendliness included. He stowed the beer in the back of the truck, hoped it wouldn't freeze on the way home. "This is just fine."

The old man's breath curled in the cold air like cigarette smoke. "Might as well have yourself a burger before you head back. On the house."

Damn. He'd overdone the friendly bit. Nothing for it now but to smile and follow the guy inside the bar. Logan told himself it could've been worse; at least he was getting a burger out of it.

Nobody paid him much mind as he sat at the bar; this place was the saloon/eatery/market for about 600 people, so when they came there they usually had business on their minds. Or they'd showed up to look at the only satellite television linkup in a wide radius; to judge by the football game that was on, that was probably the reason for the crowd. Logan ate the burger as fast as he could without drawing attention -- to tell the truth, it was a nice change from venison --

Just as he was taking his last bite, the TV screen changed from the Detroit Lions huddle to a screen that said SPECIAL REPORT.

"Shit," the old guy said. "War news. Hope to hell they ain't back in Canada."

Logan didn't have to ask who "they" were. He wanted to turn around and walk out of there, but then the screen changed from an anchorman to --

Scott. Jean's Scott. On top of some building in -- guess it was Paris, there was the Eiffel Tower in the background. Others were with him; even though the camera was at a distance, shaky from ground tremors, Logan knew them in an instant. He knew Scott from the brilliant red flash, Ororo from the lightning. From the other side, the earthquake probably meant Avalanche was there.

He caught himself looking for Rogue, tried to stop himself, then gave up and looked for her anyway. If she was with them, he couldn't see it. He didn't know whether that made him relieved or more afraid.

According to the anchorman, they were on top of an art museum. What the hell did Magneto want with an art museum?

Then the camera zoomed in a little closer, and when the image unblurred, Logan realized why the building looked so weird. Tubes. Metal tubes, in brilliant colors, all over the damn building. Magneto could weave that building into a net and trap them all, in an instant.

HOSTAGES INSIDE, said the graphic at the lower left of the screen.

You can't do a damn thing for 'em if Magneto traps you, Logan thought, staring at the blurred shapes of his former friends. Scott, get everybody out of there. Get outta there now.

Bobby's heart pounded in his chest so hard he thought the shell of ice around him would shatter. Why didn't they get it? Why didn't they see?

Be glad they don't, he told himself, and prepared for the last thing he'd ever do as an X-Man.

Meanwhile, he saw Storm, fighting Spiral as best she could, dodging each of the six knife-wielding hands and pulling down lightning from the sky so thick that the air crackled around them. Cyclops wasn't even working on getting the hostages out; he was just slicing up those tubes, one by one, trying to disarm the place. The guy honestly thought Magneto was going to show up and try to use it against them, and was wasting all his time and energy to prevent it.

Bobby tried to be glad for the distraction.

Rogue tried very, very hard not to lose her patience.

Guard the jets. Important job. Real important. Really amazingly boring, yet important. In the distance, she could see the searchlights sweeping across the Centre Pompidou, and every once in a while lightning would flash down. But that was all Rogue knew of the battle, and all she would know until the surviving -- until the X-Men returned to the jets.

She ended up with this role a lot, lately. Her power, while ideally suited to smaller-scale battles, was nearly useless in a confrontation like this one, where the warfare didn't involve much hand-to-hand combat. Also, her absorption power sometimes overwhelmed her for a few moments after touching; the last thing Cyclops needed was for her to have not only Mystique's ability, but also her motivations, in the heart of a critical fight.

So -- guard the jets. She'd probably be able to handle any one or two intruders easily enough. Rogue tried to tell herself how important it was, how critical. What little good they were able to do at containing Magneto these days depended in large part in their being able to move fast. The fastest of them couldn't cross the ocean in less than a couple of days. Very important job, guarding the jets.

But it was hard to feel important as Bobby came jogging up to her, clearly battered, frost clinging to his crumpled clothes. He had someone with him, a teenager or maybe just a boy -- one of the hostages? He looked more like Bobby's younger brother than his real brother did. Rogue forced herself to smile. "You okay? How's it going?"

"They're up to something," Bobby said. "Something is seriously not right."

The boy walked up to her alongside Bobby, and Rogue could see the terror in his eyes. She forced herself to smile as she went for her gloves -- with Bobby there, she had no reason to leave the skin exposed as a weapon. "It's okay," she said to the boy. "You're safe now."

"I'm sorry," the boy said; then he kicked her savagely in the gut.

Rogue gasped -- the kid was stronger than he looked. She dodged another blow that would have landed in the middle of her chest easily enough. "What are you doing?" she said, realizing as she did so that she was scolding him the way she would one of the younger X-Men. "Did you get away just to pick a fight? Bobby, ice him."

Bobby didn't ice him. Bobby just folded his arms and stared. His eyes looked just the same as they always did, but Rogue still recognized Mystique.

"Is this right?" the boy said. He was talking to Mystique, as if uncertain. "What is she going to do?"

"The same thing I'm going to do to your bitch friend in a second," Rogue said, letting the gloves drop. This stupid kid was in for a hell of a sting. She repeated his words back to him: "I'm sorry." Then she grabbed his hands.

Nothing was real, and everything was. Rogue recognized the ghastly tidal pull of her own power, but it was met, matched, superseded by something else, something that rushed toward her and into her like a tsunami. There was no now, no then, no him, no her. Just the pain they each felt, their skin twisting and charring with each other's touch --

Geir's mother, turning from the stove and throwing the scalding soup straight into his face --

Piano lessons, recital coming up, her pink-polished fingers picking out the theme to "Gone With The Wind" --

Bobby saying, It's working, as his face changed from pale to blue, his body from male to female --

Screaming from downstairs, Geir's baby sister, and the sick wet thump of flesh against the wall --

Telling Professor X what she could do, and seeing him smile, the first time anybody ever heard that she was a mutant and then smiled --

Falling from his treehouse and realizing, as simply as anything, that he didn't have to fall if he didn't want to, that he could just stop right there in midair if he chose, and he chose --

The outlines of the jets, changing shape, crumpling up like tin cans, one right after the other --

Logan pressing his dog tags into her hand, the edges of them sharp even through her black glove --

Magneto, smiling at him in proprietary pride, saying, "The name Screener will suit you quite well" --

Magneto, chaining her to the statue, apologizing for what he was about to do as though he were truly sorry --

Magneto, standing above them with Mystique by his side, as they shook and struggled and choked for air --

His death. A heart stopping. A mind shutting. Rogue had never felt that before, and she couldn't stop feeling it. She'd never stop feeling it, not ever, not ever --

She still couldn't focus her eyes; she couldn't stand. Sometime in the past few minutes, she'd fallen; her head and back throbbed with pain, and her muscles jerked wildly, as though repeatedly shocked. Convulsing on the concrete, Rogue struggled to look up at Magneto. Her fear of him mingled with Geir's terror, and she felt her body go cold with shock.

"I thought your powers and Screener's would make an interesting match," Magneto said dryly. "When projection meets absorption -- well. The effects appear to be quite overwhelming. Especially for our unfortunate Screener."

The jets, Rogue realized. The hostages -- they were just a decoy. He just wanted the jets. Thick oil smoke hung in the air, and she knew that not one of them could remain intact.

Magneto smiled, almost regretfully. "I hope the French are understanding about your refugee status. I've had some unfortunate experiences in that department, I'm sorry to say."

"I thought he'd live through it," Mystique said, nudging Geir's body with her toe. "I thought she'd be the one to go."

"As did I," Magneto said. "That's why we test hypotheses, after all."

They strolled off into the darkness. Rogue couldn't even turn her head to watch them go.

"Bobby, try and get below!" Cyclops yelled.

The hostages were all being set free, even as they spoke. Cyclops didn't know that. Bobby figured everyone would put that together later.

He held out his hands, took a deep breath and flashed ice across the roof of the Centre Pompidou, creating thick white walls that snaked over the tubes, went high, got strong. He twisted Cyclops within one, Storm within another --

"Bobby!" Nightcrawler went BAMF! right in front of him. "What are you doing? You cannot--"

Bobby clutched his ice-coated fists together and slammed them, hard, into Nightcrawler's temple. Nightcrawler's blue skin faded to gray for a moment, and then he fell sideways.

"Bobby!" Shadowcat pulled herself up through the roof. He could see the tracks of tears on her face. "Cannonball's got it under control down there -- we have to hurry, they're coming --"

Lightning streaked down, slammed into Storm's ice cocoon. It sizzled and sent up steam, but Bobby coated it again, sealing her in thick. That might buy them five minutes, seven if they were lucky. "Let's go," he said. Somehow he'd thought it would hurt worse, when it came right down to it. Instead, it felt like a relief. He'd figure out what that said about him later.

When the ice sheets folded over Ororo and Scott, Logan knew instantly what had happened.

He didn't know why Bobby had turned traitor, only knew that he had. For one instant, Logan wondered if Rogue had gone over with him, but the idea didn't stand up for even a second. She was fooled too. She was trapped too. Somewhere, on that TV screen -- between all the infographics and the weird camera angles -- Rogue was being betrayed. Put at risk. Maybe dying, right there with the rest of them, about 90% of the people who'd ever treated him decent in his whole life. And there wasn't jack shit he could do about it.

"I can't watch this," he said, only realizing as he spoke that he was saying it out loud.

The old guy nodded. "Don't blame ya. They make me sick."

Logan stumbled outside, his hastily eaten meal churning inside his stomach. The freezing air hit him hard, and he sucked in a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

He'd left so he wouldn't have to watch any of them die. Ran halfway across the world to make sure he wouldn't have to see it. But their deaths followed him all the same. The cold, sure knowledge of his own cowardice settled inside him with the winter chill. He hadn't been afraid to fight, not ever, not even when it got obvious they were losing every time. But he'd been afraid of facing what came after those fights, and the end result was the same: He ate a burger and drank a beer while Scott and Ororo and damn it all the hell Marie got themselves torn apart on television --

Then again, he probably couldn't have done a damn thing about it if he'd been there. There was no helping any of it, and that was the worst of all.

Feeling deader than he ever had before, Logan got into the pickup and sped off. If he smashed his truck on the ice, so much the better. Cut up his face, bruise some organs, take him out for a few hours or even a day. Definitely. He deserved it.

The door to Magneto's jet closed with a heavy clanking of metal, and Bobby knew it was finally, really over. He'd done it. They'd all done it.

We're going to turn the tide of this war, Bobby remind himself. We've tricked Magneto into taking us in, and we didn't cost the X-Men anything but some jets they can replace. We're going to take Magneto down, our way. That's worth a couple of chances, a couple of lies. We did what we had to do. We did the right thing.

He'd have to repeat that to Shadowcat and Cannonball and the others; every last one of them looked stricken, shaken, as they stood there, waiting for Magneto. But the first person to emerge from the front of the plane had a different face. A familiar face. "John?" he said.

John's jaw dropped, then he started to grin. "No way," he said. "No fuckin' way. Bobby Drake caught a clue?"

"Skip it, John" Bobby said shortly.

"It's Pyro, and let it go, okay? High time you showed up." John -- Pyro -- was laughing as he came up to them. "You're never gonna regret it. Trust me on this."

"I trust you," Bobby said, and he meant it. "But Magneto --"

"Don't worry," Magneto said dryly as he emerged. "I won't take offense at your doubts. Only natural."

"Nobody died," Shadowcat cut in. "Right? That's what we agreed."

"Nobody died," Magneto agreed. "Well, none of your friends. I'm afraid Screener has left our company for good." None of the Brotherhood seemed to react much to that -- save Pyro, who smiled ruefully.

"And Rogue's okay," Bobby said. He'd hated her crucial role in all of this from the beginning, but there was no way to steer her from it, not without tipping off suspicions.

Magneto raised his eyebrows. "As it happens, Rogue is absolutely fine. Well, no doubt she's got a few new memories to contend with, but those always fade, don't they?"

For a moment Bobby imagined himself, no more to Rogue than a memory, fading along with all the ones she'd ever borrowed.

But Pyro was grinning at him again, and the others were relaxing, and Magneto seemed to believe their story completely. Bobby was more sure than ever -- he'd done the right thing.

"Rogue? Rogue, sit up."

She opened her eyes and saw Storm. Terror lanced through her -- don't hurt me, no, don't hurt me -- and it didn't even matter that the fear wasn't her own. Rogue rolled onto her side, shielding her eyes and face from Storm, wincing at the pain in her back and sides against the hard pavement. "Don't. Go away."

"Magneto got the jets." That was Cyclops' voice -- oh, God, he was more frightening than Storm. He had power over her, and he could hurt her if he wanted, he could, and nobody would stop him, nobody would care --

No, she reminded herself. That's not me. That's him -- Geir. But Geir pulsed horribly within her, every moment of his short life outlined in sharp, shining edges of pain. She forced herself to say, "I'm sorry -- he sent this guy -- this guy who could --"

"It is not your fault." Nightcrawler's voice was thick. He didn't terrify her the way Storm and Cyclops did, and Rogue could open her eyes to look at him. One of his eyes was swollen and an even darker shade of blue than his skin. "Magneto set his trap well. None of us saw it."

"How are we supposed to get out of here?" Colossus asked. "The police are going to be here soon, and the army after them, and nobody is going to decide we're the 'good' mutants."

"Shit," Polaris said. "Bobby got us good."

Bobby. The jets. The setup. His months of silence, the increasing distance between them. A handful of things he'd said and done, the way Magneto and Mystique had just walked straight up to her -- all of it snapped together, locking her in the framework of her own trap.

"Bobby," she choked out. "Oh, God. Oh, no."

"Rogue, hold on," Storm said, her voice sending chills of terror up Rogue's back. "You're not yourself. Nightcrawler can get you out of here -- the rest of us, if you can fly, grab some others and let's get out of Paris, take it from there --"

"No." Rogue stumbled to her feet. Dizziness swept over her, and for a moment she could taste blood on the back of her tongue. But she pulled away from Storm's steadying hand. "I'm not going."

"We cannot stay here," Nightcrawler said. "They will be here soon, Rogue."

"It's all for nothing," Rogue said. "All of it. Everything."

Nightcrawler stepped closer. "That, you must never believe."

"I do. I do believe it. I'm not going back. I can't. You can get home without me."

Cyclops -- oh, God, did he have to stand that close? -- said quietly, "What do you want us to tell the Professor?"

Professor X had power over them all. Only her exhaustion and nausea kept Rogue from screaming at the thought of him.

"Tell him I'm gone," she said. And then she drew Geir up within him, used the one power that ever gave him joy, and flew away.

She'd never see Professor X again. Never see Bobby again. At that moment, she never wanted to see anyone, ever. The world was nothing but her, and the cool night sky, and stars that were too far away to touch. They didn't have to be afraid.