Ben Canaan Compound, Israel, 1954

"Show us what you can do, Albinka," Ben-David said.

Don't show them, Albinka, Erik thought. You're not a creature in his petting zoo. They were all taking their seats in one of the research rooms, the one that looked like a lecture hall. Erik couldn't help noticing that this building would hold far more people than inhabited it; Ben-David meant to show them off someday, much as he was urging Albinka to show off now.

In truth, Erik had little fear that Albinka would display her gift. She was frightened of it, which he didn't understand, and she had to truly feel the need, which he did understand. When they had first known each other, 11 years before, she'd felt the need far more often.

"She's shy," Marcellina said, smiling maternally at Albinka, who looked younger than her 16 years.

"That's not it," Charles said. Erik watched Charles' face -- so perfectly still, so controlled, save for the eyes. In Charles' eyes, Erik could see him absorbing some of what Albinka felt. He hoped beyond hope that Charles did not absorb too much of what Albinka knew.

When Charles looked at him a moment later, the expression made Erik turn his head away. He had no word for what he saw there except pity, and pity was beyond his endurance.

"You leave that girl alone," Marcellina said, shooing Ben-David away. "If we are showing Charles what we can do, I will go first." Ben-David didn't look as though he appreciated the interruption -- the blowhard never did -- but he did step away. In her way, Erik thought, Marcellina is a formidable woman.

She held out her hands; the sunlight sparkled on her many rings. The water in their drinking glasses began to move, then stir, then form funnels that rose slowly from the glasses.

"That's extraordinary," Charles said. Erik was surprised and heartened to see that Charles' reaction was pure enthusiasm. "What else can you do?"

"Only this," Marcellina said, her forehead wrinkled with concentration. "Some amazing talent, ah? The astonishing woman who can stir water without a spoon. Maybe I join the circus someday."

"You could do more with it," Erik said. He had no proof that this was so, save his own experience; still, it was worth suggesting. If only these people would TRY to develop their powers -- "If you learned better how to use your control over water -- if you possessed some discipline, some finesse --"

"Then what? I could stir more water?" Marcellina laughed a little. "Then again, it would be nice, to put this water back in the glasses."

"You can't?" Dr. Avidan frowned.

Marcellina sighed. "I can try. But, more likely, this carpet is going to be wet."

"Let me help," Hazim offered. Erik was surprised; Hazim was secretive by nature, and reluctant to display his ability. No doubt he distrusted the Israelis. Erik had never been absolutely certain of Hazim's motivations.

Perhaps Charles would help with that --

Stop pinning so many of your hopes on Charles, Erik reminded himself. He may be as bad as the others. He may be worse. You don't even know him.

But Erik had waited too long for someone, anyone, who might accept what they were. He had learned painfully how cruel false hope could be, and yet Erik could not completely drive hope out. Maybe Charles would be the latest in so many who had let him down. But maybe, just maybe, Charles would be the one.

Hazim moved the glasses -- without touching them -- so that they were more directly beneath the funnels of water. Marcellina let the funnels drop; water splashed on the tabletop and in his face, but only a few spatters.

Charles was grinning at Erik. "Show me what you can do with metal."

"I did show you last night," Erik said, trying not to feel pleased that Charles had asked him. "Do you honestly think I could have gotten that trunk down the hall so easily with just my hands? Hannibal had less baggage to cross the Alps."

The sneer did no good; Charles could tell his heart wasn't in it and just kept smiling at him. Erik wondered if Charles had ever been afraid of anything, whether he'd ever distrusted anyone. With a sigh, Erik held out his hand. A small demonstration, then -- something that wouldn't tip off Ben-David or Avidan to what he could really do --

Slowly he slipped the rings off Marcellina's fingers, pulling them toward him, twirling gold hoops. Marcellina laughed delightedly. "You want to borrow my jewelry, Erik? You will look funny in my earrings." He resisted the urge to tug them from her earlobes.

Truth be told, Marcellina's loudness wasn't annoying him as much as usual. Nor was Hazim's silence, nor the doctors' officiousness. Even Albinka could not move him to guilt. Erik realized that they were all enjoying showing off for Charles -- and perhaps Erik enjoyed it most of all. Charles had something about him that inspired liking and, even better, trust. As soon as Erik could figure out exactly what that quality was, he intended to develop it himself.

"My turn," Charles said, and the smile on his face made it clear he'd caught the room's good temper. Erik tried to imagine what Charles would do to display his mental talent. Would he reveal someone's darkest secret? Call up memories everyone wanted forgotten? Expose --

As one, they stood at attention and sang:

"Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never never never Shall live as slaves!'

In perfect four-part harmony, no less.

Erik gasped as his control returned to him; the others gaped for a moment, then burst into laughter. "Marvelous!" Marcellina cried. "Simply marvelous!"

Of course, Erik thought. He'd choose something harmless, something funny. It's the only way he could have kept from terrifying them all. He also noticed that Charles had left one person out of the singing; Albinka had remained silent. Erik knew, without having to ask, that Charles had allowed her to keep her prized silence.

No use fighting it. Erik let himself smile too. Maybe his hopes about Charles and friendship and the possibilities of their powers were all false. Maybe they'd betray him in the end. But he couldn't prevent himself from hoping all the same. "Well done, Charles," he said. "But what an inane song."

"It's rubbish, isn't it?" Charles said. "And 'God Save The Queen' isn't much better. The Americans have better battle songs than we do. I'll choose one of theirs next time."

"We won't spend so much time showing off, in future," Ben-David said. Erik noted with distaste how Ben-David was eager to regain control over the room. "We'll be testing you all separately, finding out what changes your bodies go through as you do all this. Assuming, of course, that Albinka will ever show us what she can do."

"You know full well what she can do," Erik snapped. He owed Albinka this much defense, at least. "It was in the reports."

"Forgive me if I don't want to rely forever on the word of Dr. Mengele," Ben-David said. That name sent a chill through Erik; ashamed of his fear, he cast his eyes over to see if Charles had noticed.

But Charles was sitting down next to Albinka, who was trembling slightly. "It's all right," Charles said, and his voice was not that of a 17-year-old boy. He sounded kindly and wise, the way Erik used to wish Ben-David sounded. "You know -- if you want to yell, that's all right." Albinka blinked up at him, her dark eyes wide. "It doesn't have to mean that you want to hurt someone. If you want to yell because -- because you're angry, or you're frightened, or whatever reason -- that would be all right. Nobody would have to get hurt."

Ben-David and Dr. Avidan were glaring at Erik, obviously under the belief that he'd told Charles all. He had told Charles nothing. That moment, more than anything else, made Erik realize what Charles could really do.

Albinka didn't react for a few minutes. Then she turned away from Charles, and Erik thought the moment was over.

And then she screamed.

Oh, God, he remembered Albinka's scream -- high pitched, silvery, so loud you could almost see the sound waves --

As the sound waves hit the wall Albinka was facing, it turned from white to gray. The plaster seemed to shimmer silver for a moment, then went dark and thick as it turned into stone. When Albinka closed her mouth again, perhaps four square feet of the wall was stone, solid and cold. The wall creaked down in its framework, straining with the new weight.

"My God," Dr. Avidan whispered, brushing her hair away from her face.

"I told you she could," Erik muttered.

Charles smiled down at Albinka. If he was unnerved by what she'd done, he gave no sign. "That's quite a shriek," he said, in the same tone of voice he might have used to compliment her hair.

"Shriek," Albinka repeated.

Belfast, Northern Ireland, 2006

The curbstones here were blue and red. Rogue kept going, walking faster, jamming her hands down into the pockets of the wrinkled old overcoat she'd fished out of a dustbin in Normandy.

In the three days since the attack on Paris -- since Geir's death -- Rogue had remained in shock. A thousand small marvels had failed to move her. She flew now, but without wonder or joy; it was a means of traveling, the only means available to her, no more. Her memories of Geir's life had remained far sharper and more durable than any she had absorbed before. Of the others she'd touched over the years (David Barksdale in Meridian, Logan at the Statue of Liberty, Bobby and John in Boston), she retained only a sense of their personalities and a few images that were without context or date, like old snapshots jumbled up in a shoebox. Geir, however, remained as real and vivid as he had when their hands touched. Sometimes she almost expected to hear him whispering in her ear.

And, most amazing of all, Rogue could touch others now without hurting them. She'd discovered this when a policeman shook her awake in Piccadilly Circus, where she'd slept on a bench, a few newspapers crumpled beneath her head. His hand had been on hers, causing him no pain and her no power, as he demanded to see her identification. Instead of screaming or cheering or crying, she'd had to run for it. Without any ID, her best hope was to end up in one of the countless refugee camps that clotted Britain's countryside, crammed in makeshift cabins with people who spoke German and French and Dutch, fighting for the increasingly rare Red Cross packages. More likely, some sharp-eyed operative would recognize her white locks of hair from an intel briefing and then she'd be buried in a detention camp, never to see the sky again.

The sky was above her now, and yet she didn't raise her head to look at it. Rogue kept her head down and prayed not to run into a security roadblock. If they asked her who she was, what would she say? She was no longer sure she had an answer to give.

For a few days now, she had been not herself, but someone else. Rogue was glad of that, so far as she could be glad of anything. Better to be anyone, even poor wretched Geir, than to have to live in her own skin, face what she now knew.

All a lie, it was all a lie, what Bobby said, what the Professor said, what I gave up my whole life to do, all of it --

Er det noen snille barn her? Geir's voice said, and instead she thought about Christmas pork and mutton, cookies shaped like diamonds.

After several more minutes of walking, she came to a street where the curbstones were painted orange, white and green. A mural nearby depicted a group of men, balaclava-clad, holding guns aloft beneath the red-lettered legend ONE NATION. More like it. Rogue held her head up and tried to focus on the moment, nothing more, nothing less. A few young men stumbled out of a pub, rowdy with drink but not insensibly intoxicated. Guessing wrong might cost her dearly, but she'd have to guess soon. Rogue had gone for three days without food, and even mutant strength would not carry her much farther. "Hey," she said. "You there."

The guys turned around, unsure whether they were being confronted or propositioned. "'Lo there, lovely," one of them said. "You looking for company?"

"You could say that," Rogue said. "I'm looking for the leader of a militia unit. I don't have to know his name. But I need to talk to him."

"What's that about?" Their faces were instantly closed-off, angry. The one who'd spoken continued, "What makes you think --"

She held her hands out and lifted off the ground by about three feet. Their jaws all dropped. One of them whispered, "Mutant."

"I need to talk to him," Rogue repeated, descending quickly to the ground. "Don't make me stand around out here."

When they turned to go, she understood that she was supposed to follow.

Half an hour later, she was sitting in a cozy little kitchen, teakettle whistling and Rich Tea biscuits on a plate in front of her. Rogue ate the cookies as slowly as she could bear to, hoping not to fill or upset her stomach before the promised meal was ready: egg, bacon, sausage, tomato and some kind of potato cake, all being fried up in the same skillet and yet somehow smelling absolutely terrific. A gray-haired woman in a mauve cardigan worried at the stove while the man whose name she couldn't know poured her tea, as thoughtfully as though she were in a restaurant.

"Mum's going to get you all set up," he said quietly. "Now, question is, are you going to get us all set up?"

"I can't stay here," Rogue said, which was the politest way of putting it. The mutants' classification as "terrorists" had made them some allies that Rogue, and others, would as soon have done without, but she doubted Professor Xavier would ever have consented to joining up with the Real IRA. "I need your help, and I'll earn it, but I'm not sticking around."

"Still work to do," he said, not disapprovingly. "Magneto got any messages for us?"

She lifted her teacup so that she could sip instead of sighing deeply in relief; her bet had paid off. Of course Magneto would be talking to them. He'd reach out to every group that felt itself disenfranchised, turned out, angry, and play to their sense of alienation. Their longing for power. For the first time, Rogue felt something approaching pity for this man; violent though he might be, he was just one more sucker getting played.

Just the way she had been.

"He says to be patient," Rogue lied. "Some things are going to be a little behind schedule for a while. What things he means, you probably know better than me. Apparently I don't need to know."

Her surly expression must have been convincing; the man nodded sagely, weaving her lie in smoothly with whatever lies Magneto would have told him. "Right, then. What do you need?"

"A change of clothes," she said. Fortunately, with the coat over her leather uniform, there was little chance he'd identify her as one of Xavier's; however, she wanted to be on the safe side. "Some money -- a few hundred Euros or dollars will do. And transportation."

"My guys said you were handling that side of it yourself," the man said, clearly referring to the flying that could conk out at any moment, any second. Rogue didn't trust it any more than she trusted anything else within herself right now.

"It's a long way," she said. "And it's hard not to be seen." He accepted that explanation and sipped his own tea.

A sense of her isolation and helplessness washed over her, and Rogue had to force herself to smile at the old lady who put the plate of food in front of her. She looked like such a sweet old lady -- silver-haired, wearing golf socks with little white pompoms at the heel, feeding and clothing terrorists in her spare time. Bobby laughing with Rogue as they competed on the Playstation just two weeks ago. Geir's mother, singing out loudly in church. You never knew.

"We've got some paperwork we'd like to get to Boston," the man said. "Pretty sure they're watching the mails on that end, if not this one too. But you ought to be able to tuck them into a notebook, get them through in a bag. Even now, they can't search everything, right? Plus a little money for a good cause."

She forced herself to smile. False passports and visas -- it could have been worse. What would she have done if he'd tried to get her to deal in weapons? Or, worse, hurt someone?

Then Rogue realized she didn't know the answer to that question anymore. Was anything Xavier had ever told her worth knowing, worth believing in? She'd been so sure that she knew the boundaries in her life: what she believed in, what she didn't, what she could do, what she couldn't. That was all shattered now, and the farther away she got from Geir's death, the more she was forced to face it. It was as if her entire past was gone, worthless, completely lost --

Her head snapped up as she considered that. Then, deliberately, she tucked into her dinner. She'd need her strength.

The man asked the question she'd only just realized the answer to: "Where are you headed?"

"Canada."

Charlottenburg Palace, Berlin, Germany

Within the Oak Gallery, Magneto looked out upon his new recruits -- so young, so frightened, and yet so powerful. In their blue jeans and sweatshirts they seemed absurdly out of place in the grand surroundings, like a pack of sightseers who'd wandered off from the walking tour. Their adolescent forms were framed by rich, curving arcs of carved oak, intricate, ancient and baroque; a few of them started awkwardly at the walls, held their arms close to their bodies as if afraid of breaking something. My protégés, he thought. How quickly you'll learn.

Then he looked more carefully into the eyes of Pyro's old friend, the one called Iceman, and there he saw a kind of steel he couldn't manipulate. Not my protégés yet, he thought. They still belong to Charles, whether they know it or not. Ah, well. I'll have opportunity enough to change that.

It's not as if they have anyplace else to go.

"You should learn some basics of how we operate here," Magneto said, his voice echoing grandly from the marble. "We have no major initiatives taking place soon, so you'll have some time to absorb our procedures. Just as well. Once we strike, there is no room for error. The first order of business --"

"Wait," said Iceman. Apparently he was their leader. Magneto smiled as patiently as he could manage. Iceman said, "We're not just here to take orders. I mean -- we'll help. We want this war to end as quickly as you do, and we want mutants to win. But there's some things we have to get straight."

The young girl Shadowcat smiled, as if relieved; a few of the others nodded. So, Magneto thought, the brats have surrendered themselves to me, destroyed most of their old weapons, and now they wish to dictate their terms. I shall have no shortage of teaching to do with this lot. "And what is it you wish to -- 'get straight,' Iceman?"

"The way humans are treated, in the countries you -- we control. That's got to improve. Right now they live like second-class citizens in their own countries, their own homes, and that's not right." Iceman's voice got louder as he warmed to his subject.

"No," Magneto agreed gravely. "It's quite unfair. As I know far better than you, my boy."

His unexpected acquiescence clearly threw Iceman off-kilter. He hesitated, then plunged ahead: "Also, how much territory is enough? It seems like, after a certain point, you can stop and just put it to the countries still fighting us. Just tell them, if you let mutants be free, then the war doesn't have to go on."

Magneto realized how often Iceman was looking away from him, how much he was directing his speech to the Brotherhood mutants who lined the room. The lad was so eager to win hearts and minds; time for a lesson, then.

"What a charming picture you paint," Magneto said. "How simple. How rational. How just. Redolent of some school project. Did Xavier actually feature, among the countless trivial activities of his ill-fated academy, a Junior U.N. Club? I see from your expressions that he did. And our Iceman must have excelled, so able is he to solve the world's problems."

Iceman flushed, his face hot with anger. "I know not everything's that simple. But it seems like you could have tried some of this, and you haven't tried at all."

In the back of the room, Mystique rolled her eyes. Magneto debated showing the boy the rather severely defined limits of his patience, but decided that an explanation would do -- for now, at least.

He stepped down from the dais and walked across the floor, relishing the sharp click of his boots against the floor. Iceman didn't flinch as Magneto swept toward him -- good lad, whatever sense he lacked, he made up for in courage -- but the others looked even smaller, even younger. "Let me be quite plain," Magneto said. "I do not bargain with humanity, because humanity does not keep its promises. Ask the Native Americans. Ask the Tibetans. Ask the pathetic Palestinians, if you doubt me. But I suspect you know this much already. You are not children. You know what human beings are, what they can do and what they have done, to people like us. The humans in my states do not wander where their whims take them. They do not blab their political ignorance in my hearing -- and with so many willing ears, I hear quite well. They do not comfort themselves with the illusion of power by voting. But they are treated far better under my lash than we were under theirs. Many human rulers could not match me for mercy, dear boy. It's more than they deserve, and it's all they're going to get. Now, or ever."

Speaking of the illusion of power -- Magneto stepped back, held his arms open in a gesture of surrender. "Those are my terms. I have always been clear about them. I will never change them. We have but two roles to play in this world: hunters or prey. I have chosen not to be prey. I took it that you had chosen this as well. If instead you have only come to convert me to Xavier's milquetoast brand of humanism, you have come in vain. Now that you understand, if you wish to go, you may go. Neither I nor any of the Brotherhood will prevent you."

They would have killed themselves en masse before facing Xavier's disappointment at that moment, Magneto knew. His gamble paid off; none of them moved, and no doubt all of them believed they'd chosen of their own free will, rather than of their own shame and desperation.

"Very well, then," Magneto said. He gestured toward Mystique, who opened the containers with the greatest weapons of his army. "First of all, you'll receive your helmets. You wear them at all times. They are the only way of shielding your minds and wills from Xavier's telepathy."

One of the students -- Sunspot, he thought was the name -- snorted, and Magneto stared. Iceman spoke again, shaking his head. "You can shield yourself from him, if you try. All of us did for six months; Xavier never knew what we were planning in Paris. We just controlled ourselves and our thoughts. Why can't we keep on like that?"

Xavier was awake, then. He'd recovered more from the blast at the school that Magneto's early information had suggested was likely, or even possible. Xavier was still with them.

Until that moment, Magneto had not realized that Xavier was actually conscious -- it seemed impossible that he could be, with the X-Men so weak and lost. Half the reason he'd accepted these young ones' offer to join him was so that he could discover just how close to death Xavier really was. But now that Magneto understood that Xavier was not dying but broken, the thought of it touched something within him that had been numb for many years.

"You foolish child," Magneto said softly. "He's injured. He's lost hope. He's not himself. Do you seriously think that you could ever stop Xavier at his full strength?" As the young ones gaped at him, he added, "If so, more fool you."

Those bastards are going to pay for all of it, he promised the Charles who could not hear, the Charles who had been. They're going to pay for what they did to all of us. For what they did to you.

Havana, Cuba

The government had provided a nurse to stay behind with Xavier. She spoke no English, though to a telepath this was a small inconvenience. In some ways, it was a blessing, not being asked to talk, to explain.

But Xavier did make a point of watching television, to see how the journey to Paris had fared. He watched it all on CNN: the ruse, the betrayal, everything. A message snaked its way through the underground to reach him a few days later, telling of Rogue's absence, the loss of the jets. Xavier had listened in utter silence, and only nodded to tell the courier that he'd heard and understood it all. Without the jets, the others had only their powers to rely upon for the return home -- and even the fastest of them had limits. Nightcrawler might have made it back in just a couple of days, Xavier thought, but he would never leave the others behind.

That was for the best. He needed time to absorb what had happened, what they would all say, what he would have to do next.

It took them three weeks to get home.

For much of the first week, he knew that Erik had been right all along, and that he was only living out a fatal delusion by refusing to admit it. Bobby Drake had seen it; so had Kitty Pryde. No doubt the others recognized it too. They remained with him, fighting the fight he had defined for them, only out of a loyalty he had too long abused.

Xavier had always wanted to believe in humanity. Magneto had never had the luxury of doing so. Xavier had always thought that Magneto's viewpoint was the natural, regrettable product of a childhood that was, at the least, a grotesque aberration. Now, he wondered -- what if it was his life that was the aberration?

Humanity's cruelty had never been a secret to Xavier. One of his first memories was of a neighbor's house reduced to smoking rubble after a bombing raid. Her foot, and only her foot, lay on the sidewalk; in his babyish mind, he'd thought she'd left it out there, the way he sometimes forgot to bring in his toys. His stepfather's worst impulses had not been directed at Xavier himself, but he'd seen his mother's split lips, his stepbrother's black eyes. Most importantly of all, as a telepath, Xavier could experience the suffering of others more deeply than they knew. When Erik had finally talked to him about Auschwitz (and it took him months, even though they worked together all day and slept next door to each other at night, to even start talking about it), Xavier hadn't just heard the words. He'd felt the hunger and the cold, breathed in the ashes, known Erik's despair in all its depth.

But then the American government had raided his school.

It had happened before, of course. Stryker's team had done their damage, left marks on the wall that lasted, scars in the children's minds. But Stryker had been one madman; even the government that so many mutants feared had not authorized what he'd done. Xavier had experience enough in accepting the rage of madmen.

The second raid was different. The army came in full-force -- not just a strike team "borrowed" from its regular duty. Before, the soldiers used tranquilizer darts; they wouldn't have known that they'd actually killed mutant children until later, after Striker's plan had killed them all. But these soldiers had been ready to kill every child they saw.

Magneto was fighting those people. Why was Xavier fighting him? What did methods matter, against such people?

For much of the second week, Xavier was immobilized, mentally and physically, by despair. He couldn't bear introspection any longer, and so his thoughts were mundane. He wondered if he would need to order Scott and Ororo to finally take over in name as well as deed; he decided that, for Scott's sake, he probably would. He wondered if it would be necessary to tell them that they should join Magneto; he decided that they'd probably make that determination for themselves, soon enough. Xavier knew he wouldn't go with them, wondered how long the Cuban government would pay for a nurse. He watched the old ceiling fan above his head, circling shakily to stir the warm air in his room, its black paint chipped with age.

Early in the third week, Nightcrawler returned, alone.

"They are coming, Professor, as quickly as they can," he said, bustling about Xavier's room, tsk-tsking as he saw undusted shelves and a half-empty water tumbler. "But it is a long way, and it is hard to carry people so far. Ach, I took Colossus as far as Morocco. My back, it will never recover."

'Kurt," Xavier said slowly, "why are you here without them?"

"To see that you are well," Nightcrawler said, in much the same voice he would have employed to tell a child asking after the color of the sky that it was blue.

"It doesn't matter how I am."

"It matters to us," Nightcrawler said. "Whether or not it matters to you, it matters to us."

Kind words, and perhaps Xavier should have accepted them with a smile and a nod. But his anger at himself ran too deep for that. He straightened up as best he could in bed and said, "It shouldn't matter to you enough to endanger the others. By now it should be obvious, Kurt -- I am a part of the X-Men's past. I have very little to do with their future."

Nightcrawler cocked his head; in a BAMF, he went from the far side of the room to Xavier's bedside. But it was in gentleness, rather than anger, that he spoke: "You think you know the way of the world to come? Then you are not so wise a man as I thought you. None may know the future, Professor. None but God, and this he does not tell, even to those who love and follow Him best."

A tremor of exasperation rippled through Xavier. Was this how Magneto felt when they tried to speak? Was Xavier himself ever so sealed in by the blank white walls of faith? "We can make certain logical deductions, Kurt. And logically, I have forfeited whatever right I have to carry the X-Men forward."

"Forfeit," Nightcrawler said. "This is an English word I do not know. What does it mean?"

Xavier was quite sure that Nightcrawler knew it meant to give up. Instead of answering, he said, "You are right that nobody can know the future. I thought I knew. I was wrong. And my mistakes led us here."

Blessedly, Nightcrawler did not argue this point. He sat in silence by Xavier's bedside for a few moments, and Xavier began to hope the interview was over. But instead, Nightcrawler said, "The future, Professor -- by this, what do you mean?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do you mean next month? Or two years from now, perhaps? Three? Ten?" Nightcrawler rose at last, collecting an empty teacup and a few tissues as he did so. "In catechism, they taught that only God is infinite. But I am wicked. I think to myself, two things are infinite. God is not the only one. The future -- this, too, is infinite." He went to the door, nodded once. "Guten abend, Professor."

By then, Nightcrawler must have known Xavier would not sleep.

Five days later, the X-Men got back in the dead of night. Xavier could feel their exhaustion, but he still asked for Ororo and Scott to report to him immediately. When they appeared -- sweaty and dirty and worn-out, Xavier was ready for them: dressed, in day clothes, rather than the pajamas and robe he'd lived in for months. But they appeared to be too tired to notice the change.

Scott said, "Professor, I'm sorry. I should have known that --"

"No, Scott," Xavier said. "You did your job. Both of you. All of you. The failure here was my own."

"Professor, no," Scott began. But Ororo's head tilted to one side, and her night-dulled eyes sparked with new interest.

Xavier continued, "Had I resumed my physical therapy when I ought to have done, I'd have been in a position to use my powers long ago. Had I used my powers, I would certainly have known what Bobby and Kitty and the others felt compelled to do."

"You're not yourself," Scott said. Still making excuses. But Xavier could feel the prickling of doubt with Ororo's mind.

"No, I'm not,' Xavier said. "Because I've chosen not to be. I decided that we were beaten -- that I was beaten -- and I've done my best to ensure that my prophecy would be self-fulfilling. One way or another, that has to stop. Here and now."

"How do you suggest we do that?" Ororo was challenging him, her chin lifted. Xavier could sense the anger she'd pushed down for so long rising to the surface. "We lost our planes, a lot of our best people. Magneto's got Europe in his back pocket. It's a little late to show up to the party, Professor. Stop staring at me like that, Scott! The Professor -- he knows how much we all --"

"Believe in me," Xavier finished. "Of late, I haven't deserved that belief. But if you'll stand with me, I will try to deserve it again."

Scott sat heavily in the chair beside Xavier's bed. "What can we do differently?" he said. "What can we possibly change?"

"The future," Xavier said. "Perhaps we can't defeat Magneto. But what Magneto doesn't understand is -- mutants cannot lose this war. No matter what humans do, no matter how angry they become, what horrors they inflict. They could kill us all, and still lose."

"Professor?" Ororo was staring at him now.

"Mutation. The next step in human evolution. When Erik -- Magneto and I were young, there were perhaps two or three hundred mutants on all of planet Earth. The number now is close to half a million. You taught mathematics, Scott; surely you understand the nature of such an exponential leap."

Scott responded slowly. "You mean -- someday -- there won't be any humans left. Every child born will have a mutation."

"We don't know that," Ororo said. "Even if it is true, that's hundreds of years away."

"Nonetheless, it will happen," Xavier replied. "If not every child, nearly every. Maybe it will be a long time before mutants are the majority. Even centuries, until that's true. But those centuries will pass, whether we will them or not. And at the end of them, what world will those mutant children inherit? One where powers are to be used at an individual's whim, where the rights and dignity of those less powerful count for nothing? Or one where mercy is a virtue, and where power has a purpose?"

Ororo's pale eyes were tear-rimmed now. Roughly, she said, "We only get to make that world if we win."

"I'm not so sure of that," Xavier said. "But I know we can't make that world if we stop trying. And that means continuing the fight against our mutant fellows who refuse to see the world in this light. Magneto's methods are undoubtedly effective, but his ends can be justified by no means. He demands an obedience too absolute, from his followers and from the unfortunate humans who have found themselves his subjects. By that same token, however, I won't demand that any of you substitute my judgment for your own."

"You want to mobilize against him," Scott said. "Full scale."

"The nations that work with us are poor, but they do have armaments, money, people. We can put all those to better use than we previously have done. I also intend to dedicate myself as completely as possible to my own recovery. In the past I have -- tempered my abilities against Magneto, but he will find me less obliging in future. If we are to be defeated," Xavier said, "we should by God go down fighting, don't you think?"

A poor prize to offer them, Xavier knew. But the flash of Ororo's eyes told him that it was enough.

Caliburn Falls, British Columbia, Canada

The owl awoke; Logan couldn't see its eyes open, but he heard it shift slightly on the branch. He remained still and silent, his face pressed against the bark. It wasn't quite dark yet, so maybe if it didn't smell him, then --

With a flutter of wide, powerful wings, the owl swooped away into the deeper woods. Logan sighed and began working his way back down to the ground. By this time, he was skilled enough at deerstalking that he could almost always touch their flanks before being detected; the challenge was gone. Birds of prey were a lot more difficult, even if he did come equipped with his own grappling hooks for tree-climbing.

He gratefully retracted his claws and felt the cold cramp of them leave his knuckles. Injured skin prickled with healing for a moment, then smoothed over completely. As he walked home, he heard the crunch and crack of ice and twigs beneath his boots. Ice made it difficult to hunt, and he'd have to hunt for real, soon, instead of just to practice his skills. The freezer was almost empty, and Logan was in no hurry to return to town.

The television set, and the images he'd seen, flickered in his mind again -- full of static. Bad reception. Jesus.

At least he hadn't had to see Jean die. He'd known she was down there -- so close; if the plane doors had been open he could have run to her in two minutes flat. Logan had had to see that terrible wall of water, had had to hear Jean tell Scott farewell in Professor X's voice. But he hadn't had to watch. No idea if that made it better or worse.

As Logan got closer to his cabin, he caught a scent in the air: human. Not far away. He thought little of this, at first; his cabin was closer to the road than he would have liked, and even in this weather, people sometimes passed by.

But the closer he got, the stronger the scent became. This wasn't somebody in a vehicle passing by. This was somebody right at the cabin. Hell, maybe at the door.

Sure enough, as he drew closer, he could just make out a faint outline. Somebody was peering in his window, trying to see shadows or movement through the thin curtains.

Logan breathed in sharply, preparing himself for battle. The deeper breath hit him in a way the others hadn't, and in a flash he knew.

"Marie?" he called, then corrected himself. "Rogue?"

She turned, the long white streaks in her hair brilliant in the twilight. As he made his way into the clearing, Rogue smiled uncertainly. Her face was as pale and unsteady as it had been when they first met, but she looked so much more than four years older.

"Logan," she said. "Hey."

He tried to figure why she would be here, then felt his stomach muscles clench. "It's the Professor," he said. "He's not --"

"No, no!" Rogue held out her hands. Strange -- she wasn't wearing gloves. "He's fine, least as far as I know."

Logan hadn't even realized the thought of the Professor dying could shake him up so bad. Roughly, he said, "How the hell did you find me?"

One of her dark eyebrows arched. "I went to the coldest, toughest, least hospitable place on earth, and I followed the trail of beer cans from there."

His mouth twisted, and he realized how long it had been since he'd smiled. "What are you doing here, Rogue? You okay?"

"Am I okay?" She looked up at the night sky, and her eyes were bright. "I can't answer that. Some ways, I'm better than I've ever been. But some ways, I'm -- it's like I'm --"

Rogue wavered on her feet, and for the first time, Logan realized that she was weak, almost faint. He grabbed her elbows to steady her. "Hey. Let's get you inside, okay? You look like you could use something to eat." Basics first.

She didn't seem to have heard him. "I knew where you would be. I knew you'd want to be where -- where it happened. Because of those times we touched. I knew."

"It's okay," he said. "I'm glad you found me." He only meant it because he wasn't sure how much further she could have gone before finding a place to stop and someone to look after her. For himself, seeing Rogue again -- it hurt more than he'd thought it would, and he'd thought it would hurt a lot.

As he started trying to steer her toward the door, she put out her hand -- for balance, he thought at first. But then her bare hand made contact with his cheek, and Logan fought not to flinch.

Okay, he thought, she needs to heal, I'll let her heal. This is gonna hurt, but if she's in trouble, then I can take it -- and this ain't hurting. At all.

Logan stared at her. Rogue smiled weakly.

"Some ways," she repeated, "I'm better than I've ever been."