Ben Caanan Compound, Israel, 1956

"Hazim?" Erik's mind -- already weary and dazed -- couldn't process this for a moment. "What's Hazim doing?"

Charles was frozen, his arms rigid around Erik's body. His eyes were focused and sharp, but he was looking inward. "He's out for revenge."

Revenge. The building shook again, and Erik felt anger bubble back up within him, hot and deadly as magma, enveloping everything else. "We have to get out there, now."

They moved as one person, running through the door, down the hallway. Erik found he knew as well as Charles did where they were going; Charles had given him the knowledge, perhaps without realizing it. The one sliver of his heart that remained his own marveled at the fact that they could be like this, two parts of one whole.

But then he thought of wretched Marcellina, waterlogged and gray on her bed. Of Ben-david's pathetic arrogance at daring to try and hold them here. Of his own weakness at failing to take action long, long ago. Love and wonder slipped away, replaced only with rage.

The guns fired again, and Erik no longer needed Charles' guidance. They were close now -- near the back, the open yard where they played football, even proud Ben-david with his clumsy footwork --

As they turned the corner into the hallway that faced the courtyard, the windows began to splinter, obscuring their view. For an instant, Erik was bewildered -- it looked like frost feathering across the glass, frost here in the heart of the Negev.

"Erik! Get down!" Charles tackled him to the floor one moment before the windows exploded. Erik ducked the flying shards, which clinked and clattered against the floor -- but only a few. He peered upward and realized that the glass had flown not inward, toward them, but outward into the yard. On purpose or not? Only Hazim would know.

The rifles fired again, but from the lack of any shouts of pain or victory, Erik knew they were still warning shots. They still had time.

"We should get out there," he said under his breath to Charles, who was still lying on the floor beside him. "Hazim's not in control." Just like Hazim, to spend years ignoring his powers as much as possible, then try to use them in a full-fledged attack. He wouldn't be able to succeed without their help.

But even as Erik pushed himself up on his knees, Charles grabbed his arm, preventing him from moving further. "Wait," he said. "It's dangerous to run out there."

"What, are you afraid?" Of course Charles was afraid; hadn't Erik just confessed how he'd failed to protect Shriek and so many others? He held out his hands, feeling anew the strength in them. "I can stop them. I know I can."

Charles shook his head, not fearfully, but in impatience and what looked like annoyance. "I can stop them too," he said, pushing himself up slowly. "And my way's less dangerous." Then Charles' eyes widened with apparent shock, and Erik whirled to see what had horrified Charles so.

Through the windowframes he saw Ben-david, grabbing and kicking and clutching at thin air as his body rose, slowly, far above the ground.

Dr. Avidan's voice rang out, "Hazim! What are you doing?" Erik could see her at the far edge of the courtyard, staring upwards in horror.

Hazim did not answer her, but the guards. "Shoot me now. Shoot me and watch him fall to his death."

"I've got to stop him," Charles said, hurrying toward the door. At that instant, Erik wondered exactly what Charles was talking about -- Ben-david was far above the ground now, helpless, and therefore had been stopped.

But then Charles stepped into the courtyard, and even as he held up his hands to prove his friendliness, one of the soldiers smashed his rifle into the side of Charles' head. Charles tumbled to his knees, clutching his temple, and Erik could see blood begin to trickle between his fingers.

The world went red. Erik's hands balled into fists. Around him, the metal frames of the shattered windows squealed as they twisted up in knots. Not this time, he thought. I'm not standing by this time.

He pushed out with his power, feeling the metal of the guns "catch," then tugging them away from the guards. In his heart, he longed to turn them on their former owners and pull the triggers, but he knew himself well enough to realize that he was too angry for that kind of precision. Instead he flung them with all his might -- out, out farther, into the desert. He heard swearing in Hebrew -- the few words in the language he'd troubled to learn, as it happened -- and one of the soldiers ran in the direction that the guns had flown, into the desert and the dark.

Hazim laughed as Erik stepped forward and knelt by Charles' side. "You see? You are a fool, Ben-David. A fool ever to try and stop us."

Ben-David retched, no doubt nauseated by his jerky tumbling some thirty feet above the ground. It took the vomit a few seconds to hit the ground, which made Erik wince. He whispered, "Charles, you're all right?"

"This is nothing," Charles said, pulling his hand away from a bloody cut that conflicted with his words. He took Erik's arm to stand and called, "Hazim! You -- you mustn't do this."

"What are you talking about?" Erik didn't give Hazim a chance to respond. "Hazim's GOT to do this."

"Ben-david should never have tried to keep us here against our wills," Charles said. "But I never would have let him do that. Neither would any of you. We're justified in walking out of here. And we have the power to do so. That's all there is to it."

"And Marcellina?" Hazim demanded. "On whose hands is her blood?"

Charles was quiet as he answered, but his voice nonetheless carried throughout the courtyard. "On all of ours. It's enough blood shed for one night."

"How can you say this?" Erik felt that sense of strangeness he so often knew with Charles -- the feeling that everything he knew could be turned upside down at a moment's notice. "Think of what Ben-David's done!"

"He's lied," Charles answered evenly. His own bloody handprint outlined his right eye, like some pagan ceremonial mark. "He's been dishonest -- mostly with himself -- about wanting to help us. But he did it because he wanted to create our mutations in others, to make them stronger. He did it to make soldiers to protect his people. To protect people, Erik, not to harm them."

To protect people. To do what he, Erik, had failed to do. For the first time, he saw Ben-David (still twisting unhappily in the air) as an example of what he should have been -- what he was going to become. Erik felt a grim kind of satisfaction; at last he could see it all laid out, costs and consequences. Marcellina's death was part of a greater goal, in Ben-David's eyes a greater good. If Ben-David did not define "his people" the way Erik did -- the spirit was the same.

And Erik had thought Charles was too soft to recognize this. He smiled at his own folly, his own misunderstanding of his friend. Charles was showing him the simple truth: Ben-david wasn't to be condemned. He had done only what Erik should have done himself.

Ben-David was irrelevant now. The guns were gone, the way was clear. Erik's gaze was on Charles the entire time he spoke to Hazim, clearly and loudly, "Put him down, Hazim. He doesn't matter. We only need to get away from this place."

"He's right," Dr. Avidan said, her voice so close that Erik started. She'd slipped carefully along the edges of the courtyard to stand nearby. Her appearance was almost as wretched as Charles', with one of her eyes swollen and definitely turning purple. He wondered what Hazim had done at the beginning of the attack. "I was getting the jeep ready anyway -- to get you out tonight. I've got some money, some supplies. All we have to do is get everyone and go." More gently, she added, "You don't want his blood on your hands, do you?"

Charles slowly drew in a breath, and Erik realized: She'd said the wrong thing.

"He kept me a prisoner," Hazim growled. Ben-David cried out wordlessly as his body began to tumble more violently in the air. "A prisoner. All for the good of the Israeli army? What blood do you think that army has on its hands?"

"Hazim, no," Charles said. Erik saw Charles' forehead furrow with concentration, the creases darker with blood, and realized that -- unless Charles was too dazed from his injury to continue -- Hazim's mind would not long remain his own.

Shouting rang out from just beyond the rim of the courtyard's light; Erik could not see the soldiers, but he heard the clicking of rifles being readied to fire. Many rifles.

He flung his hands and his power outward at the very last possible moment -- the bullets streaked toward them, then slowed. When one struck his chest, it hurt no more than stumbling against the doorjamb. Dr. Avidan cried out as another bullet skidded along her cheekbone, not shattering her face but slicing the skin.

"You want to fight me?" Hazim cried. "Then we will fight!" Erik could hear the shout of one soldier, fading into the distance with unnatural speed. The soldier nearest them followed suit, tugged across the courtyard as he scrabbled for purchase, just above the ground.

Another volley of rifle fire -- this time, Erik realized, he wasn't catching quite all the bullets. Damn it all to hell, he should have practiced this before, so many individual objects to grab at high speed -- he could almost get it, or not quite -- "Inside," he gasped, as one bullet cracked into the nearby wall at top speed. "Get inside now."

There was no more helping Hazim. All he could do now was keep Charles safe.

The three of them went on their hands and knees in the hallway, scurrying toward some measure of safety. Outside, banging, thumping and gunfire kept sounding; apparently Hazim was holding his own. Dr. Avidan whispered, "We'll get Shriek and go. It's only about two hours into Beir Sheva."

"Where we'll be arrested," Erik muttered.

She harrumphed as she held her hand to her bleeding cheek. "They won't have the chance. I've got your paperwork together, the passports, the visas. You can get passage on a ship out of Tel Aviv within a day. Everything's in the jeep but Shriek."

"I underestimated you," he said, and he meant it. Of course, their experimental machine was still in the closet, but there was nothing for it. He and Charles would just have to create another someday.

"Let's just hurry," Charles said. But when they finally reached Shriek's room, she was nowhere to be seen.

"Where has that girl gotten to?" Erik said, irritated. He could imagine her hiding in a closet, or under Charles' bed.

Charles leaned against the wall, pale and weak, and at first Erik thought his head injury was affecting him. As he grabbed Charles for support, though, Charles whispered, "Oh, no. Erik -- she's gone."

Then he realized -- Shriek's windows were open. A soft desert breeze, dry and warm, drifted through the room.

Dr. Avidan went to the window and leaned out. "I can see footprints," she said, gesturing to the sand below. "She's just wandered off out there. Why on earth would she walk out into the desert? We've told her it's dangerous."

"Because I told her to." Charles was grimacing with grief. "I told her to stay away from people for a while -- I just meant, stay in her room, but she didn't understand -- I should have realized she wouldn't understand."

They heard her scream, then the answering cry of a man in pain -- one of the soldiers Hazim had flung into the desert. He'd sent them right to Shriek --

A gun fired, and the screaming stopped. Dr. Avidan clutched the windowsill, as if to hold herself up. Erik felt's Charles' hand slide into his; which one of them was it meant to comfort. He remembered the little girl Shriek had been, the cold rooms, the long nights of her begging to be free. She'd known that hell, two years in the desert, and then nothing.

Once again, the entire building shook. Dr. Avidan took a deep breath, then said, "We have to go. We have to get you both out of here."

They ran back out, back downstairs -- but froze as they heard the soldiers shouting to each other, beginning to search the building. Erik realized that the shaking walls had been responding, perhaps, to Hazim's death throes. He muttered, "Can you call them off?"

Charles was gray, his eyes dull, and he swayed on his feet as though he were being buffeted by the wind. "Too many. And my head hurts -- maybe, before I got hit -- but not now. I'm sorry."

"Damn." Dr. Avidan held out her bloodied fingers. "One of you, give me your shirt."

Charles did what she asked, stripping down immediately. As Erik stared at them, Dr. Avidan said, "I need it to wrap around my hand."

"Well, that explains everything," Erik said.

Charles, now in his undershirt, winced and held the side of his head. "She's going to create a disturbance," Charles said. "While we get away."

"Breaking the windows on the second floor ought to do it, don't you think?" Dr. Avidan gave them a grim smile. "Wait until you hear them run up toward me. Then get in the jeep and go. Don't stop or slow down until you're far from here."

Erik -- against all of his worst instincts and most of his best -- hesitated. "What's going to happen to you?"

"Nothing," she said. "I'm not what they're after. You are. So do what I say."

That was her only leave-taking. She ran back up the steps and out of sight.

He got Charles' arm across his shoulders and supported him as they withdrew. Charles was unsteady on his feet, and Erik saw again, in his mind's eye, the way he'd crumpled to the ground when the soldier struck him. Too bad he couldn't risk sticking around to see to that one, at least.

Glass broke. Soldiers yelled. Heavy footsteps pounded on the stairs, moving upward. Erik fought back a flash of unpleasant memory: the Krakow ghetto, cold and wet, overtook him for a moment and was gone. Once the hallway was clear, they ran for the jeep; Dr. Avidan had, fortunately, left the keys in the ignition.

"I told Shriek to get away from us for a while. I've killed her," Charles said, over and over. Erik wished he could disagree. Instead, as dawn began to break over the horizon, he turned the jeep back west, toward civilization, so at least some mutants would make it out of Ben-David's compound alive.

Charlottenburg Palace, Berlin, Germany, 2006

The others had wanted to meet in the dead of night, but Bobby knew that was madness. No way somebody wouldn't be awake and listening, maybe somebody very good at hiding in the dark. And what possible excuse could you have, at 4 a.m., for nine people to have a meeting? Nine people who hadn't been with Magneto very long?

No way, Bobby had said, and so instead they were all going about their business in the thick of a busy afternoon, subtly doing their best to see that the day was busier than usual. As 3 p.m. came around -- and Magneto gathered his top lieutenants as he made some kind of weird public address -- everybody was taking a quick break, or going to talk to somebody else, or headed out to one of the balconies for a smoke. If their paths happened to cross near the Porcelain Room -- hey. Coincidence.

Okay, maybe they wouldn't buy it, but it was their best shot.

The Porcelain Room was Bobby's least favorite in the castle; its walls were bright red and covered, floor to ceiling, with thousands upon thousands of ancient Chinese and Japanese porcelains. Just being near it made him certain he was going to break something, and Magneto -- whose strategy for invading France probably involved peeling the Eiffel Tower like a banana -- was particular about not breaking things once they belonged to him.

But there was no furniture. Only porcelain, covering everything, and Mystique could never turn into something that small. So, the Porcelain Room.

Bobby said, "Okay, everybody. Log in." One by one, they all repeated the code words that meant they weren't Mystique, each chosen almost at random: shaggy, cerulean, gundark, Birmingham, Ahura Mazda, cacciatore. When it was his turn, he said, "Videotape," and the meeting could start.

Shadowcat was the first to speak, "Did we just screw up our whole lives, and probably Professor X's and Storm's and Cyclops' too, just -- for nothing?"

And Rogue's, Bobby thought. Instead, he said, "The way I see it, we've got three options. I think we have to figure out how likely we are to pull each of them off, and go with whatever seems most possible. Because, I don't know about you guys, but -- I can't keep going like this." Although John was, of course, nowhere near this meeting, Bobby felt as though that was the person he was speaking to.

But it was Sunspot who answered him, and he didn't look happy. "Seems like you've been going along just fine. You and Pyro and your nights on the town."

"Skip it," Bobby said. He wasn't even ready to ask himself what their nights at Der Katzenkeller meant, much less try to explain it to anybody else. "That all changed last night. When we had to -- fighting humans -- I'm sorry. I just can't. Not even as part of a plan, and especially not if that plan's not even working."

Of course, he could fight humans. Kill them. After last night, he knew that, would have to know it all his life. What Bobby meant was that he couldn't afford to get used to it.

Cannonball said, "I'm with you. Everybody else?" At the nods and murmurings, he continued, "Something's up, too. Something out of the ordinary. They were all talking about France yesterday, but now there's this weird public address -- I don't even know what about."

"About what happened last night, maybe?" Shadowcat looked as tired and confused as Bobby felt. What had she done for Magneto's side? Bobby wondered. Whom had she killed? Then memories threatened to overcome him, and he pushed them aside.

"We'll deal with that when we get to it," Bobby said. "Let's go through the options, okay? Option 1, obviously, is getting the hell out of here and back to Cuba. Cyclops and Storm would give us all kinds of shit, which we've got coming, but I think they'd take us back. I think." Privately, Bobby thought they might have some trouble with Storm, at least. But between an angry Storm and an angry Mystique, Bobby would take Storm. "Option 2 is getting the hell out of here and going someplace new. There are other countries who'd kill to have a mutant team for their own protection. I remember Nightcrawler talking about some offers they got in Southeast Asia."

"That's kind of close to China," Sunspot said uncertainly. "You know what they do to mutants in China."

Cannonball snorted. "Yeah, and we were so far from the U.S. while we were in Cuba."

"The downside is that we have to start from scratch somewhere, deal with the government, get money and equipment, everything," Bobby continued. "It wasn't easy for Cyclops and Storm, and it's going to be harder for us, because we're the ones who switched sides on international satellite feed. And if we choose that, we don't see the others again for a long time, maybe ever." He'd thought he'd already seen Rogue for the last time. Maybe he'd been wrong.

"I figured those were the only two options," Shadowcat said, frowning. "What's Option 3?"

Bobby squared his shoulders. "We take over here."

Everyone else stared. Bobby could only think, if Pyro could hear this, he'd be so proud of me. I'm not sure that's a good thing. But he would be.

"Take over," Shadowcat repeated. "From Magneto?"

"We wait until the next big battle," Bobby said. "We see if we get an opening. We've all been tiptoeing around Magneto like he was Professor X, but he's NOT. He doesn't know what we're thinking or what we're planning. If somebody was in the right place at the right time --"

Cannonball said flatly, "You want to kill him."

Kill. Bobby caught a sight of his own reflection, silhouetted in the quickly fading afternoon sunlight, shifting a hundred times over in the blue-and-white surfaces of the porcelains. "Magneto started this. He ought to be the first life we take, not the last."

Everyone was silent for a few moments, and Bobby understood why. Had the person he'd named been Mystique or Avalanche or Spiral, there would have been quick, if grim, agreement.

But Professor X had told them about Magneto, about the kid he had been long ago, and some of why he was the way that he was. You couldn't blame the guy for fearing humans, even for hating them. Sometimes, when Bobby thought about it like that, he hated them too. What had happened to Magneto for being Jewish could have happened to any of them for being mutants, and still might. No, you couldn't blame Magneto for being afraid.

You could blame him for starting a war. For doing and being the very thing he'd hated. But Professor X had taught them all how to pity, and he'd taught them well.

As if she'd heard his thoughts, Shadowcat said, "The Professor would be so angry."

"He'd understand why." For some reason, Bobby was absolutely sure of that.

"The Professor doesn't impale people when he's angry," Cannonball said. "Mystique? That's another story."

"A lot of the Brotherhood hate Mystique as much as they do us," Bobby said. "Or more. I'm not saying it wouldn't get dangerous. But I don't think there's another group of ten mutants in the whole Brotherhood that you could count on to work together once all hell broke loose. They won't come over to our side, but they won't be able to stay on the same side, not without Magneto."

He had expected that to fire the gang up, but instead they were frowning at him. It was Shadowcat who said, "Bobby -- you said ten. There's only nine of us."

Only then did he realize that he'd been counting on Pyro to work with them, when push came to shove. Bobby opened his mouth to take it back, then considered it for a moment.

Power, Pyro had said. The love of it surrounded Pyro, radiated from him like the electric tang of the brandy they drank together in the clubs, late at night. Pyro loved power, not Magneto, not this war. Taking over from Magneto, knocking down the one authority he had to answer to -- oh, Pyro would do it. Pyro would enjoy it. Bobby realized he might enjoy it himself.

"Yeah," he said. "Ten."

Caliburn Falls, British Columbia, Canada

Rogue didn't say anything during the entire drive, and Logan didn't either. Trips into town terrified her now, and Logan had nearly refused to allow her to come. Only after she'd begged for a long time was she able to make him bring her along.

"Better for them to get one of us than both of us," he'd said.

"So let me go. I can drive the truck now. Just let me go."

"No way in hell. If they're taking one of us, they're taking me."

"And where does that leave me?" she'd said. She hated the fear in her voice, longed for the sense of power she'd known after they made love. But that had only been an illusion; reality was powerlessness, and terror, and inevitable loss. So Rogue pleaded with Logan without any shame. "Waiting here for you to come home. And waiting, and waiting -- and I'd never know what happened to you -- Logan, don't do that to me. Don't."

So now they were headed into town, both of them silent and drawn and angry -- though not at one another. At the prison they feared, and the prison they'd made for one another.

They were trapped, but not dead. Capable of taking care of themselves and each other, but helpless to prevent what would finally overtake them.

Rogue gave him a sideways look, studied his profile as he glared at the gravel road.

Together, but not together.

She had always understood that the currents of feeling she had for Logan ran deep. They never faded away, even when she was so in love with Bobby Drake that she couldn't see straight, that she got turned on just opening the freezer door and feeling a sweetly familiar chill. Logan was still the first one she'd found, the first one who had ever tried to understand. When she'd confessed her abilities to him, her profound loneliness at being trapped within her own poisonous skin, she had given him a piece of herself. Rogue had no name for what it was, but she knew that you could only give it away once, that you never got it back.

The night they'd spent together had touched that place inside her -- but it was the fact that he'd asked her to stay, even knowing that they'd be caught sooner rather than later, that had changed Logan for her. Or had changed her for him. Both, maybe? She couldn't bring herself to ask him because she didn't know what would be worse: if he said it hadn't been the same for him, or if he said it had.

Rogue sighed and leaned back, her head lolling with the truck's jolting and rattling over the uneven road. As she breathed in, she could smell cigar smoke and pine needles, pure Logan. She figured she could tell him, or not. If and when she felt like it. It wasn't going to change anything, not really; they'd stay together, side by side, never touching, always waiting for the end.

If nothing ever changes, Rogue thought, no matter what we do -- then it doesn't matter what we do.

The truck's gears did their usual shudder as they came to a stop in front of the store/saloon. How did you walk into a store casually? Rogue was pretty sure that the technique started with not wondering if you were walking right. "Go on and get your stuff," Logan said, gesturing over to the aisles where items obviously foreign to him (conditioner, Pepto Bismol, Brillo pads) were kept. "I'll grab the beer."

She gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Thank GOD. I was so scared you'd forget it."

"Don't start." He was still smiling as they parted ways.

Rogue got her conditioner, her Apple Jacks, some Worcestershire sauce that might jazz up the venison a bit. As she deposited her armload of items on the counter, she saw the local paper stacked high -- and froze.

Magneto's picture was on the front page, his arms spread wide. The headline read: CRYPTIC MESSAGE FROM MUTANT DICTATOR SPARKS FEAR.

As Logan came up beside her, she heard him draw in a breath. She put her hand over the photo, her green-gloved hand blocking Magneto's face. The red-haired grocer came up and gave them a smile; she was clearly curious. Too curious. "You two ready to check out?"

Logan set the beer heavily on the counter. Rogue said, as easily as she could manage, "You want a copy of the paper?"

Their eyes met. She knew that Logan understood what she was really asking: Does it matter? Do we still care? If this story tells us something that might call on us to act, are we going to do it?

Just as casually, he said, "Yeah, grab one. I want to check the classifieds."

She realized she'd been holding her breath. Carefully, almost reverently, she folded up the paper. Its crumpling seemed unnaturally loud. "You two looking for a bigger place?" the red-haired grocer asked, casting her eyes in the direction of Rogue's waistline.

Rogue had to struggle not to laugh -- she'd been terrified this woman thought she was a mutant, and all she was wondering was whether or not Logan had knocked Rogue up. (He hadn't. Rogue had discovered that three weeks before. She had been more relieved than not; she'd never really wanted children, and chances were her womb would have killed a baby before he or she could ever be born. Still, she'd been a little sad when she saw the red streak in her panties -- when you only had one chance, it was hard to just watch it go.)

"Not a bigger place -- a bigger truck," Logan pretended to correct the grocer. "Maybe a camper. Used to have one; kinda miss it."

The grocer kept looking after them the entire time they went out to the truck. As Logan piled their bags and the beer in the back, Rogue murmured, "That lady freaks me out."

"At least she's just as bad with the humans," Logan said under his breath. "What's Magneto got to say?"

As Logan shifted the truck into reverse, then pulled them back onto the road, Rogue fumbled with the paper, letting the inner sections tumble onto the floor of Logan's truck along with the cigar butts. She read aloud: "'World reaction was confused and dismayed on Tuesday when Magneto, dictator of the Brotherhood of Mutants, made an unusual public address that raised more questions than it answered. Military analysts have made no official comment, but sources reveal that many governments think this speech may signify an imminent mutant attack. However, there are no definite signals as to when or where.' Shit, Logan, he's on the move."

"Keep reading." Logan kept staring at the road, but she could tell how focused he was on her words. She brought the paper closer to her face, the better to read despite the dimming afternoon light.

"'Those who have followed me, both here in force and elsewhere in spirit, know that the Brotherhood of Mutants seek only a land and a destiny to call our own,' the mutant leader said. Then, in the passage that has alarmed and confused listeners worldwide, he said, 'We follow our own star, all together, each one of us with the power of nine.'" Rogue's temples throbbed once, painfully; a headache was coming on. fast and hard. "'Though this may be only mutant rhetoric, designed to rally Magneto's mutant troops, some analysts suspect these words are part of a kind of code.'"

"Sounds a bit fancy for Magneto," Logan said. "Guy usually just says what's on his mind. Or what he wants you to think is on his mind."

Rogue wished the Excedrin wasn't in the bags in the truck's flatbed. "Yeah. It's a little -- flowery."

Logan accelerated slightly, causing the truck to bounce even more, her head to ache even more sharply. "They got any idea what that's supposed to mean?"

She scanned the paragraphs, gripping the paper so tightly that it crumpled around her fingers. "Doesn't look like it. Confusion, yadda yadda -- the Prime Minister telling people not to panic -- Pentagon setting alert status to red." Her head pounded so badly that the newsprint blurred for a moment. "Something about the stock markets going down --"

Follow our own star.

Rogue's headache vanished in an instant. At once, understanding flooded in, and she cried out so loudly that Logan started. "Marie? Are you okay?"

"Israel!" she said. "Logan, that's what it means. 'Follow our own star' -- that's code for Israel. Magneto's going to attack Israel on the ninth!"

"It's already the twentieth," Logan said. "Besides, the guy's been obsessed with Europe, not --"

"No, it's Israel. On the ninth of next month. In December. That's what it means."

Logan looked away from the road for a moment to gape at her. "How do you know this?"

Twenty-three triangles in the painting, all of them in red and gold and green. "It's Geir," Rogue said. "His knowledge -- it's still inside me. It's still here. I couldn't get to it before, but now I can. Reading the code -- that's what set it off. Every country had a code, something that's pretty obvious, but not so obvious that you'd automatically guess. Like, for Great Britain, the speech was going to include the phrase 'not my cup of tea.' That kind of thing. So Magneto could go on CNN or whatever and say something that wouldn't tip off the military to exactly what he was going to do. All the Brotherhood mutants know the code. So anybody he's got around the world -- and he's got mutants all over, Logan, they're everywhere -- now they know what he's going to do. They know to get to Israel, and fast."

As they pulled up to the cabin, Logan swore under his breath as he set the truck in park with a squeal of gears. "We gotta let Professor X know about this. Or Cyclops, or Storm. Whoever."

"Yeah," she said. "We do. I don't think we can place a call through without getting traced. Same for e-mail."

Logan didn't hesitate. "Not from Canada, or the U.S. But another country --"

"Israel. You mean Israel, don't you?"

"If trouble's coming, we ought to make sure somebody's there to screw up Magneto's plan. We can't take the Brotherhood down alone, obviously, but we can at least try and warn people. Stall them, maybe. And talk to the authorities, see if they'll let the X-Men in." Logan tugged back his keys and dropped him in his pocket; for some reason, the gesture reminded her of the way he used to straighten his leather suit before they set out on a mission. "We ought to get there as fast as we can."

As scared and overwhelmed as she was, Rogue couldn't help feeling a deep tide of relief. "How fast is that?"

"We gotta get fake IDs, first -- the one I've got works okay for the Mounties, but it won't get through international checkpoints."

Rogue remembered the smell of frying eggs and tomatoes, and a little old lady with pom-pom socks. "I have the fake IDs. Created by the Real IRA; they should be as good as authentic. And more than enough money."

Logan grinned, impressed with either her or providence. "Then we can get to the regional airport in the morning, fly out to Toronto by afternoon. Take it from there. We'll probably have to catch a ship overseas -- takes a week or so, but there's not as many checkpoints."

"We've got that much time," Rogue said. She could feel Geir inside her again, and she was surprised to realize she'd missed him -- as though he were a friend who'd gone away for too long. Even from the grave, he had the ability to strike back at Magneto; Rogue was glad to be able to give it to him. "I thought Geir's powers were gone. But they're still inside me. Do you think -- maybe -- I absorbed them for good?"

"No way to know. Or -- maybe -- " Logan cocked his head. "What's the Norwegian word for airplane?"

"Fly," she said instantly. "Just that. Fly." His mouth twitched, and in an instant they were laughing. Rogue wondered if the joy she felt was her own or Geir's -- at his continued life within her life, at his chance for revenge. Or maybe that was her own happiness, knowing at last that she had the power to act.

Logan's smile faded, and he stared at her intently. Rogue began to ask why -- then stilled as his hand wrapped around her wrist. He brushed his fingers down across her palm. Then he caught the tips of her glove's fingers and slowly, carefully, began pulling it off, exposing her skin.

Rogue held her breath as he took her hand in his. It felt so good to touch him again, even if it could only be for a moment.

But he wasn't reacting. His hand wasn't being striped with black, corroded lines. She didn't feel the usual whirling influx of energy, didn't feel his powers supplanting her own. Instead they were just holding hands, without any pain, without any danger at all.

"Logan," she whispered, "I can change. I can go back and forth. I can have my powers OR his. I can fly. I can touch --"

He kissed her, hard, pulling her close.

Oh, God, Rogue thought, as her lips parted and his tongue pushed inside. She pushed back, exploring his mouth even more eagerly. Logan's arms were tight around her, blocking out breath, thought, movement. He kept kissing her, devouring her, making her go dizzy and crazy and mad.

She put her hands -- one gloved, one not -- on either side of his face, angling him just the way she wanted him, the better to kiss him even more deeply. How had she ever thought she could live without this? How could she have told herself just once would be enough?

Logan pulled her undershirt out of her jeans, and she felt his fingers tracing lines across her belly, up her back, felt his palms cup her breasts, warm through the thin satin of her bra. Desire rippled through her, blurring past and present, logic and reason, leaving only the need to be closer to Logan. Now.

I ought to slow this down for a second, she thought dazedly. I ought to ask what's going on here, what this means for us, ask if he has a condom. That's what I should do.

Of course, she realized, it would have been better if she'd done that before sliding her leg over his to straddle him in the driver's seat. Now his body was pressed against hers, and she could feel a warm, delicious pressure between her legs, and when they kissed again, she leaned back against the wheel. The horn blared out into the woods, no doubt startling a few deer and owls.

"Oh, Jesus," Logan said when their lips parted. "We gotta get inside."

"Inside," Rogue agreed in a whisper. "In bed."

He groaned into her mouth, and for a few moments they couldn't move, couldn't stop kissing each other long enough to even reach for the handle. She ground herself against him, one long, slow spiral, and she felt a surge of delight as he gripped her around her waist, as though he was going to take her right there, right then.

But instead he opened the door and tipped her out into the snow. She stumbled, clumsy with desire, and began staggering toward the cabin, walking backwards, never looking away from him. Rogue bit the fingers of the one glove she still had on and slowly drew her hand out of it. As Logan walked intently toward her, she saw her move ignite even more wanting inside him. Oh, God, she could turn him on, make him as crazy as he made her. In a lifetime that had taught her to fight and fly and move things with her mind, Rogue had never felt more beautiful, more strong.

She laughed in dazed jubilation. Logan said, his voice husky and deep, "What?"

Rogue pushed open the door to the cabin, braced her arms against each side of the doorframe. "I was just thinking," she whispered, feeling a sly grin spread across her face. "I don't have to be gentle with you this time."

"Jesus." Logan caught her up in his arms, laughing with her even as they kissed again, and he kicked the door shut behind them. Snow fell from their boots to the floor, and a few flakes turned to dew in his hair as she ran her hands through it. He murmured into her neck -- oh, his mouth felt so good against her neck, his breath -- "You do anything you want with me."

"Anything?" She unbuttoned his flannel shirt as quickly as she could, pausing only to let him pull her sweater and undershirt over her head.

"Yeah." Logan tugged her bra straps down and ran his tongue along the curve of her shoulder, making her knees so weak she slumped against him. "I promise -- I won't break."

Rogue let herself fall to her knees, pressing her lips against the long, hard outline she could see beneath his jeans. Logan bucked up against her, then -- when she lay on her back, right there on the floor -- lowered himself atop her, kissing her deeply. She wrapped her legs around him and moaned softly as they began to move, a gentle recollection of the way they'd moved together before. As she arched her back, Logan took the hint and tugged the cups of her bra down, exposing her breasts to the cool air -- then, to his warm, wet mouth. How could that feel so good? Just his tongue against her nipple? But it did; each circle of his tongue seemed to draw a line through her, a bright line of light and energy and heat that speared the very center of her.

"Off," she whispered, tugging at the waist of his jeans. "I want these off."

He sucked her once more, hard, before rolling over to one side and getting out of his jeans. Rogue shimmied out of her own, pulling her panties off with them. Last time, she'd been so uncertain, so bashful -- now she couldn't wait to be naked with Logan, to have him inside her once again.

She pushed herself up on her knees and looked down at Logan, who caught a glimpse of her expression and deliberately relaxed, sprawling out beneath her for her examination. They'd been too caught up last time for her to do this -- to just stop everything and stare at him. Logan looked just the way she'd always dreamed he would look. Powerful muscles that didn't overwhelm his long, lean frame. Thick hair across his chest. And his hard cock -- hard for her -- arched up over his belly. Rogue didn't have much basis for comparison, but she suspected Logan didn't have anything to be ashamed of in that department. He folded his arms behind his head, mock-casual, smiling lightly. "Anything you want," he repeated, the grinding in his voice giving his act away.

Last time, she'd been so eager to be touched that she hadn't let herself really explore touching him in turn. Rogue decided to change that. She traced along his feet with one fingertip -- toe to ankle -- taking her time. Logan swore under his breath, then said, "How do you do that?"

"Do what?" Calves, now. She could feel the muscles beneath his skin, the divisions between them, as she massaged him.

"Make everything a turn-on." Logan groaned as she spread her hands over his thighs and straddled his legs. "Every single touch."

Rogue whispered, "Every touch IS a turn-on." Her hands were on his pelvic bones now, her face dipping, closer to his cock. She could see it flushing darker as her lips got lower. "You've just forgotten."

Logan tilted himself up slightly to meet her, so that his cock brushed against her chin. "Remind me."

She took him into her mouth; she'd never done this before, but she'd dreamed about it, and she was going to put those dreams to use. The head was softer than she'd thought, the shaft harder, and she'd never imagined that he would taste so good. Knowing him in such an intimate way stoked her need for him even more, and she began sucking at him gently, not worrying whether she was doing it right or wrong. If it tasted good to her, it had to feel good to him -- and he moved beneath her, thrusting ever so slightly inside her mouth. Greatly daring, she took him in deeper, curling her lips around her teeth so that he'd only feel softness and wetness and warmth. Logan's fingers wound themselves into her hair, and she reveled in the fact that his hands were shaking.

"Wait," he gasped. "Wait for me."

Rogue let his cock slip out of her mouth, licked her lips to taste the warm salt of him again. "Wait for you to what?" she murmured.

He pushed her to the side just long enough to slide down, then brought her knee over so that his face was between her legs. "To get even," he said, before stroking upward with his tongue.

Oh, God, oh, Jesus, he was going down on her again, and she had made herself remember every single second of it, while it was happening and every time she'd gotten herself off since, the way his lips felt against hers, the way his tongue felt when it turned into one hard arc of pressure, but she hadn't remembered. Not the way her whole body went hot and cold, or the sounds she started making, like some animal that had been uncaged. Or the way she started moving against him, like she'd had this a thousand times, like she was a woman instead of an inexperienced girl, listening only to her own body and to his -- to his tongue, massaging against her in circle after circle after circle.

Rogue cried out as she came, a wash of dizziness and heat flooding all the way through her, toes to fingertips to the top of her head. She arched her body so hard that she would have fallen, if Logan's hands hadn't been so tightly around her waist. Her whole body loose, she let her head loll back. Her hair brushed against her shoulder blades, and she felt Logan catch the very tips of it between his fingers. "You're beautiful when you do that," he whispered. His breath was cool against the wet folds between her legs.

"When I come?" Rogue felt drunk, dazed, awhirl. Logan nodded. She said softly, "Let's make you beautiful, too."

"Beautiful," he said, half-scoffing, but when she was kneeling above his cock, stroking him with her hands, his smirk faded away. He pushed her hands away with one of his, angled himself and, oh, God, he was inside her.

Rogue winced in pleasure and pain, stretching around his cock as she took him in. It felt like so many things at once -- a kind of burning, right at the surface -- then, deeper inside, heat and pressure, filling her up, pushing all these delicious sensations deep inside her body out to her skin.

Logan thrust upward, getting in even deeper, and for a moment her inexperience burst, unwelcome, into her mind: How did you move, when you were on top of a man? What was the right way to go -- up and down, or -- or what? Then, remembering what she'd done last time, Rogue forced herself to relax. She moved the way her body wanted to move, back and forth, twisting her hips slightly as she went. And from the shivers of pleasure that went through her, and the guttural sound Logan made as he began thrusting harder, she knew this was exactly right.

His hands guided her for a moment longer, then slid upward to her breasts, which shook each time he thrust. Logan cupped her in his palms, brushed his thumbs slowly back and forth across her nipples, in time with the way he moved inside her. Rogue felt the soft aftershocks of her orgasm ripple through her, and she whispered his name, as they moved faster, and faster, and faster.

Then Logan arched up in one last, deep thrust; he shouted as his hands tightened on her breasts, and she felt a rush of warmth at the center of her. She watched his face twist in pleasure, and felt another surge of pride. Rogue lowered herself across him and kissed him, over and over, savoring every instant that he was still inside her.

Finally, Rogue let herself slide over to one side and propped up on an elbow, the better to look into his eyes. It all seemed so surreal -- an hour ago, she had believed that nothing would ever change, than everything stayed the same, forever and ever, no matter what she did. Now she was lying naked on the floor with Logan, her (oh wow new word) lover, with the knowledge that might help Professor X strike back against Magneto. Silently, she thanked Geir, who'd understood before she did. Nothing has to stay the same; nothing ever can. If you think differently, you're not looking at reality anymore.

She said only, "I'm glad I found you."

"Same here." That was the end of the love chat; she could tell, even though his hand stroked along the length of her side. "Are you still scared? I mean, of the Professor and Cyclops and them. If things go according to plan, you'll be with them in a couple of days."

Rogue searched within herself; Geir's fear was there, but it was muted now -- comforted, perhaps, by the discovery of her deeper strength. That felt almost as miraculous and wonderful as everything else that had happened that night -- that she'd been able to finally, at long last, make Geir not be afraid.

"No," she said. "I'm not scared of anything. Not anymore."