Finally, they said: *The avatar is irrelevant; the presence of a god would have tainted the avatar.*

*The avatar is not irrelevant. If they can be saved, I want to save them.*

*They cannot be saved. If a god has claimed one, they are claimed.*

If he could have taken a deep breath and counted to ten, he would have. But he couldn’t, and maybe that was for the best; he was fucking pissed off. *There has to be something I can do. Are you saying the Powers That Be have no power here?*

There was a bitter taint to the silence that ensued. If they could be said to be angry, they were now. *You try our patience again, Imperfect one.*

*Are you saying the Powers are impotent in the face of a lowly god?* There was a hierarchy to the Higher Realms that even he didn’t fully understand. In fact, it was this big, incestuous mess (as far as coherent energy could be incestuous - which was even more confusing), and he knew the heart of most problems was the refusal of the Powers to get involved with anything that had no direct effect on them at the moment.

*We have no interest in what a god chooses to do with its vessel.*

*That is not an answer!* It was impossible to shout without a voice. *Yes or no - give me that.*

*Yes or no what?* Now they were being deliberately annoying. Damn it, why did they have to suddenly show an emotion now?

*You can do nothing to free an avatar from its god? Even if it chooses to take you on?*

There was a long pause, where he let the wind die down, tasting moods of defiance and impatience in the non-existent air. “If it wants to seal its fate, let it come.*

And he knew that was it - all he would get out of them. But no answer was an answer, was it not? They didn’t know how to do such a thing - and they couldn’t care less. A lone god facing them all wouldn’t stand a chance, and even less so if they were dependent on a physical body, so that didn’t bother them. They couldn’t remove a god from an avatar, because they never had any need to; such a thing was no threat to them at any point. They wouldn’t even consider it in a rhetorical sense, because it might help him. Nice. *Thanks for nothing* he thought bitterly, preparing to leave.

*You exist at our whim, Imperfect one,* One of them warned. *Do not seek to try our patience, or you will discover the limit of it.*

*I’ll keep that in mind,* he thought in reply, aware that they couldn’t even begin to interpret sarcasm.

The door appeared standing free in the middle of the blood red desert, and he let himself merge with it, slip between its atoms, funnel down into the dark heaviness of reality. This was what they meant by burning up in the atmosphere; this is what they meant by hard landing. He felt suddenly leaden and shredded, torn into a billion constituent molecules, then he pulled himself together, made himself recreate himself, the prison of flesh that contained what he was behind chains of blood vessels and bars of bone.

Bob collapsed to the floor of his hallway, naked and doused in sweat, breathing hard with lungs that felt new. Ah fuck, he hated going to that place.

A Perfect Circle was still playing on the downstairs stereo, and judging from the song rotation, he hadn’t been gone long at all, in the time of this reality - maybe ten minutes, tops. Strange how it felt like a year.

Trying to ignore the pain that wasn’t pain as any physical being could reconcile it, he imagined the gecko in the palm of his hand, and conjured it out of thin air, constructing it from the molecules up. He then let it go, watched it climb up the pale blue wall from his vantage point on the claret color carpet. It took a lot out of him, but sometimes he felt better if he thought his pain had a purpose.

What was the purpose here? There was none. He’d gone to his final source for answers, and came up empty. What the hell was he going to tell Logan?

The tremor in his nerves seemed to steady, calm, and he sat up carefully, singing along with the stereo. Sometimes that helped too; it was a distraction from himself. “Mistook their nods for an approval, just ignore the smoke and smile. Call it aftermath, she’s turning blue. Such a lovely color for you … ”

He used the wall to help him stand, and took a deep breath, feeling stronger, more physically stable. Getting truly “born again” as an adult hurt like all fuck, which was why he could never take a so called “born again” anyone seriously - if they really had been, they’d be getting very drunk somewhere, and not trying to convert someone to something. Converting didn’t kill the pain.

He could have conjured up some clothes, just like he put together the gecko, but he was too fucking tired to be bothered. Besides, the bedroom was just down the hall. But why get dressed when he could sleep for a year? “Wanna get my calls for now?” He said to the gecko, as he started down the hall, leaning heavily against the wall. As if the Powers weren’t unpleasant enough on their own, the transmogrifying across dimensional planes was a killer - figuratively and somewhat literally.

“I just didn’t want to know,” he sang as much as sighed. There had to be something; there had to be something he was overlooking. Could it end like this? Would he have to make sure Jean could never come back to this plane to prevent Camaxtli from unleashing hell on earth? And how did he do that without …

Oh shit. He hated these no win situations. He especially hated them when he couldn’t figure out a way to at least make them stalemates.

Damn Cammy - damn that scheming motherfucker. He wasn’t going to get away with this; Bob didn’t care what kind of deal he had to make. He had survived a British prison ship, starvation, the Powers, the Old Ones, Fenrir, Kumiho, and several ex-wives - he was not caving in now.

Camaxtli wasn’t going to win.

4

Even though he drove all night, Logan didn’t really know where he was going until he crossed the border. Then he knew, and he only briefly wondered why.

He managed to reach Vancouver, but barely in time; the sun was starting to come up, the sky lightening from midnight blue to a moody purple, the sun a scar of blood red on the horizon that was slowly starting to swell and grow, like an injury to the sky. He could even smell that it was going to be a bright day - they had a certain scent, as did cloudy days, gloomy days, ones promising storms, snow, or rain. That was why he pitied people who had to rely on weather forecasts; everyone knew it was an inexact science. But his nose never lied.

But where did he think he was going? He didn’t know where she was! Still, he knew she’d be near the docks somewhere - she liked the water - but there was more than one dock in Vancouver. Still, he started at one of the nicer ones, figuring she’d want to upscale a bit, and decided to work his way down, until he got lucky or the sun came up - whichever came first.

As it was, his instincts were eerily accurate. He’d been walking the docks for maybe five minutes when he caught her scent, mingled among sea salt and rotting wood, untreated sewage and exhaust. He hadn’t been the only one scenting the air, either, as only two minutes passed before a dark figure jumped down from the roof of a closed nightclub. She landed a meter from him, as graceful as a cat.

“Hey there, little red riding hood,” Yasha said teasingly, giving him a smile that was partially predatory, and partially amused. “What have you got for me?”

He raised an eyebrow, unable to keep from smiling. “What d’ya think?”

She grinned. “You’re just a little tart, aren’t you?”

“Little?” He replied in mock offense. As she winked at him, he asked, “Shouldn’t you be gettin’ in? It’s almost dawn.”

“I was just about to head back.”

“Gotta place already?”

“Sure do. We vampires might be ageless, but we know that it’s sometimes in our best interest to move as fast as possible.” She took his hand, her skin the exact temperature of the air around them. “Wanna see it? I have to warn you, I haven’t decorated yet.”

“Decorating’s overrated,” he said, wondering if she felt that jolt when she touched his skin. Yes, she did - he could see it in her eyes, scent the pheromones in the air (even vampires gave them off), and he wondered if this was what was meant by being in the “thrall” of a vampire. Because he wanted her so badly he could hardly think of anything else.

“Yeah,” she agreed, giving him a look that could qualify as smoldering. She brushed her cool lips against his, and he expected her to kiss him, but she didn’t. “I didn’t expect you to come back so soon. I’m glad you did,” she whispered.

“So am I,” he agreed. He had wondered why he raced here, wasted all night and all that velocity to just get here, but now he understood why. Lust was a very powerful motivator.

As luck would have it, she lived close by, and it wasn’t a long walk. She had an apartment on the third floor of a near by, slightly sad looking Victorian looking apartment house, that had probably - judging from the narrow red carpeted hallways and the number of doors that had clearly been plastered and painted over - once been a hotel, or maybe even a rooming house. It wasn’t wildly populated either; on the first floor, he smelled more cats than people. Well, what was a Victorian style building without a crazy cat lady?

Her apartment on the third floor took up most of it, making him wonder how much she paid for it, but it was amazing how little he actually cared right now.

As soon as they were inside her apartment, he grabbed her and kissed her, like he’d been longing to do since the alley, and she wrapped herself around him like a second skin. She kicked the door shut, but he barely noticed; they were done with the flirting.

They kissed with a violent sort of passion, as if they had been separated for years, and tore at each other’s clothes, creating a trail of shreds from the stark living room to the slightly less stark bedroom. But he didn’t notice that at the time.

Later - much later - he would notice the windows - that normally had a great view of the harbor - were covered by heavy blue velvet drapes that blocked out every sliver of sunlight. The bedroom was also mostly empty, save for the bed, an old black velvet armchari in the corner, and a poster print of Rene Magritte’s “Le Domaine d’Arnheim”, which showed a bird’s nest (with two eggs) on a stone railing in the foreground, and a sweeping mountainside in the background. Only if you paused to look at it would you realize that the top of the mountain was shaped like a bird’s head, and the slopes spread out like wings. He thought perhaps the curtains, chair, and poster came with the place, but it seemed highly unlikely a poster of that Magritte work (hardly his best known) would just appear in an apartment in Vancouver that Yasha just happened to pick. Especially this particular one, featuring a mountainside transforming into a large bird … why did that image bother him so much? ! After a while, he remembered that Jean - in one of her inhuman forms in his dreams - appeared as a kind of bird (on fire, but still ..). It left him wondering if that was supposed to mean something.

Not that he thought about it much. Maybe he was in Yasha’s thrall - he loved the taste of her skin (even if it did tend to be cooler than normal), the solidity of her muscles, the sleek softness of her hair, the smell of her - but if he was, he didn’t care. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so good in his own skin, the last time he could almost taste the chemistry between him and another woman, the last time - ironically - he felt this much alive.

Great - he was physically compatible with a vampire. He didn’t even want to know what that said about him.

It was nice to sleep without nightmares, but something made Logan jolt awake. It was a … feeling? As soon as his eyes shot open and he found himself staring at the restored plaster ceiling, where the tiniest filaments of sunlight clung to the ceiling like bioluminescent moss, he forgot what had startled him. It was … not a memory, or a nightmare, it was a … feeling, like … someone was watching …

(They weren’t alone.)

… but as soon as he was awake, he didn’t sense it anymore. What the hell was that?

“What’s wrong?” Yasha muttered, turning over and giving him a sleepy look that was tempered by a sharpness deep within her dark eyes. She was ready to go into action if need be, and, being a vampire, that was always impressive.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, feeling like an idiot. Had his luck finally run out? Was he now having nightmares even after sex? Oh, goddamn it. He shifted slightly, trying to give her a bit more room. She had a big bed - a comfortable one too (nice to know she had her priorities in order) - but he had reflexively wrapped himself around her, trying to keep her warm. Hilarious, as she would not only never get warm (unless she fed), but she hardly noticed temperatures either way. You could freeze a vamp solid, but you couldn’t freeze them to death.

But even as he slid aside, she still kept a friendly grip on his arm, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “You usually just jolt awake like someone’s putting ten thousand volts through you?”

Well, he supposed he had to tell her sooner or later. “Actually, yeah. In fact … if I ever have a nightmare, don’t wake me up.”

She looked up at him quizzically. “Why not?”

“I - I get disoriented, and sometimes I - I just react, okay? I think I’m still stuck in my nightmare for a minute. I mean, yer a vampire, so I probably ain’t gonna kill you, but my claws could still hurt, so - “

“They’re not just nightmares, are they?” She interrupted, genuinely curious. “I mean, there’s some things about you that don’t add up.”

He didn’t really like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

“I mean for a macho stud boy, you seem to carry around a lot of doom and gloom. And don’t forget, I constantly saw you falling asleep and waking up like someone just jammed a cattle prod up your ass. So that meant you either had a guilty conscience - possible, but somewhat unlikely - or you keep reliving something awful, something that makes you want to avoid going to sleep at any cost. Or you’re tormented by some kind of curse … ”

“Yeah, that. I pissed off … a warty demon something.”

She scowled at him. “Uh huh. And what are you tormented with?”

“Images of it in a bikini.”

She sighed and shook her head, looking away so he didn’t see her smile. “Logan, come on.”

He rubbed his eyes, buying himself some time, and wondered what was the best way to put it. “The metal in me … some people put it there. They didn’t - or couldn’t - anesthetize me. And they may have conducted medical experiments on me involving bone saws and steel clamps that peeled the muscle right off my bones.”

He felt her cool hand resting on his solar plexus, and it was oddly reassuring. “Let me guess this was against your will?”

“Good guess.”

“Who were these people?”

“A group called the Organization. Paramilitary mutant hating motherfuckers.”

“They all dead yet?”

“Not yet. Me and a friend are working on it.”

“Let me know if I can help. Sounds like those guys forfeited their humanity - maybe it’s time they came back to their demon brothers.”

She had a point. But they used demons too, although not as much; much of the time, demons were even harder for them to manipulate. Still, what a nice thought, attacking them with vampires and Ressiks. They knew demons, but they rarely seemed prepared for them. Had they ever met a Berserker? The thought of a couple of those oversized lizard kings running through a base almost made him smile. “Why would you help?” He asked, mostly just curious. She had her reasons when they after the sword; there was no reason here.

Her dark eyes were almost luminous, in spite of the gloom. “They hurt you, they hurt me. You’re in my blood.”

He knew she didn’t mean that literally, but it was still a little startling to hear. “Why me? I mean … “ He trailed off, aware that saying she must have “eaten a thousand guys” could be taken in a way that he not only didn’t intend, but could get him tossed out a window.

But she knew what he meant. She buried her face in his chest, and her hair tickled his skin. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. She started to kiss him, brushing her lips and teeth across his chest, her hair trailing across his skin like silk. She slid on top of him, her cool skin soft and smooth, and he had to ask, “You ever give up?” Not that he was complaining - oh hell no. Just her scent was enough to stimulate his desire.

“No.”

“I’m just Human, you know.”

“You heal.”

She had him there. He pulled her up to him and kissed her cold lips, feeling like he was breathing for both of them. The violent lust of earlier had given way to a more languid passion, no less intense, just less urgent. After all, they literally had all day - she couldn’t go anywhere until dark, and thanks to her, the only intact piece of clothing he had was his jeans (and those were slightly iffy). So it looked like they were stuck here for several hours. What on earth would they do?

Sometimes, life was really good.

5

He already knew you couldn’t technically barf yourself inside out, but you could certainly feel like it sometimes.

On top of that, his head felt like it was hosting an alien parasite that was on the verge of bursting out of his skull any second now. Luckily, Jean’s lab had lots of medications, and many of them worked quickly - it was just a question of getting down there intact, and then keeping the meds down long enough to let them work.

Scott felt like an idiot as he struggled down to the lower levels, trying not to dry heave in the elevator, and hoped that he didn’t run into anyone. But the odds were luckily against that, as it was much later in the day than he thought.

How embarrassing. Worst of all, he could barely remember what the papers were talking about, the thing about the truck and the “mutant attack” downtown in the City. But even more horrifying was the fact that he had been “outed” - he was “tentatively identified” as Scott Summers, a “teacher” (they even threw in the quotation marks - what was that supposed to mean?) at a private school in Westchester. How the fuck did they get that kind of information? Logan - lucky him - was still referred to as “an unidentified companion”, and that was probably the best for all concerned, considering Logan’s shady reputation, and the type of people that generally seemed to be after him.

Maybe the weirdest thing was Logan was actually looking after him during and after that fight. Weird. Maybe the idea that they were all on the same side was finally sinking through that thick, metal plated skull of his. But of course, maybe not, as he had taken off again. But maybe the Professor was right; maybe Logan had to take this in stages. It was difficult to think of Logan as a victim of something he didn’t deserve, but Xavier was of the opinion that fully gaining Logan’s trust would take years; he was simply accustomed to getting used, and it was his default position to never give that much of himself away, especially to what he perceived as a “group”. Scott couldn’t help but point out that he seemed to trust Bob pretty quick, but the Professor told him -and rightfully so - that Bob was a single entity, and besides, he had to trust him -he had no choice. None of them did. That was truly frightening.

Although his stomach lurched once the elevator seemed to settle, he managed to swallow back the bile, disgusted by the sour taste in his own throat, and staggered down the metal lined hall, wincing at how the light seemed to cut through his eyes like shards of broken glass. He made it to Jean’s lab, only doubling over once, and once inside the cool steel room, he started looking through the medical cabinet, glad that Jean had a “color coding” system so medical novices like himself and Storm could help her out if need be. Jean. His stomach lurched again, but this time it had nothing to do with his hangover.

She wasn’t dead, she was alive - he should have been thrilled. So why wasn’t he?

Trepidation, elation, guilt, and anger all swirled together in ways he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. He wanted her back, he wanted to apologize, he wanted to hold her again … but what was she now? Camaxtli had her; if kidnapping her wasn’t bad enough, he had - according to Bob - “transformed” her. But into what? Bob claimed he didn’t know, but Scott suspected he was holding back. Didn’t he always? (And Rogue was right - hadn’t Camaxtli been a she last time?)

And now, according to Ororo, Bob said Jean was “coming back” - then when was still up in the air, but as soon as possible. The Professor seemed to think that was a great thing, as did Ororo - but she told him that Bob didn’t appear to feel that way. Scott hated to be on the same side as Bob, ever, but … what if it wasn’t really their Jean? What if it was … something else?

He didn’t want to think about this now. His head throbbed like an infected wound, and his stomach burned like it was digesting itself. Scott found some anti-nausea medication and some heavy duty migraine meds, and took both of them with the smallest drinks of water possible, trying not to set off his gag reflex. He then laid down on one of the cold metal examining tables and waited for the medications to take effect.

He felt like a moron, and he felt like he and betrayed Jean by not being thrilled by her return … and yet he knew, the instant he laid eyes on her, all of his doubts and fears would disappear. He knew that. And yet … what? What was wrong with him?

He was falling to pieces, that’s what. He’d call it a midlife crisis, only he assumed he was going to live past sixty. (Although, at this rate, no fucking way.)

For what seemed like an eternity in this sterile lab, he listened to nothing but his own pounding heart, and finally he could feel the meds starting to work, his stomach settling down and the ache in his head starting to subside. His heart was beating too fast, and even laying down he felt dizzy; to add to the misery, his stomach grumbled, reminding him it was completely empty. He felt like reminding it it was so empty because it had ejected all its contents (and violently at that), but he bet his stomach was in no mood to listen; it had been a pain in the ass all day.

As soon as he thought he could stand, he did, although the room to seemed to swing for a minute. He could almost hear Jean in his head - “Too many medications on an empty stomach. Usually that’s not good, Scott.” But sometimes, what else could you do?

(Well, not drink two bottles of wine, that’s what, but that was hindsight.)

He made his way back up to the mansion proper, now feeling as light and hollow as an empty paper bag, but at least the sunlight streaming through the windows didn’t seem physically painful anymore - always a plus.

It was a “free” afternoon, so many of the kids were out, and he’d been hoping he still wouldn’t run into anyone, but of course he’d been too lucky for too long - his luck finally ran out.

Piotr was in the kitchen, sitting at the table beside the window and eating a bowl of cereal (in the afternoon?), and he looked up as he came in. “Are you all right?” He asked, pale eyes narrowing curiously. “You don’t look good.” Sitting in the wash of the sun, he looked as pale as a ghost.

“Flu,” he lied, opening the fridge and hiding his head inside it. Scott hoped he didn’t ask about what happened yesterday.

He spied and rejected some orange juice (too acidic), and settled on a bottle of mineral water when he heard the mellifluous voice of the Professor suddenly say, “I’m glad you’re up and about.”

Oh god. Steeling himself, he turned around and flashed a smile that he hoped wasn’t as pained as it felt. “I’m starting to feel better, thanks.”

The Professor’s steely blue eyes settled on his, and he heard, inside his head: *Your reaction was perfectly normal; there’s no reason to feel ashamed about it.*

“Professor,” Piotr said politely.

Scott sighed, and started searching the cupboards for anything he could stand to eat, not letting on to Piotr that there was a conversation going on that he was completely missing. *I still don’t think I can do this anymore, Professor. Okay? I need … I need time.*

*I understand. But - *

“Well, everyone’s here,” Ororo said, coming into the kitchen and seemingly interrupting the Professor’s stream of thought. “I guess mail call does that to people.” She place a large stack of recently delivered mail on the end of the table, opposite Piotr, and he sat forward with obvious curiosity.

“Was there anything for me?” Piotr wondered.

Ororo pretended to glance casually through the stack, and then pulled out an envelope covered with colorful overseas stamps. “Just this,” she replied, handing it to him and smiling.

Piotr grinned broadly, and anxiously took the letter, ripping into it immediately. His family was in Russia, and the communications from them was sparse; not because of some Iron Curtain embargo, just because mail took so long to get from one side of the world to another. And ever since deregulation and Russia’s financial collapse, the phone service there had been iffy at best. Internet was the best way to go, but Piotr’s family didn’t have a computer, nor did they apparently want one. To say they were old fashioned types was apparently an understatement; according to Pete, his father still mourned the lost of socialism.

Scott caught Ororo staring at him curiously out of the corner of his eye, and when he turned to face her, she crossed her arms over her chest, and gave him a look that Jean might have given him, had she been here. “Shouldn’t you still be in bed? You were pretty … bad yesterday.”

He got that - pretty drunk. “I’m sorry. I … thanks for coming after me.”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “You should thank Logan, not me - I just showed up in time for some clean up work.”

It was Scott’s turn to shrug, feeling even more uncomfortable than usual. “I would, but it seems he’s taken off again. Anyone have any idea where he went?”

Storm shook her head, but the Professor said, “When I last talked to him, I got the impression he was off to see Scorpion.” Scott knew that by “impression”, he meant he had picked that up from Logan’s surface thoughts; it wasn’t anything he said to him.

“The guy with the guns?” Piotr said, looking up from his letter. He had laid what looked like polaroids aside, face down. Scott knew that Marcus had saved the Professor - and Piotr - after an attack from some crazed demons, but he had no idea what kind of interaction Piotr and Marcus had. But Piotr seemed to suggest something by mock shuddering. “He’s scary. No offense to him, he seems okay, but … damn.

He seems pretty hardcore.”

Scott was surprised that Piotr could be off put by anyone. As if being naturally built like a weightlifter wasn’t enough, he had that whole turning steel thing going for him. “He’s a bit … much,” Ororo said, obviously opting for tact. Had she met him? But she tapped a box on top of the mail pile, and said, “Maybe this will bring Logan back pretty soon. Everybody loves mail.”

“What?” For some reason, that set off internal alarm bells. Creeping closer, he saw the package - about the size of a small hat box, wrapped expertly in brown paper - was address simply “Logan c/o The Xavier Institute, Westchester, New York”. There was no return address, and nothing to suggest who it had come from. Even the postmarks looked anonymous.

“Scott?” Ororo asked, sounding very concerned. “Is something wrong?”

“I think we need to evacuate the school, now,” he told, the burning returning to his stomach.

“What?” She replied in disbelief.

“Scott - ” the Professor began.

“No one would send Logan anything here,” he pointed out, wondering if he should just shoot the bloody thing. But if it was a bomb, he could set it off. “No one knows he’s here except … well, you know who.”

Pitor stood up so fast his chair screamed on the hardwood floor as it was shoved back violently. “Do you think it’s a bomb?” He asked, inadvertently echoing his thoughts.

“I don’t know,” Scott admitted. “I just have a really bad feeling about this.” Did he ever.

Well, he had to look on the bright side - it was hard to feel sorry for yourself when there was a weapon of mass destruction on your kitchen table.