'I think it's dark and it looks like rain,' you said.
'And the wind is blowing like it's the end of the world,' you said.
'And it's so cold it's like the cold if you were dead,' and then you smiled...
for a second."
The Cure, "Plainsong"

Somewhere, outside of Omaha, Nebraska
Heartland Military Security Zone (H-MilZone)
Seven years from now...

"...reporting from the scene of what appears to be an assassination attempt on New York's junior Senator, Scott Summers..."

The girl turned her head, facing the tall man behind her. "Unca Sin," she said, her brilliant green eyes shimmering in the dull luminescence of the room.

He could see the reflection of the tele-feed glistening off her eyes as he turned to face her. "Yes, my dear?" he said, wiping his hands clean and giving her his full attention.

"Unca Sin, why do people die?"

He almost smiled at her innocent query.

The camera angle shifted as the cameraman desperately attempted to get a better view of the carnage ahead. Blood was everywhere... "The irony of the situation could not be more poignant," the reporter continued, her face only half in the camera view. "For it was just five years ago that Sen. Summers won a special election called after the assassination of Senator-Elect Professor Charles Xavier as he gave his victory speech in November 1994..."

He placed his arms delicately around the young girl, lifting her up and placing her head gently on his shoulder. A contented sigh rose from her. "It is the nature of living things, my dear," he said solemnly. "We all serve our purpose, and pass from this realm. No one truly knows why. It simply is."

"Oh," she said, her mouth opening in an 'o', as if grasping his words in some manner. Well, he thought. Considering the source, perhaps she did.

"Unca Sin...are you mad?"

That struck him. He turned to her, incredulity etched on his face. "My dear, what on earth ever gave you that impression? Did I raise my voice?"

She shook her head.

"Did I scowl?" he asked.

Another shake of the head and this time, a crack of a smile.

"Did I raise a hand to you?" He started lightly running his fingers over her stomach, gently beginning to tickle her. The little girl began to giggle in his arms. He smiled warmly. "See? Why did you think you had angered me?"

"It's th' dead-man," she said, pointing to the dancing images on-screen. "You mad at him."

The carnage of the pressing mob had been replaced by the dapper-looking network anchorman, whose expression exuded false modesty and concern as he related the recent events. "The Senator was to have delivered his personal message of defiance, following the passage-late last night-of the Emergency Praetorian Executive Authority Act," he said, checking the wording of the law (as if he didn't know) from an off-screen teleprompter. It made him seem almost caring... "As you may well know, the incipient so-called Mutant Insurrection began in December of '94, following the assassination of Senator-Elect Charles Xavier, the famous geneticist and mutant rights activist and, until Senator Summers, the second known mutant to serve in higher office. For those of you who didn't know, the first known mutant officeholder was Senator Stephan Shaffrans of Massachusetts, who fled in battle from the now-defunct government mutant team X-Factor and has not been seen since." He gathered up the papers before him, tapped them gently on the desk to make them appear orderly, and placed them back down. "To repeat once more, Senator Scott Summers, the outspoken Democratic junior senator from New York, has been critically wounded, felled by a single shot to the head at close range. A press release to Reuters news wife from the Friends of Humanity deny responsibility for the attack-" the view faded suddenly, collapsing into a wave of multicolored pixels and static.

"Wow!" the girl cooed, pointing at the now-blank screen. "What happened?"

"I saw no use to subject you to their senseless prattle, my dear," he said, placing her lightly on her feet once more. "And as to my 'feelings' for the unfortunate senator...well, we go far back, child. Farther back than either of us would want to admit anymore. We were never on better terms than we are right now."

The girl frowned her brows knitting together in confusion. "But...he's almost dead, huh?"

"Precisely the point, child," he said, turning, once more, to his work.

"I don't understand." She looked adrift, unable to see through his cryptic remarks.

He stopped momentarily, turning his head once more to face her. A small smile crossed his face. "Dear sweet child...I hope that condition remains in place for many years to come. Pray for blissful naivet, for in this world," he looked back at the darkened screen, "only idealists suffer for the sins of dreams long dead and buried."

Seven Years Ago...
The Beginning...

"Hank, are you busy?" Jean asked, walking into the MedLab.

Hank looked up, smiling. "I'm never too busy for a fellow team-mate," he commented. "What can I do for you?"

Jean held up a paper bag with the name of the local drugstore written on it. "I went out and bought this today." She reached into the bag and pulled out a small box.

Hank looked at the box, and his smile became even more pronounced. "Jean, that's a home pregnancy test kit. Are you saying you're-?"

"I don't know," Jean confessed, opening the box with a sheepish grin. "I went to take the test and ran into a...slight problem." She pulled out a plastic container, about the size of a thimble. "They want me to...well.. uh into this? Who are they kidding?"

Hank suppressed a laugh. "An obvious design flaw. Are you asking me to perform a blood test? Why didn't you just ask me in the first place? I would have been happy to."

"I know that. I guess I was just thinking that it would be nice if I am pregnant, to have Scott be the first person to know, besides myself." Jean blushed. "It's not that I don't like you...."

"I understand," Hank said. "But I guess the kit just wasn't for you. Why don't you roll up your sleeve and I'll just take a blood sample. We should know for sure in less than an hour."

"Thanks Hank." Jean rolled up her sleeve.

"And don't worry," Hank assured her. "If indeed you are with child, your secret remains safe with me until you chose to break the news."

"Thanks, Hank," she smiled, playfully giving him a kiss on his forehead. "You're wonderful."

Hank grinned, his blue eyes sparkling. "Why Jean, that's a very nice thing to say to someone who is about to stick a needle into your veins."

Jean paced the floor of the bedroom she hared with her husband, waiting for him to come in. How do I tell him? she thought. This is a very special moment, I want to do this right. I want to do it in such a way that someday we can tell our child about it. I want this moment to be perfect.

"Jean?" Scott walked into the room, a look of concern on his face. "Hank told me you wanted to see me. Is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine!" Jean assured him. "I just have some...news."

"Tell me," Scott asked, his jawline tensing up. No matter how often he was reasuured, he couldn't help but worry that something terrible was wrong. He'd been the boy without a family, and there was part of him that waited for the shoe to drop, for God or someone to come along at take this away from him, this beautiful wife and this life of hapiness.

"Scott...I'm pregnant," Jean blurted out. Well, so much for the subtle approach!

Scott's face was completely unreadable for a moment as he absorbed the news. Then slowly, he began to smile. "You...we ...baby...us?" he stammered, not knowing quite what he should say.

"Yes!" Jean smiled, delighted with his reaction. Speachless and smiling was good... very good.

"I'm going to have a..." He broke into a grin and scooped her up in his arms, swinging her around. "Correction... we're going to have a baby!"

"Yes!" Jean agreed, laughing. "That's what usually happens when someone is pregnant!"

"Oh Jean!" He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. "I'm so happy. This is fantastic! How did you know?" He couldn't help but pile questions on her, after all this was all new to him. She'd had some time to contemplate the situation, get used to the idea, roll it around in her mind. "Are you feeling all right? Have you seen a doctor to make sure everything is all right? Have you been able to sense the child? Can you tell yet if he/she will be a boy or a girl?"

Jean shook her head, trying not to laugh. "Slow down a bit, please! No, I haven't been able to sense the child yet. I found out the old fashioned way. Hank performed a blood test. We're estimating I'm two months along."

"That's..." Scott began and stopped, his joyous grin changing to an expression of worry. "That's not good, is it? You should be able to sense the baby, shouldn't you?"

Jean shook her head. "It could be too early to read anything from him or her. Don't worry, Love. I just know everything is going to be fine!"

Scott's worried expression changed back into the happy smile. "Of course, you're right," he agreed, hugging his wife again, tightly and kissing her. "Everything is going to be... perfect . This is our time, our chance at happiness."

"Thus says the Lord:
In Ramah is heard the sound of moaning,
of bitter weeping!
Rachel mourns her children,
she rufuses to be consoled
because her children are no more."
Jeremiah 31:15 (NAB version)

Henry stroked his chin thoughtfully. The more he looked, the less pleased he was at what he saw. Before him floated a holographic representation of a long double strand of DNA and mRNA, taken during his amniocentesis testing of Jean earlier. Caught in the process of transcription, the bases were colour-coded brilliant blues, reds, yellows, and greens, but it wasn't the nominal composition of the helices that worried Henry.

He ran a finger along a section one-third from the top, the promoter-site where transcription begins. "Magnify, times five," he whispered quietly. CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! went the view, and the section sprung up to greet him. "There," he said to himself, pointing at the small grey cluster directly adjacent to the promoter. A repressor protein was inhibiting transcription below the fourteenth nucleotide and instead of the mRNA ceasing transcription-as it normally should until an inducer protein arrived to neutralize the offending set of bases-the repressor was being enzymatically excised, sloughed off to drift away as a useless intron. But that wasn't all . . .

Henry wiped the gathering sweat from his brow, suddenly very frightened. "Magnify, times two," he croaked, a lump gathering deep in his throat. CLICK! CLICK! What the devil is . . . that? he thought, following the coding sequence. UGG-CA*-AC*-U** . . . the sequence makes no sense. What is "*"? "Identify base represented graphically by an asterisk," he vocalized into his head-mike, adjusting it lightly before his mouth. He nervously licked his lips, waiting for the response.

INSUFFICIENT DATA TO COMPLY, came the curt reply across the holographic display.

Hmmm, Henry thought, running his palm over the track-ball, positioning the cursor directly one of the base's identified with the anomalous asterisk. He gently depressed the ball, which signalled the computer to run a diagnostic on the affected portion. A molecular breakdown scrolled up, and Henry squinted at the small type. Similar to uracil, bonds like any other base . . . I don't understand, he shook his head. A heretofore unknown base---wait a minute! "Run intron sequence," he said hurriedly. "Overlay sequence onto unknown base. Chemical breakdown, please."

He watched with ill-concealed panic as the intron's component bases-formerly the repressor protein that had attempted to stop mRNA transcription-scrolled down, matching one-for-one the "asterisk base." My God, he thought. The repressor is being incorporated into the DNA. How?! His shaking hand found the commlink toggle. Nervously, he punched in a three-number sequence.

"Hmm? This is Charles," came the familiar tone of Henry's mentor and friend.

Hank cleared his dry throat. "Professor . . . I'm in over my head. I need your help down in the MedLab." He swallowed hard, fighting to retain control of his voice. In the long decade of research Henry had collected over the years-most of it building on and expanding previous works by Charles, Moira and others-he had never run across something like this. Even the amazing genome of Franklin Richards-which was first encoded and then shared with Henry by Franklin's father, Reed-with its overwhelming amount of zDNA regulatory genes, wasn't this bizarre.

"Is there something wrong, Henry?" Charles asked, curiosity and worry creeping into his voice. He'd heard this tone in his old student only once before . . . and that was the day he'd showed him the schematic of Legacy. "What are you working on?"

"I did an amniocentesis on Jean and Scott's child yesterday," Hank said, pulling his glasses off and closing their arms. "I've run into something that doesn't make any sense to me at all . . . something that might effect the baby." There. He'd said it. All of his fears, all of his nightmarish thoughts concentrated into that small confession.

Charles wasted no time replying. "I'll be right down." Fzzp!

Oh God, please let me be wrong . . . please let me be wrong . . .

Charles Francis Xavier, Doctor of Philosophy, graduated valedictorian of his class. A brilliant geneticist by any standard, he had published well over two hundred papers on human mutation and the so-called 'x-factor.' He's worked on some of the most complex Gordian knots in the field: the composition and location of the 'x-factor,' how it is successfully transcribed rather than ignored like most introns and zDNA complexes, and the hypothetical nature human evolution is taking in the field of human mutation Legacy crushed his delusions of omnipotence.

But this . . . this was much, much worse.

Charles massaged his temples methodically, his eyes constantly switching from hologram to hologram, comparing the nucleotides that filled up his field of vision with bright colours. Before him, his "granddaughter's" genome lie bare to his mind. "As I see it," he began, "somehow, the mRNA and tRNA has malfunctioned. The repressor protein is converted into an intron-supposedly discarded- . . . and it then reincorporated later on as an intrinsic part of the child's DNA chain-"

"-Charles," Henry broke in, clenching his fists. "That's impossible. Nucleotide production is a well-known function. How on earth could the mRNA mistake an intron for a viable nucleotide base? And then why would the tRNA take an intron-which is what the repressor was converted into when it was separated-and use it's EXACT sequencing to synthesize an unknown base into the DNA?"

The Professor frowned. "That's . . . that's the problem, Henry. It shouldn't be doing that. In fact, I am curious as to where the inducer protein is. It should be dealing with the repressor, not the excising enzymes." He scrolled through the chemical composition of the base, shaking his head "It does bear a similarity to uracil . . . but it cannot play a similar role. Have you isolated the child's x-factor yet?" he said, turning to face Henry.

Hank nodded. "Run x-factor," he vocalized into the head-mike. Another holographic representation of the child's DNA spiralled into existence. "Well, I have to hand it to Grahym . . . in this case, he was right. The x-factor in this child is clustered in a single section and looks more like a regulatory gene than anything else." Henry traced a section of the helices with his light-pen. "Magnify, times two." CLICK! CLICK!

Charles sat up straight. "Good Lord!"

Henry nodded. "Yup. She's a high-order psi, of that we can be absolutely sure. I would only be taking a wild guess here but I think it's safe to conclude she's of at least Jean's category . . ."

"Much higher, Henry," Charles said, pointing to a three-sequence section of nucleotides. "I've seen that sequencing before."

Henry frowned, placing the light-pen down and crossing his arms. "Where? I didn't think to cross-reference with any known genotypes."

Charles paled, tearing his vision away from the helices and facing his student and friend. "My God, Henry. I saw that sequence in Rachel."

Even though both the Professor and Hank were doing there best to shield their thoughts from her, Jean knew the moment she and Scott walked into Charles's study that something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she sat down. What is it going to be? she thought. Is our baby dead? What is happening? Whatever it is, I know it isn't good. I'm scard. I'm so scard.

Scott looked at the professor and Hank. "You wanted to see us?" On the outside, he looked completely calm and relaxed... he had to. Until he knew what was wrong, there was no sense in panicing.

"Yes," Hank said, motioning to the chair next to Jean's. "Have a seat." He wished he didn't have to do this. This had to be the worst part about being a doctor... having to tell his "patients" that something was wrong. "We have to talk to you about the results of the tests I performed earlier on Jean and the baby."

Scott sat down, gripping the arm of the chair. "Everything is all right, isn't it?" He looked from Hank to the professor, trying to read their emotions.

Hank sighed. "No, Scott, everything is not 'all right.' I only wish to God I didn't have to tell you this."

"Tell us what?" Jean interrupted, trying to keep her voice calm. She looked at Hank, her eyes wide with fear. "Please, Hank, don't try to sugar coat it. Just tell us what is happening . . . .is . . . is our baby . . . dead?"

"No," Hank said. "Your child is not dead, but . . ."

Jean held the sigh of relief she was about to exhale at Hank's last word.

"But what?" Scott asked. His voice was calm, perfectly controlled. The voice of a leader. He wasn't going to give into panic, not until he knew the situation. It would be all right, he knew it would be. Charles was here... Charles wouldn't let anything happen to their baby.

"There are two things wrong, people," Hank held up two fingers, and lowered the first. "First, the child's mRNA and tRNA-those portions of her genetic 'factory' that are responsible for transcribing and transferring the information found in her DNA-are malfunctioning on a massive scale, incorporating what is, in essence, 'junk' into her genome. These 'junk' sections-normally called introns if they are separated from the DNA, which, for some reason we don't know, are being reincorporated into the same DNA they were excised from-have created massive physical deformities in the fetus."

He held up his second finger. "Second, the child's telepathic prowess is tremendous, Charles says that it surpasses anything he has ever seen . . including himself. The fact that the child is flawed-"

"-'Flawed'?!-" Scott shouted, abruptly standing up.

Henry put up his hands in supplication. "I'm sorry, Scott, that was the wrong word to use. Basically, what I mean is that since the child's DNA is-is deviant from the very root, she cannot control her mutagenic abilities. They are unravelling at a swift rate, effecting her and everything about her."

As Hank explained, Jean felt as though part of her mind had frozen. I should understand this, she told herself. I should listen to every word and understand it, but I can't. This isn't a science test we're talking about, it's my baby! Mine and Scott's baby!

Scott stared at Hank, still standing, allowing his best unemotional leader mask to slip back into place. "Hank, could you please put this into plain english?" His voice began to raise, only slightly, showing that the calm cool facade was just that, a facade. "What-does-this-mean!"

Hank closed his eyes for a moment, reaching, searching his vast vocabulary for the right words. The only problem is that in this situation, there are no "right" words, he thought. "In brass tacks, Scott and Jean, it means this. There is less than a 10% chance that your child will have any shot at a 'normal' existence. The chances are better than good that she will be severely deformed-I would say the word to use here is 'probable.' This additional part of her DNA is totally alien to her and there is a very good chance that her strong telepathic abilities will harm not only her, but Jean as well. Possibly even others around Jean too."

She, Jean thought. The tests must have shown I'm carrying a girl. A little girl with red hair... Rachel... it's Rachel.

Scott's calm exterior faded as the news sunk in. "Are you saying there's no choice? That if Jean has this baby she and the baby might die?" He looked over at the professor, as a child might like look to his father, pleading with his eyes for Charles to make everything all right.

"Scott, Jean, you do have options," Charles said gently.

Options, Jean thought, hanging onto that word with everything she had. It seemed to be a the only lifeboat in this situation. "Wh . . . what options?" she whispered, reaching out and taking Scott's hand. She needed him then. Needed the comfort of his touch to assure her that she wasn't alone. He enclosed his hand around hers.

Hank looked at the professor, then at the couple. "Your first option, of course, is to just continue along the way you are and hope that the odds are in your favor. Perhaps Charles and I are wrong and the child will be fine."

"But you aren't very confident of that, are you?" Scott asked.

Both Hank and Charles shook their heads.

"What else?" Scott asked his voice cracking.

"Gene therapy," Hank said. "Perhaps if I could splice in some healthy genes into the baby, that might help. "

"Might . . ." Scott repeated. "That doesn't sound too hopeful . . ."

Hank shook his head. "I don't know. Scott, we're talking about things that just aren't normally done. I'm a biochemist, not a geneticist. "

"Any other options?" Jean croaked.

"One other option," Hank said.

"What is that?" Scott asked.

Hank hesitated only a moment. "Aborting the fetus."

In other words, killing our baby, Jean thought, numbly.

"There is always the hope that you two could later produce a healthy offspring," Hank pointed out. "And the abortion procedure is safe . . ."

"What are you saying Hank?!" Scott screamed, losing control. "Just kill the child and start again till we get it right? How cold can you be? This isn't some misbehaving puppy, it's our baby!"

"It certainly is," Hank said, looking Scott straight in the eye. "And unfortunately, your baby may very well wind up killing your wife!"

"There has to be other options!" Scott said. "This isn't the middle ages for cripes' sake, it's the '90's. Progress is being made every day in the field of science. You're telling me they haven't come up with anything that could help our baby? Nothing?

"Scott, your's and Jean's situation is something that could almost never happen," Charles interjected. "Human mutation is still new to the world of science. Not much has been done in the field of medicine. You and Jean are probably the first people in the world to be facing this problem."

"So, what the two of you are saying is that we have no real choice," Scott snapped bitterly.

"No," Hank disagreed. "I just told you what your options are."

"Those aren't options!" Scott roared. What would you do in our situation?" What if Jean was your wife and she was carrying your baby, hmm? Then what would you do?!"

Hank didn't hesitate. "I would want my wife to have an abortion."

"I . . . I won't get an abortion," Jean whispered.

Immediately the room became quiet as everyone turned to look at her. "Jean?" Scott asked, "Are you all right?"

All the color had drained out of her face. "I . . . I won't get an abortion," she repeated. "I can't do it. This is our baby I'm carrying. Scott's and mine. She was conceived in love and she deserves a chance . . . I don't want to talk about abortion anymore." She stood up, shaking. "Hank, I understand how you feel, really I do, but I just can't even . . ."

She paused, for a moment, as Hank Charles, and the entire room began spinning. "I just... jus..."

Scott stood up. "Jean?"

Hank started towards her. "Jean, are you all right?"

"No . . ." Jean mumbled. "No I'm . . ."

Scott caught her in his arms as she fainted.

"Remember how it used to be?
The stars would fill up the sky.
Remember how we used to feel
Those nites would never end . . .

But now the sun shines cold.
And all the sky is grey.
The stars are dimmed by clouds.
And all I wish is gone away . . .

. . all I wish is gone away . . ."

The Cure, "To Wish Impossible Things"

Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning
1407 Greymalkin Lane
Westchester, NY
MedLab
0128 hours . . .

Charles stroked his chin thoughtfully. For the fifth time since Jean collapsed into Scott's arms, he reached out with his mental fingers, probing the deepest recesses of her mind. Softly, tenderly, he pursued the cause, searching for the obvious . . . and the not so obvious. No sign of a stroke, he thought. No neurological trauma that would indicate an aneurism. No . . . anything. For the fifth time that night, Charles sighed heavily.

"Still nothing, Charles?" Henry asked, lifting his glasses to rub his weary eyes.

"Not a clue," came the soft reply. "I can bring her out at any time . . ."

"But you're worried that you might be missing something, right?" Henry said, casting a forlorn glance at his teammate and old friend. She was sprawled peacefully across the MedLab diagnostic table. Her bright red hair had been carefully gathered about her shoulders. He could barely see the rise of her chest. It was almost as if . . . no. Best not complete that, old boy, he thought.

Charles was nodding. "Even when fully acquiescing, a psi can never fully retract their screens, no more so than a person can actively cease their heartbeat. It's an integral part of their systems. But unconscious, I have easier access to her mind . . . and it's doing me no good. I can't find a neurological problem. All her synapses are firing as per expectations for someone of her physical and psychological makeup. All appears to be normal." He turned to face Hank. "Could it have something to do with her pregnancy?"

Henry set his jaw. "I . . . couldn't tell you, Charles," he said reluctantly, his words laced with the deepest frustration. "I'm not an M.D. What I know about a pregnant woman's physiology could fit into a very small thimble," he grimaced, holding up his forefinger and thumb.

Charles sighed once more. "I know, Hank. I'm sorry. I do expect too much of you." He massaged his temples, closing his eyes against the glare of the overhead lights. "Hank . . . I have a theory; a hypothesis, really. I have no proof . . . just a hunch. I want to use you as a sounding board." He looked up at his protege. "Check my reasoning, if you please."

"Certainly, Professor," Henry said, lacing his fingertips atop the bridge of his nose.

"Back in the '60s, before I gathered the X-Men, I had a . . . a friend. She was a nurse by trade. I met her while undergoing therapy for my legs . . ." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, she told me once of a pregnant woman who was a minor psi; the barest hints of telepathy were evidenced in her. At times, the woman would pass out, and no one could find a medical reason why. This happened more frequently as she came to term. When she finally delivered the child, there was a tremendous burst of psi-particles-something only my friend could ascertain without more sophisticated equipment. The woman died shortly thereafter. Her entire prefrontal lobe's synapses had been fused."

"Let me guess," Henry interrupted. "The child was a telepath, correct?"

Charles nodded. "You read the article, too."

"Psychology Today, August '72," Hank said. "I'll never forget it."

"When Hollings penned it," Xavier continued, "he was scarcely in a position to be authoritative. He was a geneticist, not a psychiatrist or psychologist. But it was his approach which convinced the submission's editor to include it in the issue. I recall our arguments were quite heavy on whether or not the cause of her condition was telepathic in nature. He called it 'Psionic Sublimation Syndrome.' Hollings thought a paired mother/child telepathic rapport could turn into a parasitic linkage if proper training wasn't quickly administered to both halves."

Henry cocked a brow. "A rather bizarre notion . . . training a fetus." He glanced back at Jean. "Do I understand you correctly in that you suspect that the same might be occurring here?"

Charles spread his hands in supplication. "That, unfortunately, I don't know. Given that the child's psionic abilities are active, and that the 'junk' introns has been fully integrated into her genome . . . I had considered that PSS might be possible explanation. Absence of any other conclusive evidence..."

"A tenuous linkage . . ." Henry frowned.

"Very tenuous," Xavier admitted.

Hank jerked a thumb at the diagnostic table. "And 'Sleeping Beauty'?"

Charles broke out into an open scowl. "In absence of anything conclusive, there's no use prolonging her state any longer," he said. "Let's keep an eye on her, though."

"Right-"

"And Hank?" Charles said, affixing his eyes on Henry. "Not a word to Scott. Not a word to Jean. The tentative nature of my hypothesis precludes any certainty. Let's not panic them unnecessarily." He turned, taking in Jean's seemingly frail form, sedate and calm on the table. "They've enough to be concerned with without adding an old man's worries..."

The storm swept over the Institute, crashing against her venerable walls with a fury. The weatherman had predicted three inches of rain in under two hours and a Severe Thunderstorm Warning had been issued until around eight in the morning. It was now barely four, meaning there was much more of this weather to look forward to. Fitting, I suppose, Scott thought. Jean sat with her back to him, sobs wracking her body.

"Bu-but why? Why us? Why her?" she said, tears slowly welling down her cheeks. "I thought she-she-oh God, Scott, my-our baby!"

Scott reached around his wife, gently removing her hands away from her face and placing his arms about her. He rocked her slowly, head pressed lightly against hers. "Shhhhh, hon, shhhhhh," he breathed softly into her ear. "I'm here. I'll always be here. We'll make it through. We always do. Charles and Hank will think of something. They have to."

"But what-"

"No 'buts,'" he interjected softly, cradling her, holding her close. The sobs had died down, but he could feel their presence, feel them just below the surface. He reached out with the crook of his forefinger, carefully lifting a tear of her cheek. "We can't lose faith now, Jean. Not now. We'll make it . . . it's just a matter of how we manage to do it that's left."

Jean flipped a stray curl out of her face. "Oh, but the devil is always in the details, Scott," she said, almost whispering. "I'm scared. God, I never thought I'd ever be this scared . . . but I am."

"I know, Red," he half-smiled into her hair, his voice muffled. "I am too . . . I'm just not as good expressing it as you are." He continued rocking her slowly, back and forth. Inside, his mind was aflame, that inner voice was screaming to be heard. But his lips didn't move, his throat didn't contract. Silence.

"Scott?"

"Yes, hon?"

"Are-are you mad at me?" she said, tentatively, voice thick with pain.

Through their rapport, Scott felt the wave of emotions. Fear, hurt, betrayal. One by one, he snipped them off, pulling deep into his thoughts, cutting everything else out. "Good Lord, Jean, whatever gave you-?"

"-you're pulling away," she said, removing his arms from about her. She turned to face him, searching his face. "I-I can't feel you anymore. Open up to me. How-?"

Scott held up his hand. "I . . . can't, Jean," he frowned, brows knitting

She watched as his lower lip began to tremble; then control reasserted itself, and he steadied. A fixed mask slid down over his features. "I don't know-I don't know how I'm supposed to feel. Muh-My baby . . ." He broke down, control slipping away precipitously. A deep groan escaped from deep within him, and tears slipped out from underneath his glasses. Jean moved to wipe them away, but he'd beat her to it. "No!" he shouted, startling her. "Sorry. It's just . . . you might . . . loosen the glasses if you're not careful enough. I can't risk that." He carefully slipped his pinky finger beneath the edge of the rims and, with movements practiced over many years, gently wiped away the moisture. A simple gesture, one he'd done many, many times over his life.

Jean tucked her legs underneath her, wrapping her arms about herself. She could feel him pull away further. The rapport that had linked them for-years? no, her rapport had been in place only since the wedding-was almost attenuated out of existence. A barest flicker of awareness was there. She could feel his presence if she shut her eyes . . . but nothing more. She was alone.

Scott stood up suddenly, bringing Jean back, presently. She looked up from her position, watching silently as he went to the window. The ebon blackness of the early morning hours was briefly punctuated by the near-simultaneous flash/crash of lightning and thunder. She was momentarily startled. Scott didn't seem to mind. "Honey?" she said softly.

Silence. Just the slap of sheet rain against the window, against the house greeted her call. He ran a hand through his hair slowly, oblivious to all but his inner thoughts. She sensed the barest hints of the turmoil inside him, but the rapport was cold and almost lifeless. She tried to tweak it, stir it once or twice, but, if anything, it shrunk even further into insignificance. A deep pit opened up in her stomach, and she suddenly felt very ill. She had been shut out.

Quietly, she lifted herself up, walking towards the door. A forlorn glance behind her . . . still self-absorbed. She grasped the doorknob and turned it, leaving the room.

She didn't look back again.

Scott looked down where Jean lay sleeping on the bed. His face was expressionless, but his mind was in a turmoil. One of Jean's hands was curled around her stomach, in a protective gesture as though by cradling the child still in the womb, that somehow the child might be all right.

This isn't fair, Scott thought, reaching over to brush away a stray lock of hair that had fallen onto Jean's face. Damn it, she's seven months along and neither Hank or Charles has come up with anything to help her! She's looking more and more tired. This pregnancy is taking so much out of her . . . . This should be some of the happiest moments of our life together, planning for this baby, sharing in every little thing, but instead it's hell. All we're doing is waiting for the bomb to drop. Why aren't they doing something! How can they leave us to suffer like this? What have we done? What crime have Jean and I committed that would justify this sort of punishment?

He sat down on the edge of the bed carefully, so as not to disturb his sleeping wife. Tears gathered in his eyes as he thought of how unfair this all was. All I ever wanted was a chance for a family. My parents and I were separated when I was young and then Alex and I were separated. I lost my chance to raise Christopher. All I want is a chance for Jean and I to raise our daughter. Our daughter who should be born beautiful and healthy

Bitterly, he looked out the window, towards the sky. God, if you're really up there, you sure enjoy dumping on us don't you? Maybe I've done something you can't forgive me for, but Jean has done nothing. Doesn't she deserve the chance to have a healthy child we can love and raise? Doesn't she?!

God wasn't offering and answers. Scott stood up. Maybe someone else can! he thought as he walked out the door.

Bleary eye and weary, Hank looked up as Scott entered the MedLab. He and Charles had been spending more nights up wracking their brains for some sort of solution to Jean and Scott's problem. And so far, the experience compared to banging one's head against a brick wall, he thought. He studied Scott as he strode over towards him. Scott looked as though sleep hadn't exactly been his best friend either. Why am I not surprised? he thought "Scott, what can I do for you?"

If Scott's eyes had been visible, Hank would have seen the fire in them. "How about saving my wife and daughter for starters!" he snarled.

I must not let him get to me, Hank thought. The man is under a great deal of strain. I would be too if I were in his shoes. I'm sure he doesn't mean to take it out on me. "Scott, Charles and I have been working on this problem practically non-stop since we discovered it was there. What more should we do?"

"Well obviously you aren't working hard enough!" Scott snapped. All the strain and tension he'd been under these last five months was bubbling it's way rapidly up to the surface. Scott Summers, the field leader of the X-Men blue team was losing his cool. "Damn it, Hank, Jean looks terrible. Neither of us have been able to do much of anything! Jean keeps falling asleep, but waking up looking like she still needs to rest! I haven't been getting any sleep!"

"What more can we do?" Hank interrupted, trying to keep his voice calm. "Charles and I haven't exactly been sleeping the sleep of angels these five months either. Both of us are burning our candles at both ends and in the middle. I'm sorry I'm unable to come up with a simple solution to this problem. I would give my right arm and my left to be able to do something-anything-to assure that Jean and your daughter are both going to be healthy."

"Talk is cheap, McCoy," Scott stated, his teeth gritted in anger and frustration. "You're the one with all the knowledge. You have to do something I don't want to lose Jean or the baby. Damn it, Hank, both of them have a right to life!"

"I agree with you that both of them have the right to life," Hank protested. "But Scott, I am a biochemist. I am not a geneticist, and most importantly, I am not God. All I can do is the best I can do!"

"Well it's obvious your 'best' isn't good enough!" Scott yelled, fighting the tears that gathered under his glasses. "And are you sure this is your best? When you first told Jean and I of the problem, you were plugging that Jean should get an abortion! Maybe you still feel that way. Maybe you're not trying hard enough because you don't want our baby to live!"

A cold shiver ran down Hank's spine as he looked up at his friend. "Scott," he said, his voice quiet and filled with pain. "Even with all the stress you are under, that was a very low blow."

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Scott knew Hank was correct. "You're right," he whispered, the tears he'd fought so hard to control spilling down from his glasses and onto his cheeks. "Hank, I'm sorry, I just don't know what to do any more!"

Hank stood up and put his hand on Scott's shoulder. "I know Scott, and I really wish there was something I could do. But I haven't given up hope yet and neither should you. If we have to, Charles and I will keep working on this around the clock."

"I know that," Scott said, fighting to keep from sobbing. "But I'm so scared Hank. All I want is for Jean and the baby to be fine."

"That's exactly what Charles and I want also."

Logan watched as Jean left the mansion and started towards town. What in the world is she doing! he thought to himself. He was worried about Jean. She may be Mrs. Summers-Grey now, but she was also still his teammate and someone he would always care deeply for. This pregnancy was taking its toll on her and Logan didn't like this at all. She's not stupid enough to try to walk into town is she? he thought, and if she is, am I going to let her?

He went back into the mansion. The keys to Rogue's convertible were lying on the coffee table in the living room. He knew that Rogue and Remy were out on Remy's bike for the afternoon. Scrawling a quick note on the back of a TV Guide, he picked up the keys and left the mansion. I'll just make sure the tank is filled before I get back, that'll make up for the "unauthorized" borrowing, he thought.

Jean was less than a quarter of a mile from the mansion when he caught up with her. He slowed down the car along side of her. "Hey, pretty lady," he called out. "Where ya headed?"

Jean looked at Logan and smiled. But beneath the bright facade, it was obvious her mind hadn't been dwelling on pleasant thoughts. "I just thought I'd take a walk into town," she murmured.

"It's too hot and you're too pregnant to be walking," Logan said, trying to keep his voice calm and not to show he was worried about her. "I'm on my way to pick up some beer. Why don't you tag along with me?"

Jean hesitated. She had been avoiding her teammates lately, afraid of breaking down in front of them, afraid of letting them see how upset and worried she was. It was hard enough to try to be brave and strong for Scott, she wasn't sure she could be for Logan. "A little exercise can't hurt myself or the baby," she whispered.

Putting on the emergency brake, Logan leaped out of the car and stood in front of her. "Looky, here, Mrs. Summers," he began. "It seems kind of stupid, both of us heading into town together and not sharing the ride. As for exercise, I know you're in great shape, Jeannie, but you're also carrying around a lot of extra weight which can't be that easy on your feet. Take the ride and if you're sooo worried about exercise, when you come home you can take a swim, take the force of gravity off you and the kid.." He raised his hand to ward off her attempted protest. "And . . . that bundle of joy you're carting around . . . well, forgive me, Jeannie, but I feel like that's my niece you're carrying. And what kind of uncle would I be if I didn't get the chance to play chauffeur to the Mommy?"

The smile Jean gifted him with was genuine this time. "All right, Logan," she said. "I accept."

"Good," Logan said, walking over to open the passenger side door for her. "I'd hate to have to've carried you kicking and screaming."

On the ride into town, neither of them spoke much more than casual conversation. When they pulled onto the main street, Jean looked at him. "You can just let me out here."

"Why?" Logan asked. "I'll drive you wherever you want to go!"

"I've got several errands to run," Jean explained, looking a little nervous.

She doesn't want me to know where she's going, Logan thought. "Tell you what," he finally said. "Why don't I go and pick up the beer and do a couple other things I've been meaning to do, then I'll meet you over there," He pointed to a little coffee shop with tables outside. "In two hours. I'll buy you a milkshake, if you're lucky."

Jean thought for a moment, then nodded. "That sounds fine."

It took less than five minutes for Logan to find an out-of-sight place to park the car and return back to the spot he'd dropped Jean off at. Sniffing the air, he caught her scent and began to follow. I don't know what's up, Jeannie, he thought, but you were sure acting a little weird for someone who just had to run a few errands. Somehow I doubt you're picking up toothpaste. I hate to be nosy, but I'm worried about you.

Her scent lead up to a small church. Quietly, Logan tried the door. It was unlatched. He opened it and slipped inside.

Standing in the entrance hall, he peered into the sanctuary. Jean was sitting in one of the pews. Just sitting. He couldn't see her face, but her general posture told him she wasn't too happy. He hid himself half behind the doorway and watched.

Five minutes later, she rose from her seat and walked up to the alter. "God," she whispered.

Logan sneaked into the sanctuary and ducked into one of the last rows. He could stay out of sight, but still hear her. He wasn't worried that he would sense he was there. Long ago he'd learned how to block out telepaths and besides, she was obviously too concerned about something else to notice much of anything going on around her.

"God, I know I'm not exactly religious," Jean whispered. "I haven't really been a regular visitor in your house. I-I'm not even sure you really exist. But I'm desperate now and I don't know what to do!"

"This is all wrong," she continued. "The baby . . . . God, this isn't a normal pregnancy. The problems are getting worse every day . . . . I'm feeling worse every day. I've told Scott that if it comes down to a choice, I want the baby to be saved. I don't want my daughter to die . . . Scott deserves that much... he deserves to have his family..."

Logan had to fight himself from drawing in a sharp breath. He knew there were problems with this pregnancy, they all knew, but Charles and Hank said they were working on them. It doesn't exactly sound like they're having much success, he thought, frowning.

" . . . Both Scott and I want this baby so much," Jean said, her eyes looking at the large crucifix above the alter. "I've been trying to tell myself that it doesn't matter, as long as the baby lives, but God . . ."

She paused, unable to keep her sorrow at bay. Tears streamed from her eyes, falling onto her face, onto her shirt. The blue maternity T-shirt Jubilee had given her that said, Baby Under Construction, on it. Jubilee bought this shirt with her own money, the day we announced to everyone that I was pregnant, Jean thought. That was so sweet of her. But is the baby under construction or destruction?

"God I lied!" she said, her voice breaking into sobs. "I . . . I want to live. I want my baby to live. God . . . ." She buried her face in her hands. "All I want is a chance to raise my baby. To see her grow up. I don't want to die!" She returned to the front pew and sat down, crying.

I don't know what is going on here, Logan thought. And I'm not going to let Jean know I followed here in here. But I am going to find out exactly what is up with her, Scott, and this baby.

Hank looked over the results from the latest tests he'd done on Jean and her baby. Nothing had improved. He and Charles might just as well have done nothing.

"Face it, Dr. McCoy," he muttered. "You and Charles are completely stumped." Sighing, he opened up a drawer and took out his address book. Flipping it open to the L's, he looked at the page. At the top of the page was an address and phone number. When he'd bought this book, several years ago, this was the first name, address, and phone number he'd copied into it.

The number of a Dr. Lee who was one of the world's leading geneticists and an expert in mutant physiology. The stupid thing is that I didn't even have to do that, he thought as he picked up the phone. I didn't even have to look it up. This is one number I can't forget. He dialed the phone. Let's just hope I'm calling for all the right reasons, he thought. And not just for the person on the other end of this phone line.

It was ten o'clock at night when Hank heard the knock at the front door of the mansion. He was in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich.

Remy was sitting on the couch, watching a very bad B-science fiction move "I'll get it," he called out, leaping up from the couch and walking to the door. Probably Hank's stuffy Doctor friend, he thought to himself. The one he told us was coming. He opened the door. "Hell . . . ." he began and stopped abruptly, his mouth hanging open.

The woman at the door, smiled, her emerald green eyes sparkling in the dim light from the porch lamp. She had hair that ranged from the color of ripe wheat, to deep auburn hanging down to her waist in a mass of shinning waves and curls. More shocking than her hair was her dress. She was wearing a black denim mini-skirt and a very tight T-shirt that read, "Ph.D.-BS Piled Higher and Deeper," and black leather backpack slung over her shoulders. She was at least five foot eight. If Remy had met her on the streets he would have thought she was an actress and a rather sucessful one at that. "Hell?" she repeated. her voice low and sexy. "That's a heck of a greeting."

"Forgive me, Chere," Gambit said, regaining his composure. He took her hand and kissed it. "I'm just not used to such beautiful guests showing up at this hour of the night."

The woman looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "Uh huh... whatever you say. I'm Doctor Lee, is Dr. McCoy in?"

"I'm right here, Kimber," Hank called, coming up from behind Remy.

"Hank!" The moment, Kimber saw him, she dropped her backpack, rushed past Remy and threw her arms around Hank, giving him one of the best kisses Gambit had seen in a long time. Hank was visibly startled, but returned her affections with equal enthusiasm.

Hank! Remy thought with visible admiration. I guess not all doctors are as stuffy as you! Good job Mon Ami, I wish I was in your shoes right now.

Rubbing her eyes, Kimber looked up from the papers she was studying. "Hank, I gotta say one thing for you . . . When you do decide to call me about a problem, it sure is a doozy."

Hank's expression was one of bitter irony. "That, my dear, is a complete understatement."

Kimber sighed. "I've been here almost a month and I'm as stumped as you and Charles are." She gave a small laugh. "When you first called me, Hank, for one brief moment, I thought it was to tell me you'd decided to leave the X-Men and come work at my clinic." She looked away from him, back at the papers. "I should have known better."

Hank returned her sigh with one of his own, reached across the table and put his hand on hers. "We've known for a long time that we're both too married to our work to have a personal life."

"That's what my head says," Kimber agreed, looking down at their hands. "But my heart says it sure might be nice to wake up every morning with someone blue and furry next to me."

"As I would enjoy waking up to you every morning," Hank said, his voice soft.

"I haven't given up hope though." She grinned, regaining her humor. "Someday, you're gonna feel you're too old to go chasing after the bad guys and things that go bump in the night. On that day Hank, you'd better call me because I'll be waiting."

"Is that a promise or a threat?"

She rose from her chair, leaned over, and kissed him on the lips. "What do you think?"

He was about to answer, when Scott came running into the lab. "Hank, Kimber!"

"What is it?" Hank rose to his feet.

"It's Jean!" Scott's face was ashen and he was shaking. "She's . . . she laid down to take a nap and I can't wake her up!"

Both Kimber and Hank went running.

Scott looked down at Jean as she lay on the table, then over at Charles. "Please, Professor," he said, his voice choked with emotions. "What is wrong with her?"

Charles looked at Scott, his eyes betraying the fear and pain he was feeling, even though his expression was neutral. "I was afraid this was going to happen," he said, tight-lipped. "I think your child has Psionic Sublimation Syndrome, a rare type of disorder where the fetus 'feeds' off of the mother, flooding her mind with untrained and uninhibited psi particles It decreases the mother's neurotransmitter levels and eventually, she slips into a coma."

"Why would a child do that to her own mother?" Scott asked, running his hands through his hair in a frantic gesture.

"The child has no idea she's doing it," Charles explained. "She doesn't even realize she can do it."

"So is this what's wrong with her?" Scott asked. "Is the problem that our baby is a high order psi?"

"Unfortunately, no," Charles said, looking Scott straight in the face. "This is just another to add to the ever growing list."

"Damn it!" Scott turned away for a moment, clenching his fists in anger and frustration. He turned back, staring at the professor through his red glasses. "What is going on here? Why is this happening? Hank and you can't do anything and neither can Dr. Lee. What am I suppose to do?!"

"I don't know," Charles admitted. "Scott, I wish there was something I could do for all of you."

"Yeah, everyone has gotten real good at saying that," Scott said bitterly. "The problem is that no one is able to do anything."

I should really be asleep, Kimber thought as she got out of bed and pulled an oversized T-shirt on over her head. It's two in the morning and Hank and I have been working like crazy on this. I need my sleep. She threw her robe on, tying it firmly and slipped her feet into her slippers. I should just go back to bed . . . Aw, why am I fooling myself? I'm not going to sleep. She padded out of the room and across the hall to Hank's room.

Gently, she opened the door and peered in. Hank was asleep. She smiled, watching him for a moment. He probably just passed out, she thought. My poor love, he's been getting less sleep than I am.

She closed the door behind her and walked down to the basement, where Jean was in the MedLab. When she turned on the light, she saw Scott was sitting by Jean's bed, just holding her hand. He looked at her as she entered

"Hello, Scott," Kimber said, walking over to him. "Any changes?"

Scott shook his head.

Quickly, she checked the monitors, confirming what Scott had already told her. She put her hand on his shoulder. "Scott, you really should be getting some sleep."

"I can't sleep." Scott's tone was more than bitter, it was almost venomous. "My wife is in a coma, my child could be killing her as well as herself, and people expect me to sleep?"

"I could give you something to help you sleep," Kimber offered. "Things might be easier for you after eight hours of solid rest."

"Nothing is going to be 'easier' until my wife and baby are all right!" Scott snapped.

She looked at him. "Scott, since we're talking about this, you are aware that you're probably going to have to make a choice very soon."

"What choice?" Scott asked.

"Between your wife and daughter," Kimber answered, keeping her voice controlled. "Scott, I just don't have any solutions. Nothing we've tried so far is working. The way it looks now, it's going to be a choice between one or the other."

Scott clenched his fists, not speaking.

"I know it doesn't seem 'fair' or 'right,' but sometimes life is neither fair nor right." She pulled up another chair and sat down next to him. "Scott, you and Jean are still young. Your daughter is already going to have numerous problems. You and Jean might be able to have healthy children someday. And if you can't, well, I know of children, healthy children, who desperately need homes. Most of them are mutants who's parents have abandoned them because of what they are. They would give anything to have a good home and two wonderful parents like you and Jean."

Scott turned away from Jean and stared at her. "Are you suggesting we just give up on my daughter? Throw her away and go find another one? Dr. Lee, that's the coldest thing I've ever heard in my life."

His voice sounded as if it had been sprayed with a fine coat of ice. Kimber felt a shiver go up her spine. I'm playing a very dangerous game here, she thought. She swallowed. "Scott, I'm not trying to sound cold or as if I don't understand what a tremendous loss this would be for both you and Jean to lose your daughter. I'm just trying to get you to face facts. I know they're unpleasant and I wish there was something I could do, but I can't. I'm at a complete loss here."

"So, you just think we ought to kill my daughter eh?" Scott's voice got colder and colder. "Some doctor you are, Ms. Lee. Since when is murder acceptable for someone in your profession?"

I've worked my butt off trying to come up with something, Kimber thought. Hank and Charles have been working too. I understand what the man must be going through but . . . " And since when is not being able to accept the facts part of your line of work, Mr. Summers?" she said, trying to keep her anger at check. "You want it all, don't you? You want your wife to be fine and your child to be perfect. I don't blame you for that, that's what everyone would want, but you are refusing to accept the fact that may not be possible! And if you continue to sit around and wait for God to come down off the mountain and perform the miracle that will save everyone, you could damn well wind up losing them both!" She rose to her feet, heading towards the door. Before she left, she turned around and took one last look at him. "Think about that while you're baby-sitting sleeping beauty. Think about how wonderful life is going to be when you don't have anything."

She left the room and stormed down the hall. She was so upset, she didn't even see Logan hiding in the shadows.

When she was out of sight, Logan left his hiding place. Now I know, he thought, his mind reeling from the impact of the words he had overheard. So that's the situation. Jean is in danger from the baby and Scott refuses to do anything. He won't take responsibility, he just wants to wait around and hope that everything is going to turn out perfect.

His eyes narrowed as he stared at the MedLab door. Looks like Summers and I are gonna have to have a little talk, real soon.

"i speak religion's message clear
-and I control you-
i am denial, guilt, and fear
-and I control you-
i am the prayers of the naive
-and I control you-
i am the lie that you believe
-and I control you-
i take you where you want to go
i give you all you need to know
i drag you down, i use you up
mr. self destruct."

Nine Inch Nails, "mr. self destruct"

Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning
Salem Center, Westchester County,
New York
living room
0238 hours . . .

Scott Summers walked briskly down the hallway, mind ablaze with anger, frustration and confusion. Back and forth he argued with himself, trying to find some way, some answer to the impossible circumstance God had put him in. He nearly didn't see the match's flame until he ran right into it.

"Whoa!" he exclaimed, momentarily startled. "Remy? Is that you?"

"Don't you wish, Summers," came the deep growl from the shadows. Scott's blood froze, icy fingers crawling down his spine at the sight of the glowing cigar ember. My God, Sabretooth's out-

"I hear your heart, boy," came the growl, "pounding' like a jackrabbit possessed. You forgotten me already, Slim?"

The man stepped out of the shadows and into the half-light of the hallway. Logan. "Wassamatter, Scottie-boy? Expectin' someone else?"

Summers ran his hand through his disheveled hair, relaxing a bit. "God, I thought you were Victor," he sighed. "Don't scare me like that. How did you get back in-?"

CRACK! went the sound of Logan's fist snap-striking against Scott's face, sending the latter careening into the wall with a loud THUD! Stunned, Scott brought his fingers up to his nose, and brought away blood. "Wha-?!" he yelled as Logan closed his hands around Scott's lapels and lifted him clear off his feet, jacking him up against the wall. When Logan next spoke, it was the rasping sound of dry leaves.

"I want ya t'listen to me an' listen good, Slim," Logan hissed through clenched teeth. "It took me a bit t' get th' whole story, but now that I have it, I know exactly what's up and why yer actin' like a Class A ass-"

"What the hell are you talking-?"

BOOM! went Scott as Logan shoved him back against the wall hard. "Don' give me no half-ass bullshit, Summers. I don' have the friggin' patience for yer whinny trap! Yer in deep shit, boy. Deep. Yer wife n' kid are gonna die, do you hear me?!"

Feeling on the verge of panic, Scott nodded slowly.

"Good." Logan stared at him, his eyes burning through Scott's visor, staring into his soul. "Then you better take my warnin', 'cause I ain't gonna give it again. If Jean dies because you don't have th' balls t'make th' tough decisions needed, then let me tell you right here an' now, son . . don't make any reservations, boy, 'cause I'll be sending you on a one-way trip T'Hell!"

He abruptly let Summers go, eyes smouldering. "Don't tempt me, Slim. Don't give me a reason t' take you down." He swiveled on his heels, heading out towards the door.

"You maniac!" Scott screamed at the receding figure. "You're out of your mind!"

"You just keep thinkin' that, boy," Logan said, continuing his lazy pace, trailing acrid smoke. "An' you'll soon be prayin' I was Creed . . . He's got somethin' t'lose if he kills you. I won't. Think 'bout that, son. Think long an' think hard."

Scott Summers, field commander of X-Men Blue, stood in the hallway, watching the man whom he thought was his friend not too long ago walk away. A man whom he thought he'd buried the hatchet with years hence. Logan didn't turn and Scott didn't call after him again. The last noise he heard from him was the sound of the mansion's oaken door closing softly . . . Click! Alone now. Alone with his innermost thoughts . . . and his deep-seated self-pity.

The card was old and yellowed, barely legible now. He vaguely remembered it being handed over to the kind gentleman who came to take him away from the orphanage, away from the nightmares, away from the loneliness. Scott ran his fingers over it gently, wiping away the years of dust. He'd almost forgotten he'd had this. My God, he thought, what am I doing?

Trembling fingers found the phone receiver, but fumbled. It landed with a light thud! on the plush carpet of his bedroom. Gingerly, he lifted it back up, placing it against his ear. The plastic seemed to sear into his skull, a bright painful heat which caused his face to flush.

There has to be another way, he groaned, fingers carefully moving across the numbers. No, Scott, don't do this . . . don't. Slowly, methodically, he found the strength. Gathering himself together, he dialed the number. It's probably not even in service anymore . . . It's been fifteen years .

Brrrrrrrrrring!

Oh God, it's ringing . . .

Brrrrrrrrrring!

Put the phone down, Scott! Put it down!

Brrrrrrrrrring!

No one's there. It's three in the-

Brrr-CLICK! "Hello, Scott," came the voice from the other side of the line. Scott's blood chilled. "So nice of you to give me a call. I was wondering when you'd remember the card. I was beginning to think that you wouldn't make the connection . . . nice to be wrong . . . for a change."

"I-I don't know how to say this-"

"You're in trouble," the voice interrupted.

"Yes."

"Charles and Henry are of no use, neither is that tawdry amateur the good doctor brought in."

Scott swallowed hard, trying to force down the lump that had formed. "No," he said dryly. "God forgive me, no they can't do anything to help her . . . them."

A cold chuckle from the other side. "Dear boy," he said. "If God hasn't reached out and helped you yet, what makes you think summoning Him now is going to make one iota's worth of difference? Especially, considering whom you are dealing with."

Scott's heart raced. "There's no deal, Sinister," he whispered. "I . . . I need your help. Can't you help a woman with child out of the..."

"'Goodness of my heart'?" Sinister sneered, completing Summers' unspoken thought. "Surely you jest, Scott. Altruism is not my strong suite . . . or yours, actually. I find myself in a unique position with you, Scott Summers. I have in my hands the keys to everything I have always wanted . . . and so do you. I can give you what you want, Scott. I can save mother and child from the hands of rank amateurs."

Scott's heart hammered against his chest. "You . . . can?"

"Of course," Sinister demurred. "For a price."

A yawning pit opened up in Summers' stomach. "You bastard," he said. "You can't want Jean and the baby to die! You have to save them! Won't it ruin all of your carefully laid plans?!"

"Of course," the devil admitted. "But I also know you better than your self-serving blinders allow you to see yourself. I know you cannot turn down my offer. You have no choice. Nowhere left to turn but here . . . but to me."

"Forge, Reed Richards-"

"The Maker is a supreme innovator, to be sure, but little more than an inspired technologist in the long haul," Sinister countered. "As for Doctor Richards . . . well, he isn't with us right now." Scott could hear the smile in Sinister's voice. "Any other stalling tactics? Or did you plan on making an already difficult problem worse by delaying my arrival?"

Something broke inside Summers. He could feel it. A cold snap, and resistance fled from him like water rushing down a brook. "What are your terms, Mephistopheles," he said, forcing down the bile. "My soul? Jean's? The baby's?"

"Nothing so grandiose, my dear modern-day Faust," Sinister countered coldly. "Besides, souls are a cheap commodity in this day in age. Simply blood and tissue samples from the three of you."

"You could have done that at anytime with me . . . and you obviously did with Jean," Scott shot back.

"Oh so you do remember Madelyne, hmmm? I was beginning to wonder if you truly did delude yourself as much as it seems . . . You're absolutely right, Scott. I could have taken those samples years ago. And I didn't say that I hadn't, did I? I said only that I wanted tissue and blood samples from the three of you . . . now. What I did or might have done years ago is not at issue right now, is it?

"No," Scott's voice was a silvery thin whisper over the phone line. His head throbbed. "I suppose it doesn't."

"Good," Sinister said, the smile coming through across the kilometers. "Then do we have a deal, Summers?"

Silence. Is this the point where the Devil leads the dance? Scott pondered.

"There is no time to quibble with issues of ethics and morality Scott. Jean is in her third trimester. The child has a severe acute case of Psioni Sublimation Syndrome and the mother is in a very deep coma. What changes I must make are wholesale in nature and traumatic enough to an undeveloped infant, much less to the mother who carries her. If you waffle and dither too long, as you have been doing since you first knew of this problem, you will lose them both."

Images of Madelyne's funeral flashed through Scott's mind unbidden. Her scarlet hair bundled up, hands delicately astride her breasts. So much like Jean . . . My God, what am I doing? "You have a deal, Sinister," Scott said, grief threatening to overwhelm him.

"In truth young man, you had little choice."

Scott Summers sighed. "I know," he said. "Let me keep some of my illusions. They are my own . . . they help me get by."

"Only the foolish have faith," Sinister's voice dripped venomously. "I will arrive at six o'clock this morning. Please see to it that I am duly welcomed. I wouldn't . . . you wouldn't want any unseemly incident's would you?"

CLICK

Slowly, Scott let the receiver slip from his hands, placing it on the carriage. Hot tears flowed from his eyes, spilling down his cheeks, collecting at his chin. Why? He asked of the heavens above. What did I do? What did she do? Don't we have a right to live in happiness? Why did You give me a family . . . only to take it away so quickly?! What gives you the right to judge us! he screamed, inwardly, clenching his fists in tight knots of frustration.

No one deigned to answer Scott Summers. But, then again, he didn't expect Him to.

"what have i become?
my sweetest friend,
everyone i know
goes away in the end.
you could have it all
my empire of dirt
i will let you down,
i will make you hurt.
i wear my crown of shit
on my liar's chair.
full of broken thoughts
i cannot repair.
beneath the stain of time,
the feeling disappears.
you are someone else.
i am still right here."

Nine Inch Nails, "hurt"

Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning
Salem Center, Westchester County,
New York
0813 hours . . .

The Devil gazed down at my wife, his eyes cold and still. I shuddered involuntarily. At some point and time, he's seen her this way . . . or, actually, it was Madelyne then. Frail, silent, cut off from the world. Before Madelyne was shocked into sentience, something even Sinister didn't expect, she might have looked . . . exactly . . . like . . . this.

A soft hand touched my shoulder, and I reluctantly turned. Hank. "Are you certain you know what you're doing, Scott?" he said. Even in my present numbed state, it didn't take a rocket scientist to see he has under a tremendous amount of stress. Welcome to the club, pal. I nodded slowly. I don't have the strength to fight him now. I don't have anything left to fight with . . . or, if this continues, for. I pulled my shoulder gently away from him. I down want his concern. I don't want to SEE the pity in his eyes . . . or the fear.

"Well?" I croaked, my dry throat rebelling at me at the last moment. I swallowed, trying to lubricate the sandpaper that covered the back of my mouth. "Can you . . . can you help her?"

The Devil turned to me, blank eyes burrowing through to the very core of my soul. I've never seen such unfathomable eyes. No man, nothing human, could ever have those eyes. "Yes," he said simply. A small, curt, monosyllabic word. No emotion. No passion. Nothing.

"How?" Henry said from behind me. "Charles, Kimber and I have run electron micrographs and x-ray diffraction photos of her genome over and over again. We still cannot find a causal link that will provide us with a point from where we can even contemplate attempting genetic engineering. The child's genome is simply too complex to unravel."

I fought the urge to shout at Hank. I fought hard. In the end, patience won out, patience and the knowledge that he was only looking out for my best interests. The Devil's silence tested that patience, though.

"Are you going to answer him, Sinister?" I said acidly. "Or are we to assume you dabble in magic?"

"If you thought so little of my capabilities, dear Scott, then why did you bother to waste my time, hmmm?" the Devil said, still scanning Jean and her swollen belly . . . my child . . . visually. What is he doing? "As or the good doctor . . . patience, lad. You and your compatriots were not looking in the right place for the right solution. You are stuck in the paradigm of causality. 'For everything there must be an antecedent cause.' Not so. Not that it really matters in this case, anyhow," he said.

And for the first time since he came here, I saw his lips upturn in a smile. It was not a pleasant sight. He turned about, facing us. "You are far too concerned with the 'why', doctor. That is irrelevant. The 'how' is more important here."

Hank glanced at the holoscreens behind Sinister, noting something. "You've found something, haven't you," he said, simply. A statement, not a question
.
"Why yes, I told you I could find your answer. And I did." A snap of Sinister's wrist and the screens shifted, scrolling down long lists of data.

It might as well have been Yiddish for all I knew. Apparently, Hank made some sense of it, though. He slowly placed his glasses on, slipping them over his ears. "I have found the regulatory gene you sought so vigorously, Dr. McCoy," Sinister said, summarizing the maze of data.

Hank's jaw dropped. "But . . . that's impossible. You didn't even run a biopsy . . . or make any scans-"

"Look closer," Sinister interrupted, ignoring Henry's protest. "You'll find that the nucleotide base identified with the asterisk-the one your precious diagnostic programs had such trouble identifying-is actually a derivitive of guanine. Just a simple case of a few mismatched atoms, really."

He cocked his head. "Makes one wonder what else you may have missed, hmmm? Trust a technologist like Forge to craft your medical units and you will get anomalies like this. He simply hasn't the knowledge base to program them for every contingency you need."

"My God . . . " Hank said, jaw slackening.

"You'll also find," Sinister continued, "that the introns that are being reincorporated into the child's DNA are also just as easily removed, using the same enzyme that is nominally used to excise them from the DNA to form mRNA and thence a protein."

I turned at the sound of the door behind me. "That may be so, Sinister," Charles said, rollng himself in, followed by Dr. Lee, "but you still are no closer to curing the affliction than we were. You have simply identified a previously noted anomaly and highlighted a possible solution."

Sinister smiled, looking down upon Charles. I was suddenly aware that he stood slightly taller than I (no mean feat) and I wondered exactly how Charles must feel, having that kind of presence above him. "The first step to a cure, old man, is knowing what you are trying to cure. I not only know what your problem is, but I have also the method of treating it."

"How?" I said, fighting to keep myself from shaking.

Sinister turned his back on us for a moment, fluttering his fingers over the diagnostic's keyboard interface. Quickly, the holos shifted, and a swarm of tiny black spheres enveloped equidistant portions of my daughter's simulated DNA helices. "I will introduce a modified version of the enzyme into her system in massive dosages. It will perform essentially the same function as it normally would have: it will excise the introns from her DNA and discard them. Once initiated, the process should take about two weeks to strip every single strand of DNA of those annoying little introns, give or take a day or so of tweaking."

Kimber frowned. "Good Lord," she whispered, "the child is coming to term in a few weeks. You couldn't insert enough enzymes to excise every intron in her body in that timeframe without systemic collapse! You'll kill her!"

Sinister shook his head slowly, that cold smile once more present. "Tsk, tsk, Doctor Lee," he chided. "Simply because it is out of the reach of your technology doesn't mean that it lies outside my sphere of influence. This enzyme will have a fraction of the lifespan of its derivative ancestor, thus eliminating the chance that her system will not be able to handle the presence of too many intrusive bodies. Also, I am programming the enzyme's 'excising' mechanism to separate from its oncogene, thus causing unregulated growth-"

"Good Lord," Lee said, stepping forward. "That's toying with cancer!" She turned to me. "Is this what you meant by doing whatever it took?!" she said. "He's going to introduce an unregulated enzyme into your daughter, one which can't turn itself off!"

My head started to spin. No. I couldn't back down now. Sinister may be manipulative, he may be the Devil Himself, but he's no fool. God, it's hot in here, I thought as I brought my arm to my forehead to wipe away the layer of sweat that had accumulated there. My heart hammered in my chest as I turned to face the man I had turned to in my time of need. "Continue," I croaked, my voice sounding strange even to my own ears. I fixed my eyes only on the diamond design on his forehead. I daren't look into his eyes. "Answer her concerns."

Sinister nodded. "Easily. Also built into the enzyme-as I mentioned earlier-is a corepressor, which will shorten the overall lifespan of the enzyme. For the duration of its life, though, it will do fifteen or sixteen times the work that's expected of it." He slowly turned his gaze to Kimber, roasting her with its intensity. "Any other questions, class? I do have important work to do, so if you'll simply pull out your notebooks and sit down, I shall go about saving this child . . . and her mother."

"But-!" Kimber began, but Hank placed a restraining hand on her shoulder.

She turned to face him, brow wrinkled in impotent frustration. Henry slowly shook his head. At first I thought she was going to say something, protest anyway. But she closed her mouth and lowered her gaze. She pulled out of Hank's grasp and walked resolutely out the door, Henry following her every move with his eyes. I think I heard him sigh.

Come along, my son I felt the Professor say mentally. It was something of a shock, actually, feeling his mind's touch for the first time in many, many weeks.

I-I have to stay, Professor, I thought, though my eyelids were like lead, my mind the consistancy of porridge. Jean and-and the baby are counting on me.

You will do them no favors by martyring yourself, Scott he said, sounding almost sad. I turned to face him. My God, he's aged ten years, I thought, hiding it deep behind those personal thought shields Charles had taught us oh so long ago. I never thought I would have to use them to hide from . . . from my father.

People change.

You're right, I transmitted back to him. Do you trust him? I inquired, flashing a picture, a memory actually, of a leering Sinister. It was the one I remember most, one I will never forget. It was the astral projection of him crushing the delicate psionic matrices of Madelyne's memories in the aftermath of her recent death. I watched as all the little things that made her special disappeared before my eyes once more . . . and I sent the image to Charles.

No, he said simply, though I could hear the emotion through our tenuous link. Lord, Scott I could have never done what you have done. But the time has passed when I could-or should-demand that you follow my wishes. We are different souls, you and I. I could not live your life, and neither should you attempt to live mine. He reached out, and I took his hand, squeezing it with all my might. He was my anchor now. In every way that counts, he always has been. I would not let go. I will not fall. "Come along, son," he said aloud. "Let's go."

Quietly we turned, away from Sinister, away from the twisting coils of DNA and RNA and things I had no hope of understanding . . . and away from Jean and the sound of the monitor that constantly chimed, reminding us of the life it guarded.

Beep-beep! . . . Beep-beep! . . . Beep-beep! . . . Beep-beep! . . .

I didn't look back. I couldn't.

I will not fall.

The sun and moon every day
Day and night mark my play
See the future in my past
Try to change or make it last
Go for broke, don't regret
Get you hands dirty, get your feet wet
Take your place use me well
I'm in your hands so make me tell
A broken dream seems unkind
But I can help for I am time

I can heal you
It's not a matter of sight
Only of sound
Let me . . . feel for you
Feel for yourself
The love is all around
I can . . . lead you
Is your soul afraid
Of what you've made
Do you know the way
the spirit goes.

The Spirit-Moody Blues

It is the pain that wakes me . . . Unbearable pain. Good lord, it feels like my body is trying to turn itself inside out . . . How do I make it stop?

"Jean? Jean?"

I open my eyes and the first thing I see is red . . . The red of a ruby quartz pair of glasses looking down at me. "S . . . Scott?"

"It's going to be all right." I can see the tears spilling from his eyes and down his cheeks. "I swear to you Jean, everything will be fine . . . "

"Scott, why does it hurt?" I ask, trying not to scream.

"Because you're in labor," Scott says, taking my hand and squeezing it.

"Isn't it too soon?"

"Jean, you've been in a coma," Hank explains. I look over where the sound of his voice is coming from. He is standing there, with that doctor friend of his, Dr.Lee. Both of them are looking at me, with expressions that reveal nothing. Business like expressions . . . I know better . . . I can read their thoughts. "But it's all right now," Hank goes on to explain. "The baby is only a week or so early. Nothing to worry about."

"But what about . . . the other problems?" I ask, "How is our daughter?"

"I told you everything was fine, honey," Scott says, taking my hand. "The baby is fine, she's going to be perfect Red, you just wait . . . "

The look on Kimber and Hank's faces doesn't verify my husbands diagnosis. What is going on here? I have questions, but I can't ask them . . . the pain is too deep. Kimber comes over. "Are you all right? Would you like something for the pain?"

I shake my head, biting my lip. "No . . . no drugs . . . I . . . I want my baby . . . . don't want my baby born . . . stoned . . . "

For the first time since I woke up, Kimber smiles. She's such a beautiful woman, inside and out . . . I'm not surprised Hank loves her so much . . . "Who knows?" she says, softly. "Perhaps if the baby had a choice, she'd like to be born high as a kite. But, it's up to you, future Mommy."

Everyone is moving around . . . I can here the beeping of some type of monitor. There is so much I want to ask, so much I want to know . . . Why is everything all right now? What was done? And most important, is it true? Gritting my teeth, I scan for my daughter . . . If she's all right, if everything is fine I should be aware of her, shouldn't I?

Nothing.

No pain, no thought patterns, I'm drawing nothing from her. I look up at my husband . . . "Scott, I can't feel her . . . I can't detect her at all!"

"I told you Red, everything is fine," Scott's smile is tender and sweet. He believes every word he's saying. "We're going to be a family soon, darling . . . . You, me, and our precious daughter . . ."

I want to scream, I want to shout out to everyone that something is very very wrong . . . but I can't . . . There isn't any time. Something is very very wrong with our daughter and I can't do anything but bring her into this world. I'm sorry, little one! I think.

Another curtain of pain covers me and rational thinking goes out the window. All I can do is concentrate on this event . . . .

"you gave me the reason.
you gave me control.
i gave you my purity and purity you stole.
did you think i wouldn't recognize this compromise?
am i just too stupid to realize?
stale incense,
cold sweat and
lies, lies, lies."

Nine Inch Nails, "sin"

Scott looked down at his daughter, resting safely in his arms. Still, so still . . . Th-this should be the happiest moment of our lives, he thought. He looked up at the professor. "Wh-what's wrong with her?" he said, his bottom lip quivering. "She's not moving very much. She's too . . . quiet." He looked from Charles to Hank to Charles again. Both squirmed silently. Henry lowered his head. "I said, what's wrong with Rachel?!"

Charles checked one final time, psionic fingers pushing, probing, running over the young infant's synapses. Nothing. No synaptic activity in the somotosensory areas or the reticular formation. My God, son, what am I going to say to you? "Scott," he began, almost tripping over his suddenly dry tongue. "Your daughter is . . . tabula rasa. I cannot sense thought from her. More accurately, I cannot sense neurological activity in many areas of her brain."

"No . . . " Scott whispered, shaking. "This can't be . . . . I . . . I did what I could . . . . she is suppose to be fine . . . " He snapped his head over to Henry, who desperately tried to meet his eyes without flinching. "He's not looking at it right, Hank, huh? Rachel's just a baby. Her mind doesn't work the same way as an adult does-" he stopped.

Henry placed his arm about Scott's shoulder. "Her body is fine . . . " Hank said, "Every test shows that she's 100% physically healthy . . . it's just her mind. You did . . . we all did, what we could."

Jean looked up from the streacher. "I . . . is there anything that can be done? Is this a neurological problem or a psychological one?" Don't break now, she screamed inwardly. God, please, don't do this to me!

Kimber looked down at the floor and then at Jean. "I don't know," she said softly. "Further tests will need to be done . . . deeper, more thorough psionic probes. We just don't know." She bit her lip hard, bringing forth the bitter metallic taste of blood. "If it is neurological, then there might be something that could be done. We think it might be an aftereffect of the Psionic Sublimation Syndrome. Too many free-floating psi particles might have . . . scrambled certain neurotransmitters in her brain. It might take some time for the body to flush out the system. If it turns out to be psychological, however . . . " she trailed off, avoiding Jean, avoiding Scott.

Jean swallowed, closing her eyes tightly. Tears welled out from between them. "C-Can I hold her again?" she asked, voice quaking. Her entire body quivered with emotion.

Gently Scott handed their daughter to his wife. Jean cuddled the baby closely, tears streaming down her face. "God," she whispered. "Did I ask for too much?"

Unable to take anymore, Scott left the room.

The door to the MedLab hissed open, matching the rising crescendo of silent screams in my mind. The Devil stood with his back to me. I made myself known. "You promised me! I shouted will all my might, emotion welling out from deep within my soul, from reservoirs I never thought I had. The floodgates had opened. The Deluge had begun.

"I promised you I would save the life of your wife and child, Scott," the Devil said, spinning on his black leather heels effortlessly. "Save them I did."

I stumbled to my knees, tears spilling down my cheeks from beneath fogged crimson glasses. "Puh-please," I sobbed, "God, please help me-help her! "

He slowly wrapped his fingers about three small vials, the blood-seal of our agreement. FZZP! they went, disappearing in a flash. "My God, Sinister, she's just a baby!!"

"I never professed nor aspired to Divinity, young man," he said, voice as still and as firm as ice. "Nor did I deliver anything more or less than what I promised you. Both the child and the mother are in perfect physical condition. The damage done to the young Summers is unfortunate, but it is rather because of your earlier dithering that she has to suffer for her parents' idiocy. I might have been able to save all of you much grief had you swallowed your pride and come to me earlier. The Psionic Sublimation Syndrome is most dangerous in its final stages. Had I known at, say, the first trimester...?" He shrugged. "Who knows?"

Without another word he turned from me, heading towards the door. No. I'm not going to let this happen. "Nooooooooo!" I cried, lunging at him-

-I never made it.

Effortlessly, and with lightning speed, he whipped out his arm, striking me across my temple. I felt my glasses shatter on impact and I instinctively closed my eyes tightly shut as I spun around with the force of the impact. Pain lanced through my skull. I struck the floor hard.

I felt his cold fingers find my neck and lift me off the floor, every vertebrae in my neck protesting in his grip of steel. "Don't. ever. Touch. My. Person. again," he hissed close to my right ear, enunciating every word carefully. "I will not have your sins laid at my feet, Scott. I will not continence treachery nor absolve you of your guilt. Your daughter is physically a perfect specimen. I suggest you keep that in mind whilst you engage in your traditional orgy of self-pity." The grip relaxed and I fell to my knees, eyes still tightly shut. "Sinister keeps his word, X-Man. Consider that before you leap so willingly to suicide."

I heard the brief hum of his teleportation, felt the rush of heat against my back. He was gone. I was alone. Soon, my teammates would be here, my family. But it was too late for them, too late. I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms about them. I pressed my eyes up against them so hard I saw multicoloured sparks underneath my lids. Inside, the Deluge continued. The emotions poured out in the form of tears I had long since stopped wiping away, but I no longer felt them anyway. I no longer felt anything. My soul was emptied, my mind was numbed. Every dream I ever had has been taken away from me . . . and I have no one to blame but myself.

I will not fail-

I will not-

I will-

I-

I-

Oh God, what am I going to do? What am I going to do?!

But God didn't answer me . . . again. I was alone.

Again.

"in this place it seems like such a shame.
though it all seems different now, i know it's still the same.
everywhere i look, you're all i see . . .
just a fading, fucking reminder of who i used to be.
come on tell me.
you make this all go away.
you make this all go away.
i'm down to just one thing, and i'm starting to scare myself.
you make this all go away.
you make this all go away.
i just want something...
i just want something i can never have."

NIN, "something i can never have"

Omaha, Nebraska
9 months later . . .

"The reports are flooding in now from Washington-"

Gently he opened the creche, its soft organic lips folding outwards like an obscene flower. Ever so carefully, he pressed his hands through the placental membrane, breaking the seal. Amniotic fluids spilled over the creche's lips, pooling on the floor.

"-there has been an explosion at the White House-"

There, there, little one, he thought, lifting his prize from the creche by her ankles, allowing the fluid to drain out of her lungs. A slight slap against the buttocks and the child wrinkled up her face in a horrid frown and wailed at the top of her lungs. Ah, I see you've inherited at least that much from your father . . .

"-cannot ascertain just how many people are dead or wounded there. We are reminded that the President had called an emergency cabinet meeting to deal with the growing tensions in the North Atlantic. The Speaker of the House, Tom Foley, Senate Minority Leader, Bob Dole and a congressional delegation were also present-"

Briefly, he flitted through her mind, noting the brilliant architecture of psionic lattices. My dear, you will make a fantastic psi one day. Her reticular formation seemed undamaged as far as he could tell. Not that he'd expected it. Without the impetus of a neonatal psionic tug-of-war with her mother, PSS never developed. This child, he thought, running his finger lightly across her cheek, is flawless.

"-have reports now coming in of a claim by the Mutant Liberation Front. Reuters and Associated Press are reporting that the MLF-the Mutant Liberation Front-has claimed responsibility for the attack-"

Suddenly, she opened her sleepy eyes, emerald gems peering out from puffed pink eyelids. Behind those eyes, the spark of sentience. It was palpable. For the briefest of moments, he felt a psionic tug against his mind, an attempt to reach out for solace, for comfort. He responded by projecting warmth and care, slipping his mental fingers over her mind, carefully enveloping it in a cocoon of psionic stimulation. A coo escaped from the child's mouth, and she closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.

"-a terrible, terrible tragedy. Coming on the heels of last week's assassination of Senator-elect Charles Xavier, it only highlights the growing mutant/human tensions, now already at flashpoint-"

With a twist of his wrist, he closed the channel to the outside world. Let them slay each other and wallow in their own blood. I am finished with them. I have here what I want, he thought, turning on his heel. "Rock-a-bye, baby, on the tree top . . . " he sang softly, his voice filling the antechamber with sound. "Come, Rachel dear, let us get you to bed. You have long, long life ahead of you. I will walk with you, sweet child. After all, what are uncles for?" he smiled, tucking a finger beneath her chin.

"Uncle Sin," he mused. "I like the sound of that." And with that, Mr. Sinister strode down the hallway, walking slowly, deligently, carefully.

" . . . when the bow breaks, the cradle will fall. Down will come Rachel, cradle and . . . all."

Aux a finis