Inbetween Days (a gen-x alternities serial)

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"Airman Kennedy wouldn't look at me as I out-processed. Neither would the First Shirt, nor the Commander. Not Tech Sergeant Aiken, whom I had the pleasure to serve with in the Gulf, nor Tech Sergeant Bates, who was my Mission Supe during the'Boz.

Nary a one.

They knew, of course, all of them knew. It was that little green stamp in the corner of my service records, and I was as painfully aware of it as they were.

They might as we'll've painted a golden star on my trench coat as I pulled out of the Orderly Room for the final time for as many words as passed between us.

Officially, of course, that stamp meant nothing. I was being given an honourable discharge. The terms of the Metahumans Civil Rights Initiative made that very specific. The only codicil to that was that no one who turned up positive on the Bladen- Kurchner Mutancy Battery could hold a security clearance. A matter of national security, they said. Imagine a telepathic spy, they said. Imagine...

Well, there went my job...and I didn't get the extra benny of actually being a telepath to boot. That might've ameliorated the humiliation a bit. Maybe.

I guess it was inevitable that I would find my way back to college, no matter how much I despised the idea, personally. There was no real use fighting the provisions. Hell, I was contacted by the ACLU within hours of the board's final decision...but I told them to fob off. If the Air Force didn't want me, I sure as hell didn't want them. Besides, personal feelings aside, they had a point. This was one case where, no matter how much I felt like screaming until my throat was raw...I secretly felt, inside, where no one would question me, that they were right. What was that movie I saw a few years back, the one where the submariner said something about the military being there to defend democracy...not to practise it?

And so, here I am. Enrolled in probably the only school on the East Coast that would accept me. After the Court of Appeals upheld most of the provisions of the MCRI, half a dozen States followed up with similar initiatives tailored to their needs. State- funded universities were 'out'...and who wants to go to Georgetown?

Oh yeah, I did. Once. That's when Kissinger taught there during the Eighties and back when I thought I was going to into diplomacy. A lifetime ago.

Anyway, what have it got to lose now? Absolutely nothing. I've gone as far as I can go down the tubes. There's only so much a body can take before they give up. I'm almost there.

I'm hoping beyond hope there's something here for me...but, these days, hope is a very scarce commodity and I've never been much on optimism..."

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Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning
1407 Greymalkin Lane
Salem Centre, NY
27 October, 1999
08:23 hours...

BEEP-BEEP!....BEEP-BEEP!...BEEP-BEEP!...BEEP-BEEP!...

Through the fog of my mind, I heard the mechanical chirp of the monitor, droning away maddening in my ears. The sound of life. The sound of...of failure.

BEEP-BEEP!....BEEP-BEEP!...BEEP-BEEP!...BEEP-BEEP!...

I felt the briefest of sensations flowing across my mind like a butterfly, one I'd come to associate with one person during my short tenure here...and I knew, right then, that I was in Hell. Or soon would be.

"Why?" she said, simply, withdrawing her telepathic probe so subtly that, had I not been so familiar with it, I'd've never known it was there at all.

BEEP-BEEP!....BEEP-BEEP!...BEEP-BEEP!...BEEP-BEEP!...

Why, indeed? How can you ask me that, Emma? "I...I don't know," I managed, my throat dry and ragged. I could not even hear myself speak, the sound of my voice was alien to me. All I could hear, echoing past my tymphonic membrane, was the sound of the monitor. Always there, beating away at my mind a singular message: you've failed. Again.

"I'd thought-" she began, then stopped. What did you think, Emma? Tell me how much progress you'd thought we'd made. How proud you were that I no longer sought to see how many times I could grind my cigarettes into my forearm before even my nerves began screaming. Tell me, dear Emma, how disappointed you are in me. It couldn't be any more than I am in myself.

BEEP-BEEP!....BEEP-BEEP!...BEEP-BEEP!...BEEP-BEEP!...

"Do we," I began, indicating the heart monitor, "really need this? As you can see, I'm hardly at death's door."

"We talked about this," she replied, slipping back into her clinical mode, retreating from the humanity I knew she hid as much as I did. "You don't like the sound of that, do you? What does it remind you of?"

"I'm off-duty," I said, laconically, trying to clear my throat of the dry, sticky mucus that had collected there. "And, right now, I duh-don't have to answer your questions."

She sounded almost hurt. "I'm...I'm only trying to help."

"You try too hard," I replied, swallowing. "I'm nuh-not worth the effort."

"Charles thinks so. Magnus thinks so. I think so. Your friends think so. Isn't that enough?"

I chuckled humourlessly. "Guilt, Emma? Motivate me with guilt? That'll work, it wuh-will," I said.

"I'm sorry," she apologised. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded-"

"Of course not," I said. "You're not a trained psychiatrist. I duh-duh-don't hold it against you. In fact, I tend to think of that as something of a badge to wear. I trust you muh-more than I did my shrink in the Air Force." I squeezed my eyes-which I'd yet to open-against the sound of the monitor. "Please...t-t-t-tuh-turn that off. I can't stand to hear it."

BEEP-BEEP!....BEEP-BEEP!...BREEEEEP!

I smiled wanly, chancing to open my eyes to the sterile white of the Med Lab. "Thank you," I sighed. My vision, adjusting rapidly to the new environment, quickly cleared. As if on cue, I felt vigour flood my limbs as my metabolism went into high gear, processing both the fatigue poisons that had built up in my system laying about and whatever cocktail of drugs they'd used to stabilise me. "Thank you," I repeated.

"How do you feel?" she said, off to my left, a white blur from which an almost disembodied voice floated. Even as my body knit itself back together, there were certain things, certain grooves that it refused to recognise as 'broken'. One was my eyesight. I could slit my wrists, drain myself until I passed out, and survive with contemptuous ease...but I could still see barely a foot before my face without my glasses. The ironies of a mutant metabolism late in blooming.

"What should I t-t-tuh-tell you, Ms. Frost?" I replied. "What duh-do you want to hear?"

"The truth."

I drew my brows together. "I fuh-failed," I whispered, feeling the hot tears well up uncontrollably in my eyes. "Again." I closed my lids, feeling the warm trails slide down my cheeks. "I feel like a failure. I cannot even duh-die with dignity without my body intervening where it's least wanted."

Silence.

"You should be thankful for that," her voice said, hovering over me. "A week earlier, shortly after we'd unkeyed your psionic circuit-breakers...and you might've succeeded."

"Rotten luck, that," I said.

"I'd prefer to think of it as good luck, Dominic. You didn't take your meds, did you? How long has it been?"

It was less a question than a statement of fact. Had I, in fact, been taking my anti-depressants, I would've undoubtedly not be here, right now. "A week," I whispered. "But they were becoming ineffective the moment you...you 'unkeyed' me at any rate."

Silence.

"We'd suspected as such," she said. "And Charles was worried about that contingency. I'll be honest with you, Dominic, I think I've been the one who's failed you here, not you. I should've seen this coming. I should've seen your increasing disinterest-"

"Please," I interrupted, lifting a hand. "Duh-Don't. I'm a big boy now. I know when to take my medicine. It was my choice."

"Partly, yes. But if it was having no effect; if your body was metabolising it too quickly..."

"Then I c-c-cuh-could've told you," I completed. "But I chose not to."

"Charles...Charles is going to want to talk to you, you know," she said, deflecting the conversation oh-so-deftly. "And I'll have to consult with Leonard again, if you don't mind." I shrugged. "Dominic...this is for your own good. You've too much to offer, too much to live for. You cannot be allowed to throw it away."

'Cannot'? I thought. 'Allowed'? That is, of course, what everyone's been saying to me my entire life. Perhaps, just perhaps, that was one, small reason why I didn't feel like living anymore. When all the joy has been sucked out like a squashed tomato...what else have you got to live for? When all your decisions are made for you, when everyone knows what's 'best' for you-except, of course, for you, yourself-is that truly life at all?

"When...when am I going to be allowed to get out of...here?" I asked, gesturing around me. Four sterile, white walls stared back at me. At my sides, leather restraints. "When did you s-s-stop using these? Just before you woke me up?"

"No," the white blur said, shaking her head. "We're giving you Eskalith-lithium-intravenously, hoping to stabilise you a bit. We didn't think we'd need them. Under no time were you under restraints. Later on, we'll start you back on the anti-depressants. Leonard, the last time I spoke with him, wanted to see how you'd react to venlafaxine. Maybe we'll try that...now that we know that fluoxetine is too easily metabolised in you."

"Effexor?" I frowned. "I muh-muh-mean, that's venlafaxine, right?"

The blur nodded.

I sighed. "Whatever." It didn't make a difference what they put me on...and I think she already knew that. She was merely humouring me. Within days, weeks at the most, my body would come up with a way to counter it and reduce my serotonin levels to their default range; that is, the range they were at before she and Charles triggered my latent mutations. "Answer muh-my question, Ms. Frost, please: when do I move back into my room?"

"Well," came another voice from behind her. A deep, almost feral voice that rippled across the distance between my bed and the door. "Your body has, as you might have surmised, already healed the damage you'd afflicted upon yourself. It did so within an hour or so of your self-inflected wounds, in spite of your attempts to prevent it. Physically, there's no reason to keep you here in the Med Lab."

"Thank you, Hank," I said, managing a weak smile.

"That doesn't mean, however," Emma quickly returned, "that we're ready to discharge you yet."

I closed my eyes. "You're starting me off on Effexor first, buh-before you're letting me go, right?"

Behind my eyelids, I could almost see the white blur nod. "It's a matter of your own personal safety, Dominic. We're only looking-"

"If I hear that phrase one muh-more time," I said, grinding my jaws together, "so help me God I'll wuh-walk right here and now. None of you know what I'm fuh-fuh-feeling, and none of you ever will. So no matter how muh-many times you think you're duh-duh-doing 'what's in my best interest', you're making, at best, an educated guess."

Silence.

Well, not quite. I could hear Hank's deep voice reverberate through the room as he tried to garner a modicum of privacy while 'whispering' into Emma's ear. Then: "Okay, Mr. Sharpmoon-de Nant, you're absolutely correct. We don't know how you're feeling, nor what you're going through...but we are trying to help the only way we know how." I opened my eyes once more, and observed as Henry came into view above me. He slid his glasses off his nose, pocketing them in his white overcoat. "I'll be honest with you, Dom. I don't think it's wise to let you out. You came damned close this last time. We almost lost you, your rejuv factor notwithstanding. You bled yourself almost dry, continually cutting and recutting your veins as they reknit until you finally passed out from the effort. It was a strategy designed to work. But, thank God, your body takes care of yourself...even when you don't."

"I'm going, reluctantly and under a bit of duress, to let you go," he said, a pregnant pause later. "I've watched your metabolic activity and charted your progress, comparing it with similar mutagenic rejuvenation factors we've encountered in others. You're climbing a pretty steep arch, Dom, faster than I've ever seen in an rejuvenation factor. In a week's time, maybe less, you won't be able to bleed yourself like you did. Your skin will just seal itself up right behind the blade. Right now, I don't think you could hurt yourself, no matter how hard you tried." He grasped my hand. "And you don't really want to, do you?"

I felt my lower lip quiver and bit it. "Nuh-no," I stuttered, my tongue betraying me once more. A torrent of curses rose up through to my lips as my weakness expressed itself for all to mock me, but I could not utter them. "I duh-don't. Oh Guh-God I don't!"

He squeezed my hand, placing his other atop mine as the scalding tears of shame flowed down my cheeks, unbidden and uncontrolled. Inconsolable, he remained at my side; silent and looming above me as I blubbered and poured myself out upon him.

He didn't leave until sleep claimed me, enveloping me in darkness once more.

"I think I've reached that point
where giving up and going on
are both the same dead end to me
are both the same old song."

The Cure, "end"

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Journal Entry Dated: 991029

"The first light of day hurts the most.

It burns its way past my blinds, no matter how tightly I bind them, and wears a hole through my eyelids. I awaken almost immediately in a momentary state of panic, my heart racing in my chest....

God, now I know I've been working with the Grunts too long. And I used to enjoy this?!

This morning, though, is different. I'm starting over again. I keep on telling my- self that 'Today will be different from all the other times you've started over' and, I suppose, a part of me honestly believes this.

The first light of day hurts the most.

But the pain, of course, isn't always physical..."

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I was standing before my window, peering outside, when the alarm clock went off.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep...

For a moment, I continued to stand, the blinds barely cracked, the sun rising slowly over Breakstone Lake, red and ruddy in the morning sky. And then, with a sigh, I gently toggled the alarm, silencing it. Gingerly, I turned it over on its side, pulled it up to my face, and read the time: 08:01am.

I'd been awake for nearly four hours.

Knock-knock!

"Hmm?"

"Hey Dom, it's me, 'Berto," came a familiar, excitable voice. DaCosta always did sound like he was far, far too eager to get up in the morning... "Uh...I don't mean to be the bearer of bad tidings, but the Headmasters would like for you to join them downstairs. You know, for the communal breakfast." He sounded almost embarrassed by it, as if he, too, had decided long ago that this quaint little tradition had more to do with fostering the kind of atmosphere you'd find in a boarding school than in a prestigious college.

Or, come to think of it, Basic Training...

I smiled to myself.

"Sure," I said, simply, my throat still dry and raspy. "Eight-thirty, right?"

"Same as it ever was," he faux-groaned. "Like clockwork."

"I'll buh-be there. Save me a s-s-seat, okay?"

"Bem!" he exclaimed, brightening up. So eager to please. He was only just younger than I. He should've had his quota of kids by now, as I should've. What is it up to? Two point two, two point five? What's he doing playing hero? For that matter, what am I doing playing hero?

The sun had fully risen across the lake, casting a reddish shadow over the still waters and inlets. The morning fog beat a slow retreat from the bogs at the edge of the waters and the sounds of Earth awakening filled the air. Nary an aircraft, nor a car engine could be discerned. This reminded me of something, tapped at the spongy webs of my memory, cloistered somewhere in the recesses of my brain. Momentarily dismayed at my inability to recall the influence, I turned away from the window abruptly, undoing the knot at the centre my black robe, allowing it to drop at my feet.

The water beckoned. Hot, scalding, clean...

"At the top of the news this morning, the tragedy at Ellis Island."

"Do we have to watch this?" Jubilation moaned, slipping her plate down next to mine. The scent of still-sizzling sausage filled my nostrils. I glanced down at my plate of scrambled eggs and closed my eyes, gently pushing it aside. My stomach turned at the thought of food this early in the morning. Or maybe it was the meds. I didn't care.

Slowly, trying to avoid spilling my mug amidst the cumbersome wrist braces that bound my now non-existent wounds, I brought the dawn's first cup of joe to my lips, relishing the bitter taste as the scalding fluid passed through my lips and spilled across my tongue. "Good f'r ya, kid," Logan said from across her, winking in my direction. "Ya might learn somethin' one day."

The youngest X-Man made a face. "But it's so...depressing..."

"Contrary to the popular wisdom in my day," I said, quietly. "Life isn't a box of chocolates..." She looked up at me as if I'd stepped off a crystalline ship and announced I was a Martian refugee requesting political asylum. To my right, Samuel and Roberto chuckled but our young Jubilation-apparently oblivious to my cultural allusion-went on her merry way, fingering her food. "Never mind," I shook my head with an ill-suppressed sigh, glancing back up at the thirty inch High Definition Television screen which dominated the dining room. Something, at least, to occupy my time.

"...Department of Metahuman Affairs sources tell MSNBC that rogue elements of the Mutant Liberation Army-General Command have struck yet again, this time blowing up a temporary internment camp full of Ukrainian refugees fleeing the carnage of the Russo-Ukrainian War. Hundreds have been slaughtered but we, as of yet, have no idea just how many..."

"Lord help us," Scott Summers, the Institute's reigning elder statesman and doyen, swore. "This is going to give the Reformists and Nationalists all the grist they need."

The man to his left, sipping a cup of tea, winced. "As if they didn't already have enough, Scott. Our only consolation in all of this is that the election season is next year. I'm convinced something like this was inevitable, anyway. And, I believe, so was Washington. Now we're simply just going to have to make do with the situation at hand and, for God's sake, not panic over it. Right now, propriety is what's needed. Calm reaction from other, more rational mutant leaders, like the Canton Consuls. We always knew the centre wouldn't hold and that rogue elements wouldn't sign onto the plan...this really shouldn't've surprised us one bit. Let the Consuls handle it."

"I don't like it," Summers replied, running a hand through his greying hair. "It undermines everything Charles-everything we've been fighting for. If we react with fire every time some kook goes off, it'll just strip the cantonments of whatever authority they have. Let them deal with the MLA-GC and let us deal with the larger threats." I frowned momentarily. Isn't that just what Magnus, one of our Headmasters, was saying? A glance at the ageing gentleman as he considered-and thought better of-reminding Summers of that, to say nothing of that glimmer of irritation that flashed across his face, confirmed my initial assessment. Jesus, these two don't ever give up, do they?

"You're retired, Scott," the lady to his direct right said, quietly, almost underneath her breath. For a moment, Scott's jaw hardened...then he sighed, perhaps a bit too melodramatically, and placed a hand atop of hers. "You're right, Red. I'm retired."

Logan peered directly across from him, at Scott's interlocutor. "I'm not sure I like that look on yuir face there, Mags. What's on the keister?"

"Nothing," he said, seamlessly wiping away his annoyance, moving back to his tea. "Just...thinking. Wool-gathering, if you will."

I glanced back up at the broadcast. It was the same every morning since I'd been here. An undercurrent of tension that rippled through the Institute, influencing everything in its sway. Tiny cliques like competing teams of roaches eating away at the heart of the esprit de corps that had held this motley team together for so damned long. Samuel called it the 'closed fist' and the 'open hand' but I think the divisions went far, far deeper than that. It was the turning of the guard, a movement from one generation to the next. The elder, original X-Men were retiring one by one, replaced by graduates of both the Generation X and, elder still, New Mutants and Hellions training teams. Transitions are always nasty and this one was no less dirty but for its outward civility. It even pit wife against husband and best friend against best friend. Roberto said that Madelyne and Scott were on the edge of breaking up and Charles and Magnus hadn't talked to each other in weeks.

"...and White House Press Secretary Mike McCurry says that the president is quote 'concerned and following events very closely', unquote. For more reaction on this and other matter, we go to our regular MSNBC contributers..."

"They'll t-t-tuh-take the fuh-fall."

Conversation stopped around the room, but it was Madelyne who asked, looking up at me. "Uhm, sorry? Beg your pardon? What do you mean? Who will take the fall?" I glanced down at her arm, which Scott was squeezing as if to prevent her from asking. I ground my jaws but pressed on. It was the Institute's worst-kept secret. Scotty didn't quite like Madelyne's independence, her forthrightness...hell, her. Period. Exclamation point. I think young Nate, now six, was the only thing that kept them from a no-fault divorce...or ripping each other's respective hearts out. In public, that is.

Of course, late at night, when they thought no one could hear, the screaming and shouting began...and I was an insomniac. Sometimes, they didn't even leave for their home at the boathouse until three or four in the morning, with Charles trying to patch things together, putty it over, all for appearances sake. I shook my head, trying to pull it back on track.

"The Consuls," I said, absently stirring my coffee. "Bubba Bill's favourite whippin' buh-boys when things get nngh-nuh-nasty on the mutant reservations...or has everyone forgotten last year's riots in Central Park?" Jubilation turned away, but Logan put the New York Times sports page down, watching me. A prod, if you will. If it's one thing I've learned about the situation here is that Logan will back you if he agrees with you...but you've got to show everyone else that your worth agreeing with.

Otherwise, he's a crotchety li'l cuss.

"I recall clearly, Mr. Sharpmoon-de Nant," Magnus said. "And it was neither their fault then nor is it now. There will always be radical factions and splinter groups. The government knows that."

I shrugged. "They knew it luh-last year...but it didn't prevent them from t-t-t-tightening up the provisions of the Metahumans Civil Ruh-Rights Initiative or the Superpowers Registration Act, d-d-duh-did it? 'Course it was an election year and the Dems were up the creek as it was, so..." Another shrug. I didn't feel like talking politics now and quickly made a move to excuse myself when-

"You're a very cynical man, Dominic."

I closed my eyes. The last thing I needed this morning. "Yeah, you're right, professor. I'm cynical. I've also luh-luh-lived near Washington and I know what it's like, too. Any t-t-time spent there tends to muh-muh-make the most naïve, idealistic fool a tad cynical." Slowly, I lifted my cup to him. "And a hearty 'Good morning, Professor Xavier' t-t-t-to you. Nice to see you cuh-could make it."

Logan and Roberto chuckled before the latter was silenced by Samuel's sharp elbow to his ribs.

Charles Francis Xavier cocked a brow ever so slightly as he reached for the slowly percolating pot of coffee-automatically cutting off the flow-and poured himself a cup. "Are you saying I'm one of those 'naïve, idealistic fools', Dominic," he smiled almost grandfatherly. "Or are you in a generally bad mood this morning?"

I ran a hand through my hair, noting how my fingers shook ever so slightly. Logan speared me with his eyes. "I'm fine," I said, a bit defensively. Perhaps too defensively... "I just...I'm trying to get my buh-buh-bearings this morning. Ellis Island, this," I held up the one braced arm that wasn't holding something, "and muh-my own sense that we're s-s-spinning our wheels. Or, maybe not 'we'...but 'me'."

"You're feeling inadequate," Charles said, leaning forward in his chair.

I closed my eyes. "Isn't this Emma's job?" I smiled wanly. The smile, of course, was one borne of weariness and embarrassment. Charles so desperately wanted to help...but this was hardly his forte. And he certainly had no sense of timing and tact. I cracked my lids, observing how everyone was watching my reactions as if waiting for me to do...to do...something. I don't know.

"You're right," he said, lacing his fingers on his lap with a nervous laugh. "I'm sorry. I just get so... Well, I want to help-"

"Charley," Logan said, lowering his fork. "Give the kid a break. He knows that. This ain't easy for him, either. Just give him some space." Unspoken, of course, was the embarrassment part. Jubilation continued to fiddle with her food. Samuel and 'Berto pretended not to pay attention. Even Scott, stoic Scott, was intently-too intently-watching the morning's news. That left Magnus and Maddie as the only two openly watching...but although their faces betrayed nothing but sympathy, I wanted neither that nor the type of attention closer inspection bestowed upon me. Right now, I just wanted to be left alone...

The dining room settled into uncomfortable silence. I stared down at my cup, running my hands over it as if to instil some life into my cold, cold fingers. And the 'toob droned on...

"...we get reaction now from Macon Brown, Consul-at-Large for the New England Metahuman Cantonment Council..."

I stood to leave.

"Dominic-" Charles began, but was silenced as Magnus placed a restraining hand on the former's arm. I paid it little heed and continued outward, my head ringing with the words on the television as the talking heads continued to flog the issue over and over and over...

"...every time some crazy splinter group decides to make a statement, what's the first thing you guys do? You come to us. Isn't that implicitly putting the onus of their actions onto legitimate mutant political figures? The MLA-GC's main body supports the cantonment principles outlined in the 28th Amendment! These kooks, these terrorists, are disobeying a direct order of the MLA-GC's War Council and that's that. I mean, I don't see you chasing down Irish-American so-called 'spokesmen' every time the IRA blows up a neighbourhood in London's East End, do I? Get your facts straight, pal..."

Alongside Breakstone Lake,
10:32 hours...

As soon as I'd cleared the trees I came to a dead stop.

"Deeva viddya day," she said, placing her palms together and bowing low before a tiny statue that had been placed on the boulder before her. I blinked and felt like a cad, immediately seeking to leave at once, hopefully unnoticed.

"Don't," Savijinia said, without turning. "I know you're there, Dominic. Feel free to turn around. I'm not going to bite and I just finished my namaskar so you're not intruding or anything like that."

Breakstone was my lake, you see. At least, I thought of it like that. Aside from the boathouse-cum-townhouse where Scott, Maddie and Nate lived, hardly anyone ever bothered to walk the shores or take in the sights near Dyvil's Cove. It was, simply put, a place where I could truly be alone and away. So I was quite surprised when I came to my favourite boulder, one which overlooked the cove and gave a perfect view of the pounding surf as the lake met the whitewater and, thencely, the ocean...and found Savijinia there, apparently in an act of worship. I took a long drag off my cigarette and considered my situation.

Since I was fifty or so feet from her, I'd quickly made to turn about but, as she'd already mentioned, that was a moot point now. My stochastic senses had failed to warn me of her presence so either she was no threat to me...or she was one of those grey zone areas that I could never seem to get my prognosticatory faculties around.

Slowly I walked forward, inching closer to my boulder, upon which Savij swept the statuette off and sat.

"Those things will kill you, you know," she said, without still my having acknowledged my identity nor she turning about to confirm it.

"Maybe," I said, looking about for a place to dispose of my butt. Finding none, I shrugged, and ground it into my third metacarpus. A brief, searing sensation of pain lanced up my forearm...and vanished in less than a second.

"That's...that's gotta hurt, Dom," she said, finally turning to face me. "May I call you that?"

"Everyone else does," I half-shrugged. "And no it doesn't; at least, not long enough to matter," I said, continuing to extinguish my cigarette butt. "As for kuh-kuh-k-k-killing me...well, let's just say that muh-my odds of luh-living are substantially better smoking than running around in skin-tight bathing suits buh-bashing in the heads of people who eat planets for sustenance, yes? Another, larger meta-point is that it's unlikely to kill me at all." I held up my still-shaking forearms, their braces the only visible sign of my suicide attempt. "I put two inch gashes along both my brachial arteries, cleaving them in half. I left n-n-no note, no outward s-s-suh-sign that I was making my...my attempt. I simply sat down in the spa, cranked up the heat, and opened my arms up with a single razor blade from one of those old-time muh-muh-manual razors." My head turned away from her horrified looks, the miasma of loathing and fear that always came with such a disclosure. Would he do it again? Now? What would I do? "No, Savijinia, whether or not I liked it, I'm nuh-not going anywhere anytime soon..."

"I'm sorry...I shouldn't've asked." She stood up and patted the boulder. "I believe this is your favourite seat, yes?"

I smiled sheepishly. "Now that you muh-mention it..." I walked around to the point and sat down, watching the slow waves roll in from across the lake. "As for the cigarettes...you were cuh-cuh-concerned," I shrugged, half-sighing. "I cuh-can understand that. A lot of people are. I try to k-k-keep it in perspective. I'm t-t-t-trying to get ahold of this. Smoking is one of my vices, to be sure, as is imbibing large quantities of alcohol-" she frowned "-'self-medicating', they call it. Common amongst bipolars who have no idea what they've got and before they're diagnosed." I half-chuckled. "Well that, at least, explains all of those duh-damned parties at the barracks I could nuh-nuh-never seem to remember. Wicked muh-medicine...but s-s-satisfying to a degree." My expression deepened as I looked down at my hand. I found no trace of the cigarette's mark. Had it even been there at all? Hank's words came flowing back to my mind. I should've at least had a mark, a scar, something...but there was nothing there. "But the burning..." I continued, clearing my head. "I duh-don't quite know how that came about. It just did. The medications, we hope, will help, but It'll take t-t-time, lots of time, before we see s-s-suh-some good results...if any ever come."

Her eyes, the colour of mint green, slit. "I don't understand."

"I hunch, c-c-call it," I said. "I can 'read buh-between the lines', if you will." Nonchalantly, I pocketed the crushed butt. I had, after all, no place to put it. "Ms. Frost-bless her-is out of her league wuh-with me. She's a psychologist at buh-buh-best, and a rusty one too. And, to boot, her d-d-d-degree is in business psychology, which is a whole 'nuther ballgame. Now she's consulting with Charles and another duh-duh-duh-doctor, a psychiatrist by the n-n-name of Leonard Sampson. That tells me much, right there and then."

She shook her head. "Perhaps she wanted a second or third opinion?"

"Emma Frost?" I frowned. "In the sha-sh-s-short time I've known her-and buh-based on the stories told by those who've been here a whole lot luh-longer-yours included, by the way-I c-c-c-cannot see her vuh-voluntarily asking for help unless she was so f-f-f-far out of her luh-league that it had buh-become a problem. Hence, n-n-n-now she brings in Charles and Len." I shrugged. "I was a psych muh-minor. I know enough to buh-buh-be dangerous," I winked...then followed it up with a sigh. "And I know the g-games they play and when they're in trouble. She's in t-t-t-trouble. And, what's muh-muh-muh-more, she's little options here. We're in-house in a muh-major way. What can we do, c-cuh-contract out a shrink for the team?" I frowned. "Actually, that would be the smart thing to do but nothing here seems to...to...to work quite that wuh-way." I grasped my head in my hands, cursing myself as the words failed to come out, as my tongue tripped me up.

"You're nervous, aren't you?" she said, standing up. "If I'm making you nervous-"

"Nuh-nuh-nuh-NO!" I finally managed. "That's nuh-not it."

She shook her head, her light burnt sienna coloured skin contrasting brilliantly with her eyes in the rising sunlight across the lake. "You wouldn't be the first who were-no, was-nervous at my presence." She grinned. "Come now ," she said in an off-British accent I found so tantalisingly familiar, like watching ITN or the BBC on the Dish at nite. "I'm not going to give you the time to sit here and be maudlin the rest of the morning there are clearly other things to do."

I cocked a brow. "Luh-luh-like?"

She leaned forward. "You're a bright man...make that up as you go." She looked down at the sandy shores as the water come rolling up to our feet. "You're right, though, in a way. About what Roberto calls 'Charles' Curse'."

I shook my head. "I duh-duh-don't follow. My turn to buh-be confused," I said, dragging my feet slowly across the beach, reluctantly heading back towards the Manse I'd hoped to avoid most of the morning.

"Of the X-Men, New Mutants and, later, all those splinter groups Charles Xavier inspired or spawned, how many of their number have perished? How many have successfully retired?" She shook her head. "I can't think of one, though that may be because I didn't study well enough, but..."

"You've S-s-s-"

"Yes, I know, we've got Scott...so far. But remember your history class old Harry Leland taught us? What happened to Warren Worthington or Sebastian Shaw? Retirement, often, has a high price: death. And at some point, many of the current crop of X-Men will have to retire or at least become adjunct faculty or staff to the school." Savij glanced around the edge of the lake, placing her arms about herself, almost protectively. "We've far too many X-Men right now...and from what I hear, there'll be a shake-down soon enough. How long, for example, can Henry balance being both and X-Man and the Institute's physician-cum-researcher? He's already overworked with what he's got...I think he'll be the first of the next batch to retire."

I shook my head, marvelling at it all. "They've been at it for their entire lives...that's guh-guh-guh-got to be tough for them, to realise they cannot do it anymore, lest they follow in Warren's footsteps. Maybe we should have s-s-some kind of ruh-ruh-retirement home for heroes who want to hang up the cowl," I smiled. But it quickly melted. It's a duh-death trap out here. They, the oldsters, just don't know it yet. I don't think it's hit them yet; I don't think they've rationalised it. I think they'll fight and fight and the villains will kuh-kuh-keep getting nastier and more lethal. The ruh-rules of the game changed underneath their-the original X-Men's--feet...the roles they cuh-created for themselves no longer exist. It's over for them...all save for the name on the s-s-stone. Unlike you, I duh-don't think many will retire voluntarily."

"Such a cynic," she smiled, smacking my shoulder playfully. "I wouldn't be that pessimistic...but your analysis is close enough to mine to make the differences negligible. The outcome is the same, one way or the other. It's a life-long job. Retirement ends when you realise that you cannot afford to lose your skills, lest someone you could defeat in your sleep a decade ago decides to take you on now that your guard has dropped. Then you die. Either that or you die before you get a chance at formally letting down your guard. Either way, the result is similar."

I looked around, realising we were no longer heading for the Mansion. "Where are we guh-guh-going, anyway?"

"It's the first light of the day, Dom," she said. "The bull frogs have awoken, the lake is coming alive now and surf is receding. We don't have much time left before the morning debriefing. Let's see if we can capitalise on it a bit and enjoy it while we can."

The ivy-covered walls of the Institute dwindled and the tang of salt struck nostrils, a hint of the ocean behind the cove. "And how, pray tell, are we g-g-guh-going to do that?" I asked as a small wave washed over my boot, dampening and darkening the leather.

She grinned. "We're going for a walk."

"We are?" I said, returning the smile. "Reminds me of the good old days. People always telling me what to do." I gestured down at the statuette between her small hands. "Muh-muh-may I ask...?"

"This?" she held it up for me to see. It portrayed a rather full-bosomed woman with four arms. Two held up lotuses, one appeared to be dropping something like sand and the other was palm-forward. "This is a murti-an icon, if you will-of the goddess Lakshmi, my family's patron deity of sorts. I'm a Hindu. I wouldn't exactly call myself orthodox," she smiled, "but the rituals do give me a sense of continuity and inner tranquillity. They have a place in my life, a niche that's filled. And you?"

"Me?" I placed a hand on my chest. "Wh-what? Me what?"

"Are you religious?"

I looked up at the sky as the sun began to paint the clouds. "Hmmph. Good question. Muh-my mother is Dutch Reformed-a Christian sect-but f-f-f-f-father..." I shrugged. "Father saw too many things in the 'Nam to believe in much of anything. He t-t-turned his face from anything approaching fuh-faith."

Savij smiled coyly. "Nice evasion, Dominic. I asked if you were religious."

Damn. She caught me. I lowered my head, my braids-hopefully-obscuring my grin. "I think there's a universal cuh-cuh-conspiracy to keep muh-me alive against my wishes," I chuckled "...but beyond that, I'm s-s-s-strictly agnostic. I just duh-don't know." For a moment, I felt a fluttering in my stomach. I looked across at her. "I hope that duh-doesn't offend you in any way..."

"Of course not, silly," she said, playfully smacking my shoulder. "I told you I wasn't orthodox. Besides, there are Hindus who don't believe in any gods at all as well. They come close to Western agnostics by believing in a cosmic principle, perhaps self-organising and sentient...or perhaps not. They call it Rta." She winked. "So, in my mind, I'll make you an honorary Hindu of this sort."

"Oh?" I chuckled. "I'm huh-hardly Buh-Brahmin material."

"Who is? I'm of the Kshatriyan varna, myself. I don't know many Brahmin. Srivijaya was colonised by Kshatriyans, though all varna eventually made it there. Still, it's not rocket science to see who is in charge there. Our cousins in India cannot fathom us, actually. They think we're a bit odd...and we think they're provincial and sedentary," she smiled. Then, gently so as to avoid jostling my wrist-brace, she slid an arm through mine. "One day, I'll explain it all to you. I think you'll find it fascinating."

I looked down at her. "What on Earth muh-makes you think that? For all you know, I cuh-could be bored to t-t-t-tears with religion-"

"-save for the fact that your degree is in Comparative Theology," she interrupted with a wide, impish grin that spread across her face. I felt my jaw drop. "I've been doing a little brushing up on you, Dom. You're quite the complex person."

Stunned, I licked my lips, trying to prevaricate. "Uh...I'll t-t-t-take that as a cuh-compliment." My brows closed at the centre of my forehead. "Brushing up on muh-me? Why?"

She held up the statuette. "Lakshmi. The goddess of wealth...and luck. It's like you said earlier, Dom," Savij said charmingly. "Call it hunch...or maybe feminine intuition...but I think the two of us are both in need of something, something we might each be able to provide one another. You do manipulate probability fields-luck-correct?"

"Right, muh-my primary parability, but-"

"Then," she drilled me with her green eyes...and there was that flutter in my stomach again... "I think we have the basis for an auspicious relationship, hmm?"

I blinked.

What the hell? How many friends do I have here? 'Berto, Moshe...and now Savij.

Couldn't hurt, right?

"Rta, huh?" I said, looking straight forward as the surf lapped at our feet.

"Rta," she nodded. "There actually is a guardian-deity of Rta-called Varuna-but you won't find many temples in Srivijaya devoted to him. It would be like consecrating a temple to...oh...logic. Or Platonic Ideals."

"Rta," I repeated, rolling the word over my tongue, rather surprised I didn't stutter over it. "Tell me more..."

"It is only the enlightened ruler and wise general
who will use the highest intelligence of the army
for the purpose of spying, and thereby achieve
great results."

Sun Tzu, 5th-6th century CE Chinese warlord
The Art of War

Greenwich Point Observation Post
Connecticut
10:54 hours...

I filed my hourly report twenty minutes ago. Dull, droll and otherwise uninteresting. There was nothing in it that hadn't been said a hundred or a thousand times before, ever since Jericho had placed the Institute under surveillance...and that was a long time before I transferred from the CIA. Really, I had no idea why we didn't leave this kind of clap-trap to the FBI. It was more their forte: law enforcement. Now if a proven link between Professor Xavier's little band and that splinter from the Mutant Liberation Army-General Command could be proven...that was something else entirely. But up until this point, while their activities violated half a dozen federal statutes, the X-Men and all their little sister groups were doing more good than harm...for now.

But hypothesizing on that's really the stuff of fantasyland and the eggheads at The Non, Jericho's headquarters deep in the sticks of West Virginia, knew it. I shook my head. Let them do all the guessing and armchair quarterbacking. I wouldn't trade this job for the world...even if it was a backwater assignment. Still...something's going on in there...something the Directorateship isn't going to tell us. Probably not until it bit us on our ass, if experience is anything to guide by...

"Frank," Artie said, shaking my shoulder. "Come take a listen t' this." He handed over his headsets and vacated his post at the wideband position. I wasn't, strictly speaking, an intercept operator...but I knew a few things about the spectrum and what our most recent enemies-the Soviets and unfriendly Arab states-tended to use it for.

Before I even got the sets to my ears I had to toss them aside. A high-pitched squeal ripped through the padded receivers. "What the fuck was that?!" I growled. Artie was busy, though, with one side to his ear and a finger up in the air, cautioning patience. His twenty years as an intercept op-first in the Army and later for the CIA-gave him that kind of credibility with me. When Artie eats a hot dog, you eat a hot dog. When Artie reads Dante, you read Dante. When Artie picks up a six string you do your damnedest Dylan and pray no one hears you. Get it?

"Some kinda squirt signal..." he murmured, his thick Brooklyn accent barely intelligible to this Kansas wheat farmer.

"Got it on tape?" I asked, immediately regretting it. He looked at me as if I'd asked his sister out on a date. I shrugged. Like I said, this isn't my normal line of business. I'm here to 'administrate' and 'analyse'. In other words, someone back at The Non didn't like me and I'm here in bumfuck-

"Wait a minute!" Artie said, his forty-three year old eyes suddenly animating like I've never seen them before. He was like a dog on a scent...which didn't, it turned out, happen to be a bad analogy. "I think I've got a make on it." He threw a toggle and snapped the signal through a narrower filter, trying to 'clean it up'.

"The signal?"

"Yeah, yeah!" He ran it through the spec-an-the spectrum analyser-one more time and swept it through half a zillion filters to get the worst of the noise out of the bandwidth. Then it was simply a matter of comparing it to previous intercepts in the databases. Child's play, right? Well, as it turns out, it was. "Holy shit..." he muttered, face aglow with the light emanating from the monitor.

"What, what?!?" I said, hurriedly. If there was something I needed to know-and if Artie was swearing, I needed to know-then I wouldn't settle for the time it took for the information to travel from his neurons to his tongue. I wanted it now.

"The demod," he said, his face ashen and quivering. "The encryption on the transmission. It-it breaks out to Arthasastra...Srivijayan military intelligence."

My hands shook as I place my coffee cup down. I blinked once, twice, trying to force my mouth to work. But where my body failed me, my training took over. "Get me on the horn to The Non," I rasped, my voice little more than sandpaper. If this signal was this strong and was directed at this building...

"But Frank-"

"Now, goddammit!"

"oh i miss the kiss of treachery; the aching kiss
before i feed the stench of love for younger meat
and the sound that it makes when it cuts in deep
the holding up on bended knees
the addiction of duplicities
as bit by bit it starts
the need to just let go my party piece."

The Cure, 'disintegration'

>From the Private Files of Prof. Charles Francis Xavier...

BACCARAT

NAME: Dominic Augustus Sharpmoon-de Nant
AGE: 26
BIRTHDATE/PLACE: 17 June, 1970/Birney, Northern Cheyenne Indian Reservation, Montana
HAIR: Dark Brown
EYES: Grey-Blue
HEIGHT: 6'1"
WEIGHT: 173lbs.

STATUS: Generation X (Active)

SUMMARY: With the passage of the Metahumans Civil Rights Initiative and the subsequent strengthening of the anti-mutant lobby as it passed initial constitutional muster, we're seeing the first fruits of this ill-conceived effort to strengthen perceived flaws in our nation's security posture as hundreds of mutants are forced to turn in their security clearances merely for the presence of the x-factor in their genome.

One of the first mutants purged in this manner was Dominic Sharpmoon-de Nant, a half Northern Cheyenne who'd spent most of his life trying to cope with the stresses involved in most large families living first under the squalid conditions of the reservation and next in the US military as his father enlisted during the height of the Vietnam War. His mutancy was as much a surprise to him as to his fellow servicemen and family, as Dominic had been, we believe, borderline latent for most, if not all, his life.

Dominic has four primary mutations, all of which made him an ideal asset for the Generation X training team we'd resurrected following our alliance with the Hellfire Club and the partial graduation of the first class. Firstly, he seems to have unconscious control over localised probability fields (what the uninitiated generally call 'luck'). The extent to which this power is both unconscious and its precise range is unknown but I strongly suspect that, with appropriate guidance, Dominic should be able to exercise complete, conscious manipulations over vast distances. His genome bears some resemblance to that of Roulette's (qv) though I'm sure that's more coincidence than anything else. This seems to be his primary parability and I'm inclined to concentrate more on training him in the use of his stochastic controls than other, more defensive, mutation

Secondly, he has shown strong prescient capabilities. So strong, in fact, that we've been having some problems disassociating his precognitive flashes with here-time reality, a situation we've partly alleviated through anti-anxiety medications. The scale and accuracy of his prognostications are, once more, heretofore unknown but I strongly suspect that anything below that of Destiny's (qv.) levels is severely underestimating his talent. Thus far, much to his dismay, his prognostications have been startlingly accurate...something that disturbs him very much. Ms. Frost has commented more than once that he feels that between his stochastic controls and his precognition, his whole life seems more like a script and that any semblance of free will in reference to himself is illusory.

Thirdly, on the flip side as it were, Dominic has also shown evidence of being able to visualize events that have happened in the past (psychometry or postcognition). This parability is quite refined and he can bring it down to a minute portion of specificity to the point where he can specifically analyse the fingerprints on a doorknob without having impressions of the knob, itself, interfering with the analysis. The only drawback is physical contact with the scanned object must be maintained at all times.

Lastly, Dominic is a high level of mutagenic rejuvenation. Here, too, the extent is not known to which he can regenerate though, if my suspicions are correct, we'll soon find out. From all appearances, since Dominic was brought into full operancy, his mutations have been accelerating their integration into his primary metabolism with surprising swiftness. Right now, though, I would judge his regenerative capabilities to be slightly less than Logan's during his earliest years at the school.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE (Emma Frost): Dominic's early childhood was one of almost hermit-like isolation and tremendous guilt brought upon by both his status as a 'half breed' (his mother was a Belgian immigrant of Flemish (Dutch) descent and his father a full-blooded Northern Cheyenne) and the degree to which he was forced to expand his duties to an almost parental role over his younger siblings. His father's frequent absents and his mother's inability to cope with five children left much of the domestic side of his household up to Dominic to run. Under the circumstances, he's turned out rather well; better than expected, shall we say. But it has had its price.

Seeking to break away from the constant guilt from his almost obsessive need to 'fix things up' at home and on the reservation, Dominic enlisted in the Air Force, though rather than choosing a job which would've placed him behind a desk, he wound up enrolling in the AF's Combat Controller programme, designed primarily to work with Army Rangers in special operations deep behind enemy lines. This was the first of many dangerous, one would almost say indicatively suicidal choices Dominic made during his career.

Since then, he's served honourably for a decade, seeing action during the Gulf War, Somalia, and Bosnia-Herzegovina. The latter assignment saw him wounded in the course of battle and earned him a Purple Heart in a well-publicised (after the fact) operation to retake the Bosnian Serb army's staff headquarters at Hans Pisjelsak, pitting him against the vicious death squads of Arkan. But it was his unusually speedy recovery-perhaps the stimulus needed to break out of latency-that caused authorities to test Dominic for mutancy shortly after his recuperative stay in Germany was over. Topping it off, Dominic was then diagnosed as a type I bipolar depressive and 'redlined' from further missions, effectively ending his career as a combat controller. It was only a matter of time before the administrative apparatus caught up with him and the provisions of the Metahumans Civil Rights Initiative inveighed against him. Shortly over a year after his mission in Bosnia, Dominic had been drummed out of the service.

Since then he has been increasingly reacting as if the anti-depressants originally prescribed him were not doing as effective a job as they should. I'm almost certain the dosage is correct and I've never heard anything-past the rumour stage-that a metabolism could somehow get 'used' to an anti-depressant. There's nothing in the literature suggesting as much. Even so, in consultation with Dr. Leonard Sampson, I've upped his fluoexetine (Prozac) dosage in the hopes that we'll be able to manage it. After a week's observation, that apparently has done the trick. He seems to be back to his usual...well, self.

Dominic is impervious to my mental scanning and, I suspect, to Charles' as well. It's not a psi-screen that protects his mind, though, merely what appears to be an inordinate disruption in the localised stochastic fields surrounding him. Our scans, quite literally, fizzle out before we can manage even to penetrate his surface sigma fields. Everything goes wrong with the probe the moment it's sent out. The pi ratio fluctuates to the point where it cannot hold a psi pattern for any length of time, the psi particles, themselves, lose their spin and become useless for scrying purposes...you name it. It happens. Bad luck on our behalf...but good on his? That disturbs me more than it does Charles (who is, of course, not wont to pry into his students' minds), moreso because dealing with Dominic as a counsellor requires that I be rather intimate with his personality. Under normal circumstances, I would be able to do this with the simplest of psi-scans. In his situation, I'm having to fall back on my hitherto ignored master's in psychology and not more than a little judicious help from Len, who's been such a dear in all of this.

If I could describe Dominic in one word it would have to be 'dour'. He seems to find no pleasure in life at all. This may or may not be a side effect of the high levels of Prozac prescribed to him but I suspect that it's more his pessimistic outlook on life and the experiences he's had of it therein. The amazing thing about him, though, isn't his fatalism, but the fact that, in spite of it all, his probability alteration capabilities appear to've kept him alive throughout his life, ameliorating whatever self-destructive tendencies he's had. How long that will last, though, is anyone's guess, which is why it's my job to help this young man the quickest and safest way possible.

If only I could just get into his mind...it would be so much easier...

DEMONSEED

Name: Savijinia Prajnaparamita Mirabaivarma
Age: 21
Hair: Ebon Black
Eyes: Mint Green
Birthdate/place: 1 July, 1975/Palembang, Srivijaya Empire
Height: 5'6 1/2"
Weight: 102lbs.

Status: Generation X (Active)

Summary: Savijinia (Sav or Savij as she's been nicknamed) is something of a refugee of sorts. Not much is known about the vast and secretive empire known as Srivijaya, only that its warlike brand of Hinduism, driven by the Kshatriyans who've run the nation-state since they helped defeat the Buddhist Chola authorities there in 1025, have a very tight lock on what comes in and what goes out of the archipelago-empire in what used to be called the 'Spice Islands'. The only nation-state in Asia not to've been under some type of direct colonial control, Srivijaya, nonetheless, seems to've embraced the British-orientation and direction that her cousin the Republic of India has, even though fewer than a thousand British soldiers ever set foot on her islands and the nation, as a whole, never even achieved protectorate status within the Colonial Office. One of Srivijaya's two official languages is to this day, in fact, English (British English, I might add).

This kind of hermetically-sealed environment, though, has had its price. Though she emerged from World War II almost unscathed and with Great Power status-having almost single-handedly kept the Japanese from driving any further south than the then-American colony of the Philippines-Srivijaya is an almost paranoid state. Indeed, were it not for the assistance of the Australian Embassy, Savijinia might never have been able to leave her home in Pelambang, the Srivijayan capital on the island of Sumatra.

Savijinia is a hybrid, the product of what has been described as an illicit union between a Srivijayan woman and a being called a Vetala. I will admit to being almost completely outclassed in this situation but, from what I can ascertain, a Vetala is a type of vampire; a spirit that inhabits a corpse who'd died by extremely violent means. Savijinia's mother was, apparently, raped by one of these bizarre creatures. How conception can occur when one of the parties is deceased I do not know but that is, again, apparently, what occurred. And, considering what I've seen of her genome, all bets are off.

To be sure, I do not truly ascribe supernatural origin to the Vetalas but since Savijinia's arrival I have been able to do detailed studies on her genetic assay and what I've found is truly amazing. I've consulted with Drs. Braddock and Hawking on the possible environment that could've produced the Vetala and both seem to believe that the Vetala's original homeland lies in a pocket dimension wherein the wave function of said 'bubbleverse' is far lower than ours and, therefore, is completely alien to our conceptual view of physics and reality. The Vetalas must use human bodies as sort of an imperfect interface, if you will, with our universe. The interface is hardly ideal, Savij has said, and many Vetalas die in the attempt, possibly providing for a reason why these creatures have become icons in Hindu theology and not empirically-proven phenomenon. In fact, by her own description, Savij describes 'him' (the Vetala who raped her mother) as more a 'geometric representation of evil than anything else', thus giving us even more tantalizing evidence as to his true status.

Personally I, for one, never wish to meet one of these beings.

Savij has inherited a portion of her father's seemingly innate ability to seize control of the geometric properties of any object and twist them to her desires, shifting their superstring configurations like a cellist plucks at her instrument. In addition, she has shown a large measure of innate mechanical understanding of engineering, with the ability to determine composition and weak points of any structure at a glance. It's also been noted that this ability extends to more esoteric realms, such as psychological and genetic faultlines as well. These tertiary abilities, I feel, are more derivative of her understanding of superstring theory and the 'hardwired' nature of such understanding into her mind/body.

A more chilling aspect of Savij's mutancy, though, is her ability to telekinetically manipulate the fundamental building blocks of life, again through manipulation of the nanovibrations which make up the superstring configurations of said chromosomes. Her control and understanding of DNA and RNA replication and transcription is incredible, rivaling that of humanity's greatest geneticists. What she does with this ability can be both fascinating and troubling, often simultaneously. Moira has spent many hours using Savij to 'nail down' the more frustratingly elusive aspects of the mutant 'x-factor', something that has provided us with invaluable help in understanding just how a mutation will 'express' itself and to what extent.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE (Emma Frost): Savij is chillingly stable, for a woman who is, basically, the product of an alien rape. She is quiet and unassuming, always deferential to authority though I know for a fact that, when given permission to speak her mind, she speaks her mind.

Though she seems to've developed a normal, human persona, I have often wondered just how much influence her...father?...is that the right term?...has had on her development. If, after all, a person's intelligence and personality is 18% genetic, just how much of this Vetala being is in Savij and what kind of effect does that have on her?

In spite of all this, she seems warm and shy, often displaying an almost child-like appreciation for everything, as if looking at it for the first time. I've found her, one on one, to be quite engaging and intelligent as well as a deliciously seductive hostess. More than once I've caught brief psi-flashes of sexual stimulation from her and her pheromonal controls seem to be slightly stronger than your average human beings. What that means is that one must especially be careful around her, lest her charms...well. She's a good girl, anyway. She, apparently, has no particular preference to the sex of her amorous partners though and might possibly be either innately bisexual or her sexual maturity has yet to've expressed itself (it is kind of late for that though, isn't it?). To my knowledge, though, she is still virginal and seems to've taken only passing interest in a few of the Institute's denizens.

Savij can easily be scryed telepathically but her thought processes are not what I'd call completely normal. Her thoughts carry only the smallest hint of causality and at times it seems as if she's scatterbrained...though I know that cannot be true from simple observation.

I wonder if she's unconsciously hiding something or, perhaps, her mind is simply innately, ah, fragmented. We are, after all, dealing with a unique being. Whom knows what is normal in her or not?

Interesting...

srivijaya
The Srivijayan Empire

People: Population: 223,373,403 (1996 est.)
Age Distribution:< 15 27% 16-64 62% 65+ 11%
Urban: 49.55%
Ethnic Groups: Indo-Aryan (ethnic Hindus of various strains, mostly originating from northern and western India) 75.89%, Javanese 8.05%, Dravidian groups 6.87%, Sundanese 3.85%, Malayan 3.02%, Papuan & Melanesian 2.32%
Official Languages: Hindi and English
Other Spoken Languages: Gujarati, Marathi, Bengali, Tamil, Javanese, Malay, Motu, various pidgin English dialects
Official Religion: Hinduism 86.54%
Other (so-called 'Tolerated') Religions: Sikhism, Christianity, Sunni Islam, Buddhism, Jainism, indigenous beliefs

Geography: Area: 1,047,330 square miles
Location: Occupies an archipelago that stretches from the isle of Sumatra in the west to the isle of Kamarupa [New Guinea/Irian Jaya in our timeline] in the east. Srivijaya also shares control of the Malay Peninsula with the Kingdom of Thailand.
Neighbours: Thailand to the north, on the Malay Peninsula. The British Protectorate of Brunei is a northern set of two, non-contiguous enclaves on the island of Surastra [the Sarawak portions of the isle of Borneo in our timeline]. The Commonwealth of the Solomon Islands to the far east of Kamarupa across the Shortland Straight. The Commonwealth of Australia is to the south, across the Purva Sea [Timor Sea in our timeline].
Capital: Palembang (997,834 1996 est.)
Cities (1994 census figures): Vatapi (3,098,432)

Government: Type: 'federal theocracy'
Head of State: Emperor Jayasimha XIV (ascended to the throne on 5 October, 1982)
Head of Government: Prime Minister C. J. Kovalan Sharmha (in office since 1 December, 1995)
Constituent Units: 127 States, 12 Federal Territories, 1 Capital Enclave
Political Parties: 7national, 27 regional
Governing Coalition: Sindhu Srivijaya National Party

Economy: Industries: Consumer appliances, electronics, automobiles, computers and computer-related items, chemicals, textiles, machinery, processed minerals
Labour Force: 11% agricultural, 43% manufacturing, 40% service sector and trade, 6% government

Finance: Monetary Unit: Suvarna (January 1999 (1=$2.43)
Per Capita: $18,500
Trade Partners: Australia 20%, China 6%, EU nations 36%, India 14%, Japan 12%, US 10%, other 2%
Inflation (Yearly): 5.2%

Literacy: 82%