Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot.
Prete-moi ta plume, pour ecrire un mot.
Ma chandelle est morte, je n'ai pas de feu.
Ouvre-moi ta porte, pour l'amour de Dieu.

The mutant known as Fatale snuggled deeper into the covers as the familiar childhood tune repeated itself over and over again in her dreams. A rare smile softened the severity of her sleeping face.

She remembered the music box that had played that tune. It was hand-carved cedar with a little ballerina inside and twirled around and around in a pink tutu.

Her father had given it to her. She could still see him in her mind's eye; a short, somewhat squat man with a crooked nose and a warm laugh. She couldn't remember her mother though; she'd died long ago.

Claude Dumas was not a handsome man, but he was smart and kind and adored his only offspring. Fatale grew up a very spoiled child.

Or she had until she was twelve. Her father had been locking up his jewelry store when it was robbed. They hadn't even tried for the safe; just shot her father and made off with what they could carry as the alarm klaxon sounded. A handful of jewels and the day's receipts in return for her father's life. Ironically, the items taken were merely display pieces. The real jewels were in the safe.

Fatale had been shuffled from one relative to the next until she finally had enough of it and left Montreal for New York City at eighteen. As naive as she was, it was no wonder she had been mugged, beaten, and dumped in the sewers by her assailants, who thought she was dead.

McCoy had found her, taken care of her. When he asked her to participate in an experiment she'd agreed; eager to pay him back for all his kindness. It wasn't until he had changed her and augmented her mutancy that she learned McCoy never did anything out of the goodness of his heart.

"You are a latent mutant," McCoy had explained to her once. When she'd asked what that was he sighed in exasperation and had elaborated gently, as if to a child; "you have to real powers of your own, except for what I have given you. However, you do carry mutant genes, which would be passed on to any offspring you may have."

McCoy trained her in the art of assasination; using many of the techniques he would later use on Havok. After her first kill he had hugged her in a rare show of emotion and said, "Congratulations, ma petite femme fatale." That day, Dominique Dumas gave way to Fatale.

She hummed the merry tune in her sleep, unaware someone was listening.

"Time to get up."

Fatale rolled over. "Un moment, Papa."

There was a low bass chuckle and then, "Pardon, ma cherie, mais je ne suis pas ton pere."

Fatale opened her amber eyes and stared up. McCoy smiled down at her; a sumg look on his cruelly handsome face.

The mutant assasin arched her back in a cat-like stretch and yawned. "What is it?"

"Our fearless leader summonds us."

Fatale walked behind McCoy, their quiet footfalls barely echoing in the tunnels. She indulged in a small smile of satisfaction in the fact that the muscular blue scientist was now taking orders and from a former prisoner at that.

Havok impatiently waited for their arrival in the monitor room.

"Thanks for joining us, Fatale," Alex Summers greeted her sarcastically and launched into yet another speech about the nobility of the Brotherhood.

Fatale only half listened; her mind still occupied with the dream and the song she couldn't get out of her head. It had been ten years since she had thought about her father; perhaps temporary memory loss was a by-product of McCoy's "conditioning".

"Have you heard what I've been saying, Fatale?!", Havok's voice was sharp.

Fatale looked at him, her eyes dark and sad, haunted by ghosts of the past. "I'm....not feeling well today. Could I have some time to myself?"

Alex's stern expression relented. She never would have dared ask such a thing while Big Blue was in charge but Havok was something of a soft touch.

"Sure. Just be careful if you go above."

Fatale ignored the look of astonishment on McCoy's face, thanked Alex, and left.

She hit the streets and hour later in her "Pam" disguise, carefully avoiding anywhere she might be recognized. A curio shop in Chinatown caught her eye and she went in.

She looked at shurinken, katanas, and a jade elephant or two until a familiar tune caught her ear.

Fatale followed the sound until she found its source, a music box much like the one of her childhood. This one was made of mahogany and was missing both the ballerina and the mirror inside but she bought it anyway.

Later that night, she wound the crank and fell asleep to the familiar tune:

Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot.
Prete-moi ta plume, pour ecrire un mot.
Ma chandell est morte, je n'ai plus de feu.
Ouvre-moi ta porte, pour l'amour de Dieu.

A lone figure smiled in the darkness.