X-MEN ETERNITY

Generation: Eternity #2: Schoolyard Blues
Rated PG-13 for violence and language

by R. John Burke
X-Men Eternity Message Board: http://solofan.proboards76.com/index.cgi

DISCLAIMER: The X-Men are a copyright of Marvel Comics. I don't own them, but this is only non-profit fan fiction. No money is involved and no infringement is intended.

TIMELINE: This story takes place after X-Men Eternity: The Crossroads. It is encouraged to read that story first.

AUTHOR'S NOTE ON LAYLA MILLER: For our purposes, all that is canon about Layla Miller is what was in House of M #4-7. Peter David's X-Factor has done a wonderful job with the character and heavily influences my take on her, but there are some differences, too.

*****

--What *is* that?-- said the voice in Phoebe Cuckoo's head. Three voices, actually, representing the rest of the Four-in-One, her sisters outside of time.

“I'm not sure,” Phoebe murmured, but she craned her neck for a better look.

She was looking at a girl a few years younger than herself-- similarly blonde and pretty, but without the air of cool reserve cultivated in the Stepford Cuckoos by Miss Frost. *This* girl was disorganized, nervous, wearing a ratty T-shirt and the worst hairstyle ever, trying to carry her books and gape at her surroundings at the same time.

That look of amazement wasn't unusual on the faces of new students at Xavier's-- or at its once-and-again sister school, the Massachusetts Academy in Snow Valley, Massachusetts. The whole 'learning to live with extraordinary powers in a society that hates and fears you' deal could be kind of overwhelming for a kid whose *previous* big problem was... acne.

But something seemed different about this girl's amazement, maybe because it was totally fake. The eyes behind that innocent mask glittered with concealed intelligence. Her sense of disorganization was genuine, but she wasn't struggling with it, she was *creating* it. She hid behind it like a cloak.

“Chaos,” Phoebe murmured.

--We *hate* chaos,-- said her sisters' voices. --Kill it.--

“I can't do that!” she exclaimed, only half-scandalized. That fit, because her sisters were only half-joking.

--You'd better do *something*,-- said the Four-in-One's voices. --She's just exactly what we don't need.--

Phoebe nodded distractedly. Now that Professor Xavier was safe-- sort of-- and the Slayer defeated (* The Crossroads), she and her sisters had lost their mandate to play with the fate of the Universe. Just because it was no longer their day job didn't mean they couldn't keep it as a hobby...

Several situations now merited their attention; the X-Men in other realities, primarily. But Phoebe still had a job to do, as the Cuckoo in their home timeline. Miss Frost's school was a positive development, a force for order, and she was supposed to safeguard it. In the process, she didn't suppose it would hurt to learn a few things about her expanded powers (* seen in Uncanny X-Men #6, particularly) and find out whether she might challenge sister Sophie as leader of the new group mind.

But she couldn't do any of that if this newly-arrived bundle of Chaos decided to start trouble.

Phoebe took a quick look around, hoping none of the other students had seen her talking to herself. They probably had, but nobody cared. They were laughing and joking and hoping they wouldn't get stuck in Mr. Beaubier's class for third period. Too many weird things happened too often at a mutant school to worry about one schizophrenic blonde.

Phoebe made her way down a little hill toward the gates, watching the other's approach. A catlike mutant was climbing a tree beside the path; when the newcomer walked past, he fell flat on his face. Another teenager might have turned and giggled; the new girl kept walking. She might not even have noticed, but she wasn't done, either. When she passed a Frisbee game on the front lawn, the disk went flying and nearly knocked a birdlike mutant out of the air.

Nobody had connected it to her, yet. Phoebe wondered if even the teachers knew what they had here. Should she tell Miss Frost? No, definitely not; Emma might react precisely the wrong way to such news. She rather enjoyed Chaos herself.

The girl stopped in front of the main building, fishing through her backpack. Phoebe intercepted her just as she found it a crumpled piece of paper with a list on it. She started smoothing it out, to all appearances oblivious. But her every muscle tensed at Phoebe's approach. She felt it, too.

Her mind was a whirlwind, bits of entropy in the center of a maelstrom, but the few thoughts floating on the surface were easy enough to pick out. Phoebe saw the class she was looking for.

“English Literature,” she said out of the blue, “Room 103. That'll be Mr. Cassidy; he's awfully nice. You're going to like him.”

The girl looked up with wide eyes, almost panicked-- on the surface. Beneath it, she was as calculating as Phoebe, if not as calm.

“Phoebe,” the Cuckoo said, prompting her. “That's my name-- Phoebe. I'm a telepath; what are you?”

“I'm-- thanks, I-- sorry. Layla!” she blurted, sticking out her hand. “Layla Miller. I'm just-- I transferred here. I don't know what I am. I'm not even sure I should... Actually, Mr. Logan sent me. The, um... the Wolverine guy?”

“We've met,” said Phoebe, reaching for Layla Miller's hand...

BZZZT. A shiver ran up her arm at the touch, an almost electric sensation of... repulsion. That's what they were; magnetic forces repelling each other. Phoebe's arm felt all creepy-crawly. She jerked it back, then went about the business of pretending nothing had happened. Layla Miller did the same, but the darkness behind her eyes got a little blacker.

“I'll show you to your class,” Phoebe said, smiling sweetly. “We're going to have to be *best* friends, aren't we?”

She reached for Layla's shoulder, to guide her along, then thought better of it and gestured instead. Layla went along with her. They walked as far from each other as best friends could possibly manage.

****

“All right now, concentrate. We'll try it again.”

Jon Worthington-- the former Jonothon Starsmore in a body that once belonged to Warren Worthington (* The Crossroads & last issue)-- rubbed his tired eyes and growled. “Argh, forget it, luv. It's no flippin' good, an' I've got a class in five minutes...”

“My class. My academy. My rules.” Emma Frost frowned at her newest prize pupil. They sat cross-legged in a Japanese rock garden newly installed on the grounds of the Massachusetts Academy. As long as they were practically hemorrhaging Worthington money to refurbish the place, they might as well do it with a bit of style. “And, Mr. Worthington, I'll thank you not to refer to me as 'luv.' Miss Frost will do, as ever. Or Emma, if we must be cordial.”

“Sorry, l-- Emma.” He looked away quickly. “It's strange, this new perspective I have. I feel like I'm meeting you for the first time-- or rather, having two different views of you merged. Chamber never knew you in your White Queen days. Warren did-- and all that's locked up in me head with the rest. I... don't think I'd have ever been your student, if I'd known.”

Emma scoffed, mostly to hide the blush. “Well, don't act so surprised, dear. I *told* you all I was Not a Nice Person once. Now you know.”

“Now I know.” Jon frowned. “Why did you change?”

“Most days, I really couldn't tell you.” The headmistress shook off some unwelcome considerations with an effort. “Now-- again. It's a very simple telepathic exercise. I want you to tell me, what color are my thoughts?”

Jon frowned-- he'd done this with Emma a hundred times in the old days, when he'd been honing the low-level telepathy that had allowed him to 'speak' without a mouth in his disfigured body. Now, locked up in another man's flesh, he felt only the barest flashes of those old abilities, but Emma was certain she could bring them to the surface again.

Impressions did flit through his mind, after a time-- glimpses of her thoughts. Shadowy, vague, but...

“Yellow?” he said. “No, blue.”

“Yes, very good,” Emma said. “Now: Turn them red.”

Jon took a deep breath. The beauty of this exercise was in the simplicity of it. To know what a person was thinking, you only had to be a good guesser. To comprehend the nature of their thoughts, the nuance-- what Emma called their 'color'-- and then to change it, you had to interact with them on the most intimate level.

Intimate... he remembered that Warren's lover Betsy Braddock had done this exercise, too, after her own body-swap, while honing her abilities with Jean Grey. Betsy had tried to explain it to Warren, but a non-telepath could never understand it the way Jon did now.

*And how about Betsy herself? Could he never really understand -her?- Is that why they broke it off? Could -I- understand her now, if she wasn't with that damn psychotic midget she's supposedly taken a fancy to? (* X-Force Eternity) When she's returned... if she's returned... will she really be with him?*

Jon saw red-- not quite in the way Emma Frost had intended. The strength of Warren's memories sometimes overwhelmed him, and he did remember *all* of Warren and Betsy's time together, from their first kiss to...

“*Ahem,*” said Emma, who was still in his head. “Thank you, dear. That's a little too much information.”

“Argh!” Jon made fists and pounded the rocky ground. “Sorry, Emma... I'm trying, honest. But the memories...”

“*Control* is the essence of telepathy,” Emma said. “You cannot know another mind if you don't know your own.”

“You should talk.”

She ignored the jab. “Irresistible as I'm sure we all find the lovely Miss Braddock, you are going to have to forget her for the present.”

“I know that!” Jon lurched off the ground, feeling relief as those unfamiliar wings stretched out behind him. “I know... look, I've never been much of a mind-reader anyway! My telepathy was only--”

“The most basic part of your power. The lack of a firm foundation in telepathy is precisely what caused your first... mishap. I owe it to myself as a patron of the male form not to allow any such fate to befall Warren Worthington's body. We will start at the beginning.”

“Fine!” Jon sighed. It struck him as odd that he *could* sigh, after years in which he hadn't technically breathed. “After class, though...”

He heard the White Queen scrambling to her feet as he walked away. Emma wasn't used to being ignored.

“Jon, wait! What is it? What's really wrong?”

He hesitated. “I'm not sleeping. It's the wings. Warren used to... err, fold them a certain way when he rested. I know *what* he did, but... it's not comfortable for me. I don't know why.”

“I suppose because you're different.” Emma patted his shoulder. “I'd like to help, dear, but I never share my bedroom expertise with my students. Erm... speaking of which... when Warren was running his company, there was a certain conference in Aruba, at which I had rather a lot to drink...”

Jon smirked. “Nothing happened.”

“You're certain?”

“Warren was.”

“Pity,” said Emma. Then she turned. “We'll pick this up again tomorrow. Get some *rest* this time... I don't care if you have to tranquilize yourself.”

Jon laughed. “I'm off to teach thirty juvenile mutants to use their power, an' I don't even have a handle on me own. I think I'll be plenty tired by the end of the day...”

****

Jubilation Lee was plenty tired, and it was only her third class.

She stood in one corner of a classroom in the refurbished Academy, staring out at a roomful of freaks and feeling so incredibly old. She remembered too well her first days here, part of a much smaller class under the tutelage of Emma Frost and Sean Cassidy. She couldn't have come full circle so fast, could she?

A little peeling paint would have made her feel more at home. Emma had spared no expense in putting this place back into operation, but all those repairs had left the Academy feeling sterile and cold, in a way it never had when Jubilee trained here. Of course, that had been mostly due to Paige and Jono and Angelo; Jubilee wished she didn't have so many missing friends to remind her how much things had changed.

She also wished her arm would stop hurting. The appendage had been more or less shredded by an attacker reminiscent of Sabretooth (* last issue), and she was probably pushing it by getting back in action so quickly. On the other hand, it had taken them so long to *make* her a real, permanent X-Man, Jubilee didn't want to risk anything jinxing her status.

Anyway, there wasn't much action here-- just a pure, terrifying thirst for knowledge on the part of her students. Jubilee wondered again just *how* out of it she'd been when Emma Frost talked her into this.

She stepped to the front of the classroom and cleared her throat. “Okay, everybody, settle down. I'm-- hey, I mean it, chill! I mean-- HEY!”

The students came to grudging order. One thing almost anybody who knew Jubilation Lee would attest to: she had a powerful set of lungs for such a small young woman. Normally she went for quantity of words instead of volume, but she could go either way if the need arose.

“Okay-- cool. That's cool. This is Energy Manipulation 101, and I'm Miss Lee-- but you can call me...”

PAFF!!! The word “JUBILEE” appeared over her head in flowing script. Jubilee winced, because with her arm the way it was, it kinda hurt to channel fireworks. But she thought the effect was worth it.

“I know what you're thinking... how long's it gonna be before I can do that kinda tres cool effect? Well, don't get your hopes up. It took me like years to collect this much mojo, but it's all good, 'cause I'm gonna show you all...” Somebody in the back raised his hand. “Yes?”

A gum-chewing boy with red eyes said, “Are you really a teacher?”

“Well, teaching assistant, kinda. I--”

A girl with blue skin said, “Wait a minute-- aren't you Wolverine's sidekick?”

“Partner,” Jubilee said. “Yes, I am.”

“Have you ever beat any villains by yourself?”

“Sure, I have! Plenty of 'em!”

“Name one.”

“Well, there was--”

Another kid said, “Is this even legal? Are you old enough to work here?”

Jubilee glared at him. “I dunno, are you dumb enough to take lessons here?”

“Hey! You can't--”

“Watch me. You might wanna stand up for a sec.” Jubilee took a deep breath, and-- PAFF!!!-- blew up the kid's desk just as he bailed. The wreckage of it made a nice, blackish smear on the far wall and even caused some paint to peel. Jubilee felt better.

The kid stared up at her with wide eyes, and she smiled.

“That was Lesson One: For some people, energy manipulation means never having to say 'Shut up, you moron.' Protecting yourself from those people is gonna be Lesson Two. What you gotta ask yourself is: d'you want to learn it, or do you want to be a visual aid?”

She seemed to have the kids' attention. One of them developed an urgent need to excuse himself and visit the restroom. The kid who'd asked the question was pale as a ghost. Jubilee grinned; who *said* she'd never learned anything from Wolvie over the years?

“Oooookay, then,” she said, “everybody turn to page 15 in your books, and we'll get started.”

****

When she was younger, Monet St. Croix had assumed she disliked her peers because they seemed so drab and uninspired compared to herself. Although her opinion hadn't changed on that score, she now wondered if their having been *children* had something to do with it. Monet never knew how much she hated the little beggars until she tried spending an entire day teaching them.

*This might explain Emma's attitude problem,* Monet thought around lunchtime. *If I'd been a teacher all my life, I'd probably shoot myself...*

Not that shooting Monet with any kind of conventional weapon would have had much effect; that was part of her overall impressiveness. She felt strongly tempted to consider it, regardless.

She was just wondering whether the teaching contract she'd signed would hold up in a court of law when she saw the disturbance in the halls.

Three larger students-- seniors-- had cornered a nervous-looking blonde freshman against the lockers. Monet was relieved at the prospect of butting their heads together, but when she approached, she caught part of what they were saying:

“--know you made me drop my books, you freak! What're you, some kinda bad-luck mutant?”

“No!” the girl said. “No, I don't know what you're talking about! OW!”

The last came as one of the other students-- a girl with green hair-- shoved the blonde. “If you're not bad luck, what *is* your mutation? You just look like a flatscan to me!”

“I--I don't know! Maybe I am! Please-- I just want to--”

“*Flatscan!*” snarled the third mutant, a feral lycanthrope. He showed his fangs...

Until Monet's hand clamped down on them, causing him to bite his tongue and yip indignantly.

“I'm going to count to one,” said the mutant called M. “If you're still here, well-- take my word for it. Don't be here.”

By the time she said “One!” all three of the girl's tormentors had vanished into the woodwork. The blonde girl started gathering up her books, practically hyperventilating behind terrified eyes.

“You're all right,” Monet told her. “You mustn't mind our students; some of them are... stupid.”

“I'm not supposed to be here,” the girl murmured, almost to herself. “Everything was supposed to be very different.”

“Oh, darling, if everything worked as it was supposed to, I'd be worshiped as a goddess on some rustic island nation, sipping drinks out of a coconut.” Monet tried a very small smile. “I'll bet your life hasn't veered nearly so far off-course.”

“You might be surprised.”

Monet arched an eyebrow. “What's your name?”

“Layla Miller.”

“Oh, yes, you're the one from the House of M. Wolverine told us about you. You're something of a puzzle, aren't you?”

“No.” Layla's blue eyes were very solemn. “I'm just one of the scattered pieces.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means-- I have to go.” Layla scooped up her books and scurried. Monet reached out to stop her, but the girl ducked away-- flinched, really. “Thank you, Miss St. Croix. Please don't come near me again.”

“But--” Monet was quite unaccustomed to feeling flummoxed, but Layla Miller had done it to her in about thirty seconds. No wonder she wasn't popular with her fellow students; Monet felt like thrashing the girl herself.

Then she caught a hint of something else-- a faint glow-- from the adjoining corridor. She hurried to find another blonde girl, one of Emma's, just walking away. The white light of the Four-in-One's power was only just fading from her eyes.

“You, there! Sneezy!”

“Phoebe.”

“Whatever, you're all alike to me.” Monet crossed her arms. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

Phoebe managed to do a fair impression of hurt and shock, but to Monet's eye it was only that-- an impression. “I don't have the faintest idea what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. Those children who attacked Layla-- you didn't happen to... egg them on, say? Telepathically?”

“I wouldn't do that,” Phoebe said. “Layla's already like a sister to me.”

“Forgive me, but don't your sisters have a history of killing each other?”

“Only when it's necessary,” Phoebe said, and walked away. Something in her posture gave Monet a chill that lasted the rest of the day.

****

“Heads up, Prof! This one's gonna hurt!”

Jean-Paul Beaubier wasn't even a very experienced teacher, much less any kind of professor, but he didn't suppose he could afford to ignore so charitable a warning, particularly when it was instrumental in keeping his head attached to his body. A burst of speed propelled him out of the way as a fist belonging to Santo Vaccarro, the adolescent mutant called Rockslide, crashed into the wall behind him.

*That could have been a lot worse,* Jean-Paul thought.

“Don't worry, boss! I got 'im!”

That was worse. “No, *don't--*”

Thomas Hawkins, the tiny jitterbug mutant called Hawk (* introduced in Uncanny), zipped past Santo's guard and hopped up onto his shoulders, pummeling him: “Take that-and-that-and-that, you great big... you great big... um, gosh. I can't think of an insult. I keep getting stuck on 'great big.' Wait, WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING beating on somebody this big? SONJA!”

“I'm coming!” growled a harsh female voice, even as Santo pulled the little gnome off his shoulders and threw him about a mile and a half. “Pick on someone your own size, Pebbles!”

From a very great distance, Jean-Paul heard a small voice say: “Ooh, Flintstones riff. I should have gotten that one. I must be slipping.”

Then something resembling the Creature from the Black Lagoon slammed into Santo full-speed. Sonja Janssen-- Monolith-- couldn't quite match Santo for strength, but as far as Jean-Paul could see, the mass of green-and-white scar tissue that made her up her hide was every bit as tough as Santo's living granite.

The younger mutant was temporarily knocked for a loop, but then Santo rallied. They traded blows like a couple of champs until...

ZZZZAAAP!!! Currents of electricity chased themselves around Sonja's hide in crazy patterns as Santo's teammate, Noriko Ashida-- Surge-- came up from behind and blasted her. Sonja howled.

“Nori, shut it off!” Jean-Paul cried. “That's too much power!”

“Sorry, I thought she was invulnerable--”

“ARRRRGH!!! I am, you blasted little freak, but it still HURTS! Here-- YOU try it!” Unthinking with rage, Sonja picked up Santo Vaccaro by the scruff of his, well, rock, and hurled him at Surge.

Nori could have kicked in her super-speed, but she was caught flatfooted, shocked and embarrassed at having hurt her sparring partner. Jean-Paul had to use his own speed to sweep her out of the way as Santo hit the ground where she'd been and skidded merrily across the turf.

He was up in an instant, pounding a rocky fist into his open palm. “You outta your mind, lady? You could've killed my teammate! Now we don't play nice...”

“Bring it on, kid! I'll--”

“ENOUGH!”

Zap, again. This time it was Jean-Paul who lit the place up with a concentrated burst of light, dazzling the eyes of both combatants so he could get between them.

“Everyone stand down! Santo-- Sonja-- both of you, stand down!”

“You heard the man,” said Hisako Ichiki, who was part of the small knot of students watching their contest. She armored up and joined Jean-Paul between the two dynamos. Even they couldn't slug their way through her ancestral armor, and Santo, at least, knew it.

He lowered his fists with a sigh. “You okay, Nori?”

“Yeah, it's cool.” Surge frowned. “I'm really sorry, Sonja. I didn't know.”

“Tell it to someone who cares,” the big mutant growled, and stormed away.

Jean-Paul Beaubier sighed. He was supposed to have Henry McCoy, the Beast, here to supervise these exercises with him. But Henry had begged off, citing a mountain of work in his lab in addition to his science classes, so Jean-Paul got to referee a scrum amongst a bunch of not-ready-for-prime-time mutants all by himself. Such an assignment required diplomacy, tact, and careful planning, and Jean-Paul was capable of only one out of three.

He frowned at the students still milling around, now buzzing about the creepy old mutant who could have injured two of their brightest classmates.

“You have studies, all of you?” Jean-Paul asked, and got a mixed reaction. “Well, if you remain here, I assure you, you *will* have studies.”

That dispersed the crowd pretty quickly. Just as they were breaking up, Hawk reappeared on the field of play, limping slightly. He looked around in confusion.

“Did we win?”

****

Achy and annoyed with himself, Jean-Paul struggled through his final economics class of the day, then retired to his room, where he settled in front of a computer, his fingers flying across the keys at speeds the average secretarial school graduate could only dream about. Super-speed wasn't just for saving the world.

So engrossed was he in his task, he didn't hear the knocking on his door. So when it opened a moment later, he jumped out of his seat, fists glowing and ready to fight intruders.

He might not have bothered. It was only Hawk.

“Hi-- um-- the door was open, so--”

“No, it wasn't.”

“You're right, but I pick locks. Very small, very quick fingers. It's a hobby.”

Jean-Paul glared at him, but the little man looked so *harmless*. He returned to his seat. “Don't do it again.”

“Okay. Um... Sonja's really, really sorry. She gets like that. She'll be fine by tomorrow.”

“How wonderful for her. Unfortunately, I can't take the chance she'll hurt one of my students. She'll have to be limited to training alone, for the time being.”

“What? No-- you can't-- I mean, you can, but you wouldn't-- you would, wouldn't you? Boy, you Canadians... you don't like guns, you don't like random acts of violence. Weird Al hit it on the head. You're no fun at all.”

Jean-Paul snorted. “Be that as it may, this is not personal. I have to think about the children.”

“Maybe that's the problem,” Hawk said. “*Children*. Sonja and I are your age. We don't belong here.”

“You do, if you wish to learn the use of your powers.”

The little man all but hopped up and down. “But we *know* how to use our powers! Not the way you guys do, sure, I mean I wouldn't want to fight Mister Sinister or-- although I would like to ask him where he came up with that name, I mean could we be any more obvious?-- but we're not good enough for the professionals and we don't fit in with the kids.”

Jean-Paul frowned, considering the little man's surprisingly cogent argument. “You are not the only mutants to come to the X-Men later in life. I took that route myself.”

“But you'd been heroing for years with Alpha Flight! It's not the same thing!”

“Fair enough,” Jean-Paul conceded. “You seem to know a great deal about us.”

Hawk fidgeted until his gaze. “I'm--I like super heroes. My mutation-- it's hard to concentrate on anything that isn't exciting. Nothing's more exciting than a good costume brawl. BAM! POW! ZAP! ZOOM...!”

“Yes, yes, I get the point.” Jean-Paul held up both hands for peace. “I'm surprised Monolith puts up with it... no offense.”

“None taken,” said the little man, who had the virtue of *knowing* he was annoying. “I guess I remind her of the old days. When I first met Sonja, she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.”

Jean-Paul blinked. Feminine beauty didn't interest him personally, but he was familiar with the concept, and... “I find that hard to believe.”

“Yeah, I know. It's the scar tissue. It keeps growing. Every time she gets zapped, she loses a little more of what she was. That's why she gets so angry when... oops. I forgot I'm not supposed to relate other people's origin stories. It's kind of a rule...”

“It's all right, I won't tell.” Jean-Paul considered for a long moment. “*If* you'll be responsible for keeping her temper in check... I will give her another chance.”

“You WILL? YES!” Hawk pumped his fist and started jumping up and down wildly. “You're the bestest superhero *ever,*! Well, Spider-Man's still my favorite, but you're definitely better than Wolverine! Don't tell him I said that. Wow-oh-wow-oh-wow-oh--”

“You can leave now,” Jean-Paul said, resisting the urge to throw a book at him.

“Oh. Okay, yeah. I will, I promise, but... wow.” The little gargoyle hopped over toward the door, then turned his big, watery eyes on the X-Man. “I hope you find her, Northstar.”

His blood froze. “Her?”

“Aurora. That's what you were doing before I came in, right? Looking for her?”

“I was...” he cleared his throat. “Go. You have a busy day tomorrow.”

“Okay. I understand. I used to have a sister.” Hawk shrugged and closed the door quietly behind him. Once outside the room, Jean-Paul could hear him shouting and jumping around, but at least he'd made the *attempt* at good manners.

Jean-Paul shrugged and turned back to the computer. Some days, all you could be expected to do was try...

****

Henry McCoy wondered if he was going insane.

He wouldn't put it past himself. He knew very well the thin line between genius and madness, especially for a man whose instincts were those of a Beast. But this... this was a new one.

A couple of months ago, during a jaunt across alternate realities, Hank had encountered a woman named Tessa-- the duplicate of Sage, resident mysterious telepath and living computer. (* New X-Men #1-4) So far, just an ordinary day. But this Sage had turned out to be a murderer, and when confronted with a mostly businesslike butt-kicking, had used her power over mutations to “rewind” Hank's blue fuzziness to his more normal humanoid state. In her world, where exotic mutations were a mark of advancement, this constituted a punishment.

All fine and well-- but her little operation turned out to have a few unanticipated side-effects... like turning him into a genuinely mindless beast who attacked Jubilee (* last issue).

Days of constant research and more blood samples than Hank liked to think about had failed to turn up anything. Although the instructions for his 'advanced mutation'-- his feline form-- were still present in his genetic code, they were dormant to all appearances, showing no reaction to any known stimulus.

Yet *something* had triggered them. Hank simply had to locate the causal event and shut it down. Knowing the alternate Sage, said trigger would ever prove to be fiendishly complex... or devilishly simple. Which certainly narrowed it down.

He checked his lab equipment. Another batch of tests had run, these checking whether the presence of various chemicals in his bloodstream might affect the change. No relationship found... no relationship... no relationship... damn!

He'd almost *killed* Jubilee. He might change again, at any time. It was utterly irresponsible of Hank to remain here, at the school, if he could not find the trigger. He would have to tell Emma... would have to admit that once again, his vaunted intelligence was unable to cope with the simple biological problems his mutation caused. Hank McCoy was not an egotistical man, but the thought galled him. It stuck in his craw and burned his brain. *Damn* Sage. He wished he'd ripped out her throat when he'd had the chance. Then he wondered if that came from him, or from the inner beast...

Three rounds of tests later, he knew he could put it off no longer. Emma was in a class, so he asked Sean Cassidy down to the lab. This was the sort of thing he'd have to explain in person.

When he heard the first, tiny sound, he thought it was Sean. His nose wrinkled a few times... what *was* that scent? Was it... then he knew what it was, and fought the adrenaline surging in his veins...

But it was the Beast in control when he turned.

****

Sean Cassidy wondered if there wasn't some cosmic rule that said he couldn't have a good day. The former Banshee wasn't precisely *happy* to be here, teaching at the Academy with Emma Frost-- back at the beginning, so to speak. But he had gotten used to the idea, finally, and his first day of teaching had gone reasonably well.

Perhaps this was the way, finally, to redeem the parts of his checkered past that still pained him; to pass on what he knew, so youngsters didn't make any of his mistakes. Perhaps he never should have left this life.

Of course, if he'd stayed away, he wouldn't have caught a hint of movement from a supposedly empty classroom on the way to Hank McCoy's lab. He wouldn't have heard a voice muttering to itself inside. He wouldn't have opened the door, ready to unleash his sonic scream, and found the room empty. But the window had been broken and some of the desks overturned. Sean paced to the center of the room, shivering from the draft, searching side to side...

Someone landed behind him. Something hard and sharp jabbed into his back. Sean took a deep breath...

*Don't be Deadpool, don't be Deadpool, don't be Deadpool...*

“I'll be damned! Irish?! I thought this was the 616! Weren't you hit by a plane or something?”

Calling on years of training, Sean dropped low to avoid the sword, spun, and in a single motion:

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The all-too-familiar red-clad mercenary flew across the room, but before he could slam into the wall, he buried his sword in the floor, caught himself, and flipped back around, another blade aimed at Sean's throat.

*Glory, he's fast,* Sean thought. *Mad as a hatter, but fast!*

Sean put an overturned desk between them and put up his dukes-- not that they'd do a lot of good against one of the world's most feared mercenaries. His only real asset was his scream, which would not take even a lunatic by surprise twice.

“What're yeh doin' here, boy? I thought our scores were settled long ago.”

“Pretty much,” Deadpool agreed. “I'm here for the-- I was going to say for the lady, but she's no lady, is she? But she's female. Is she *ever* female.”

“Emma Frost,” Sean sighed. “Yeh've got a contract on Emma?”

“'Fraid so.” The mercenary brandished his sword. “You're not gonna want to get between us, Irish. I think we're all tired of the 'cutting your vocal chords' gimmick, and I'd hate to have to tell Terry I ran you through.”

Sean considered: He couldn't possibly beat Deadpool. Not at this stage in his career, and probably not on the best day of his life. His sonic scream was likely to have been heard, and that meant help was on the way. But what sort of help? Could he justify exposing any of his students-- past or present-- to this man?

He took a long step around and placed himself between Deadpool and the door. “Go home, boy. Yeh'll be fillin' no contracts today.”

“C'mon, Irish, is this worth it? You don't have any love for Frost. This isn't *that* kind of story.”

“Here's *my* story,” Sean said. “'And he screamed all the way down to the ground.'”

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! Summoning every bit of his power, Sean drove Deadpool backward... back... keeping him barely off-balance until...

“The END!” Sean snarled, and kicked him through the open window. He took two steps and dove through it himself, intending to take the fight outside, where at least he might buy time for Emma and the kids.

Just before his sonic scream kicked in, he head Deadpool's distinctive voice: “Is this a bad time to ask if I can date your daughter?”

****

Jon Worthington walked out of his last class thinking he'd done a pretty good job. He'd been laughed at, of course, and scorned behind his back. He'd read straight from the text and utterly failed to make it interesting. He'd arrived at the classroom to find a rather elaborate comic strip drawn on the blackboard in his honor. But at least he'd kept himself together throughout the day and gotten through every class with a proper knowledge of who and what he was.

Then he stepped outside to stretch his wings, and it all fell apart.

One minute, everything was normal. The next minute, Sean Cassidy and a bloke in a poncy red outfit crashed out of an upstairs window. After that, things got weird.

The fellow in red landed as well as could be expected and came up swinging a fancy sword, which Sean just barely dodged. The Banshee pressed the attack desperately, and from what Jon could see, he was smart not to give his opponent a moment's quarter. Even with Sean doing his considerable best, he almost got cut in half several times.

Jon ran to help him-- until he saw a flash in the woods nearby. He stopped, waited-- saw it again. There was a man back there, equipped with something silver that gleamed in the afternoon sun. He was aiming at Sean!

Jon got there first, nailing the man with a take-down slide that would have earned him a red card in any soccer match. He felt pleased with himself for .05 seconds. Then he saw who it was he'd taken down. Rough hands seized him by the front of the shirt.

“Well, well, if it ain't the ol' Archangel,” the man growled. “Been a while, friend. Remember me?”

Jon was very much afraid he did.

****

Monet St. Croix couldn't have said why she felt sure Layla Miller was up to something when the girl wandered away from her fellow students after the final class of the day. It was something in her eye, Monet thought, or maybe something that *wasn't* in her eye-- the sincere relief of every high school student when the clock hits 3:00 P.M..

She followed the girl surreptitiously when she made her way through the doors, out to the Japanese garden. Nothing sinister in that.

Once she thought she was out of sight of the main building, Layla changed course and walked back toward the front. There she stopped, concealed in a little knot of trees, and waited expectantly until...

Two people, one of them Sean, crashed through the upper window.

“Well,” Monet murmured, “*that's* different.”

She started to go after them, until she noticed Layla staring in the other direction. The girl had obviously come out here to see a fight, so why wouldn't she be *looking* at the fight, unless...

There, a few meters away. Jono-- or whatever they were supposed to be calling him now-- struggling with a large man, bronzed and bearded, all covered in electronic gizmos and cybernetic enhancements.

*Scalphunter,* she thought. *All we need is a couple of Sentinels, and my day's complete...*

Layla Miller turned and ran toward Jono's side of the fight.

“Hey!” Monet yelped. She took to the air and swooped in front of Layla, scooping her off the ground before she could get in the way of the two men. “What precisely do you think you're doing?”

“Stopping you,” Layla said.

“Stopping me from what...?”

“Interfering. He needs this.”

“They're both fighting out of their weight class! Without me, they're going to lose!”

“Unfortunately, they're not.” Layla Miller's eyes seemed very big and somehow very dark, despite their light color. “This is far enough.”

Monet had leveled out, only a few feet off the ground. Layla suddenly kicked and slipped from her grasp, tumbling to the ground in a cloud of dust. She started running for the trees. Monet would never catch her before she got there, so she circled around and waited in the Japanese garden until the girl came out. Layla didn't look particularly surprised to see her.

“You know things,” Monet said.

“Stuff,” Layla said with shrug. “Just stuff.”

“You don't like me very much.”

“No,” the girl agreed. She started walking away. Monet took a quick step after her-- and Layla flinched again.

She backed off, puzzled, and summoned her gentlest voice to ask: “Why are you afraid?”

“*Because* I know stuff.”

“Such as?”

Layla frowned at her. “It's all chess, Miss St. Croix. You give a piece, you take a piece. Do you play chess?”

“On occasion,” she said. “I have trouble finding a worthy opponent.”

“That's always a problem for a black queen,” the girl said, and walked away.

****

The Banshee barely dodged another of Deadpool's strikes. He was running on borrowed time, and he knew it. His only hope as he saw it was reason-- and reasoning with Deadpool felt something like herding fleas across a barn.

“This is madness, boy!” he said, in-between sonic screams. “Yeh've allied with th' X-Men more than once! Would yeh turn on us for a couple o' quid?”

“Yeah, I'm such a scamp. Come on-- it's not like I'm talking about offing Wolverine or Storm! How much would you miss Emma, really?”

“Yeh'll never know, boyo. The Banshee will...”

“Yeah, about that.” Deadpool stepped in and head-butted Sean. “I've been meaning to ask you for years.” He swept with his sword, nicking Sean's side and barely missing the rest of him. “You do know a Banshee's a FREAKIN' GIRL SPIRIT, right?”

“I'd heard,” Sean grunted. He propelled himself over the mercenary's heard with a burst of his scream.

Deadpool was waiting when he came down, kicking him in the stomach to double him over. “I mean, they're literally *always* female! How did you not know that? I don't care if it *was* the Silver Age!”

“I had an off-day,” said the Banshee, dodging another killing blow. “Wade... damn it...”

But Deadpool's sword was already in position. Sean wondered briefly if even his friendship with Theresa would keep him from cutting her dead old dad in the line of duty... when suddenly he lowered the sword, staring at something in the distance.

“Dammit-- I don't believe this! Will you look at that? They got another merc!”

Sean followed his eyes-- sure enough, a little distance away, Jon Worthington was struggling with the big Marauder, Scalphunter.

“Who was it?” Sean pressed, hoping to catch Deadpool in a lucid moment. “Who hired yeh?”

But the other man sounded furious: “What am I, a rookie? I am a primo guest star! I don't need backup! I CAN'T WORK LIKE THIS!”

He stormed off in the other direction, while Sean tried to remember how to breathe.

****

“Poor little Angel-boy,” growled John Greycrow, alias Scalphunter. Slowly-- ever so slowly-- he struggled to bring his right hand, containing a pistol, up toward Jon's chest. All the younger man's strength could not seem to stop it. In another moment, it'd all be over.

“Do me a favor, Wings,” said a strange voice. “Move *now*.”

Jon's eyes widened. He released Scalphunter and threw himself to the ground. The fool in the red tights stood before him, brandishing a nasty sword.

“You've got a healing factor, right?” Deadpool said. “I hate healing factors, especially mine. Point is, heal *this*.”

He struck out with a blow that certainly would have cut the other merc from shoulder to hip-- until something barreled into him. About six feet of snarling fur closed its slavering jaws on his arm.

“BAD Cujo!” Deadpool exclaimed.

“Th' *hell*...?” said Jon from the ground.

Scalphunter raised his weapon again.

“Bad timing, Angel,” he said. “Again.”

Jon Worthington's life flashed before his eyes. Actually, two lives-- the relatively short, uneventful one of Jonothon Starsmore, and the jet-setting, hero worship-filled existence of Warren Worthington. So unfamiliar to him, all that happiness, so much... *sunshine*. It was downright eerie.

But there was a darker portion of that life-- a part this man brought to the surface. A memory of being down in those stinking tunnels under New York City, his delicate wings crushed. A memory of torture and despair...

“Yeh,” Jon murmured. “I can work with that.”

Before Scalphunter could pull the trigger, he lashed out with Warren's years of fighting experience, knocking the merc's gun away. Jon kept his wings flapping in the other man's face while he got his hands around his throat...

“Yer... kind... took... me... flamin'... WINGS!”

“What the--”

The other man was a trained mercenary, absolutely deadly in combat with any weapon. But Jon was tenacious, possessed my another man's memories, and as the influence of Warren Worthington grew stronger and stronger, the psi power of Jonothon Starsmore focused harder, until his eyes shone with the orange light of the inner chamber that had been all but extinguished...

Scalphunter knocked his hands away. “I'm done playing with you, boy.”

“Me, too.” Jon got into the other man's head, saw his thoughts-- all of them in shades of black and red-- and twisted them, showing him what he could do to them, what he *wanted* to do if he lost control of the psi-blast for even a second...

“Wait... you don't...” The merc struggled for his weapon, unaccustomed to the feeling of fear, but this time Jon seized his arms and held them fast.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Give me a reason. Let's go to hell together, eh?”

“You wouldn't like it,” said Deadpool's voice, above him. “Those Mephisto issues always drag.”

Jon felt the breeze just in time and pulled away, as Deadpool's sword slashed down and cut deep into Scalphunter's throat. The other man released a soft *gurgle*, and then nothing else.

Jon lay on the ground beside his body. A little distance away, he could see the creature that had attacked Deadpool lying on the ground, wounded through the shoulder, its breathing labored. Jon almost thought he recognized it.

“Well,” said Deadpool. “I had fun. I'm not feeling particularly bound by my contract, seeing as how they *dissed* me, so tell Emma we'll do this another time. We'll have us a crossover. I'm seeing her wrapped around me provocatively on the cover...”

“In your dreams,” said Monet St. Croix, who arrived about that moment, along with Sean Cassidy. “On second thought, I don't want to *know* about your dreams.”

Then her eyes went wide as she took in the furry lump on the ground. “Dear Lord... is that Henry?”

****

The sun was just setting behind the Academy when Jubilation Lee walked out of the main building. Jon Worthington was already there, all strange-eyed and broodier than ever. He didn't say anything for a while, but that made things quiet, and Jubilee couldn't stand quiet.

“What a day!” she said.

“Tell me about it, luv.”

“It was a nightmare, Jono! A *nightmare!* I had to deal with whiny kids, malfunctioning powers, *schoolwork*... I can't tell ya how tired I am. It was seriously like the worst day *ever*...”

“Yeh,” Jon said quietly. “Today I went berserk on a guy who tortured Warren, Sean fought a lunatic mercenary, Monet thinks she's a pawn in some cosmic game of chance, and we found out some bloke's put out a hit on Emma. Oh, and Hank's a werewolf.”

Jubilee's eyes bulged. “Okay. You guys win.”

“There'll be a staff meeting tomorrow. I'd be there.” Jon groaned. “Whoever *I* am.”

“What's that mean?”

His wings went up and down, a kind of shrug. “I'm losing it, Jubes. Warren's got too many memories... more than mine. *Bigger* than mine. I'm forgetting meself. His grudges, his feelings for Betsy... sod it all. I thought it'd be better once Paige left, but it's worse. On top of everything else, I've lost me best friend.”

“Nah,” said Jubilee. “You lost your girlfriend. *I'm* your best friend.”

He glanced at her sideways. “I guess you are, at that. Sorry about the griping. Like you said... one of those days.”

“It's cool,” she said. She frowned out into the darkening sky. “Wait, Hank's a *werewolf*?”

****

Emma Frost was asleep, and dreaming of her students.

It was not an uncommon dream for her... the children of Genosha, her Hellions, Esme. She'd lost so many, her unconscious could barely hold the feelings back, especially since Jean Grey had forcibly introduced her to them. Emma was more than used to weeping over their graves, telling them all how sorry she was... but they didn't usually answer.

*Help us,* said the voice that seemed to come from everywhere around her in a mass graveyard.

“I can't,” Emma said, “it's too late.”

*Not for us,* said the voice. *Not for all. HELP US!*

Emma frowned. This certainly wasn't part of the usual dream. “I'm sorry, who--”

*HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US!*

She awoke with a gasp. She had fallen asleep right at her desk; Sean Cassidy was shaking her shoulder.

“There yeh are!” he said. “We've looked everywhere, darlin'... yeh'll ne'er believe the evening we've had. Emma... there's quite a bit o' bad news...”

“I don't doubt it,” Emma said, and followed him out of the classroom.

END

In Issue #3: “Ghosts in the Halls”
See the other Eternity series: Uncanny X-Men, New X-Men, X-Force, & X-Factor, online now!
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