Prologue:

"Can you tell me why?"

Marie grinned over her shoulder as she discarded clothing in a pile--what she could take, what she couldn't, what she needed, what would fit. Enough to get in one backpack, enough to grab and still be able to run.

She'd learned from the best.

"Because I have to."

"Because you want to." Jubilee's voice was a little bitter, and Marie turned around to face her.

"That too." Carefully, she pushed the pile aside and sat down, covering Jubilee's hands with one of her own. "I told you a long time ago I was going to try."

"But there's Bobby--"

"He'll be here when I get back." She turned away, pushing some socks into the bag.

"Only if you come home alone."

Marie stopped, taking a short breath. That hurt--or it should have. Slowly, she hunted up her extra gloves, placing them carefully in a side slot of the bag.

"I have to know."

"You do know." Jubilee reached out, finding a clothed elbow and pulling gently until Marie looked at her. "He's been home, what, six times? In five years. You gave up a long time ago--and I thought you were happy with Bobby."

Marie zipped the slot closed with an unsteady hand.

"This isn't about him." Which him Marie meant was left up to interpretation--she preferred it that way.

A bounce on the bed cascaded a line of shirts to the floor. Marie sighed.

"Then what the hell is it about? You saw him over a year ago, you said--"

"I lied." Marie dropped to her knees, hunting up another pair of shoes, checking the weight in one gloved hand. "You don't understand.'

"No, I fucking don't, even if everyone else is playing footsie with you on this, Rogue. Why? Just tell me why. He doesn't give a rat's ass for you, not like you--"

"Not like I want." Marie finished easily. Then shook her head. "This isn't about him--it's about me." A final check through what she'd bring--shirts, shoes, jeans, gloves, one tracking device and--

And she pulled out the worn chain, staring at it dangle from her fingers. Watching the light glint before drawing it over her head, tucking it in her shirt. Jubilee's eyes narrowed but Marie didn't comment, staring into the window beyond her briefly.

"I need this--to be free. Really free, Jubilee. I need to know, I need to be sure, I need to look at him in a place that isn't the classroom and the practice ring." Uncertainly, she fingered the long sleeve of her shirt. "This is the one thing I've waited for, trained for--"

"To chase him down?"

"To find out if it's real or not, if its just a kid's fantasy or--if it's something else. I'll never find out here. I've worked to become an adult--now I need to act like one."

"So you run."

"But not away. To something." Marie pulled out her wallet--credit cards, travelers checks, cash. Xavier had only nodded when she stepped in front of his desk, handed her the passport and her visas, gave her the account numbers and the keys to cars in cities she hadn't entered yet. The tickets for her first flight tucked in an envelope. Letters of introduction, an address book with people she could contact if she got in trouble, places she could stay. Six false identifications, if she needed to run.

No commentary. She'd almost been angry. Almost.

Then a brush of his fingers across her gloved hand, and she'd wanted to sit down and cry, because no matter how sure she was, she'd never be sure enough.

"I understand," he'd said with a gentle smile that took away the pain of leaving, the feeling of abandoning him when she was needed--the de facto disloyalty to the people who'd trained her and taught her and cared for her and loved her. She never denied the debt--but she'd asked only one extension. One year and one day. Find what she was looking for and come home complete and free--alone or not.

"Do you have an address?" Jubilee's voice was soft, and Marie flipped through her wallet and pulled out a faded letter, written to the Professor eight months before. Jubilee picked it up, eyebrows raised at the characteristic scrawl across the front as Marie pulled out her map, spreading it hastily on the bed and stabbing a finger into the center.

"Des Moines."

"This is a fucking cold trail." Jubilee stated the obvious with regretful relish.

Marie shrugged.

"It's all I got. There was some trouble--" her teeth flashed. "They'll remember, and I should find someone who can tell me which way he was going."

"What trouble?"

"He fights for money--what kind of trouble do you think?" Marie's eye lit up a little and Jubilee couldn't help smiling in return.

"Will you write me?"

"Well, I wasn't going to, but since you ask so nicely--"

"Rogue--"

"No. Marie." She tilted her head. "I'm not Rogue until I come home." With a final pat on the yellow shoulder, Marie got to her feet, pulling her jacket from the chair and dropping it by the bag. "I'm ready."

Jubilee stood up slowly.

"Don't come down." Her mouth quirked as she pulled the backpack on and hooked her jacket under one loop. "Stay here."

"I want--"

"I want you to stay. No one watches me leave, kay? This isn't a funeral and I'm not going off indefinitely into the great beyond. I'll be home--this is just a trip."

She saw the rebellion, followed by acceptance, and pulled the older girl into a quick embrace, before backing off and turning away.

One more thing.

She walked into his room, looking around it for a minute. Despite how bare it was--and it was bare, Logan wasn't the type to pick up collectibles and souvenirs--his personality was here. The bed made with those disturbingly tight military corners from an unremembered past, the repaired wall from where he put a fist through it one nightmare or so into his return home longer ago than she could calculate on the spot. The light scent of cigar smoke that lingered, and the clothes he didn't need anywhere but here.

But that wasn't all, because she hadn't been in here since he left. She opened the closet and found his jacket, hanging in easy reach--there was no reason for him to have left it. She took it, pressing her face against it briefly, taking in the scent that a year and a month hadn't dimmed, then released hers from the loops, easily, removing his from the hanger, checking the pockets and finding the remains of one cigar and a handful of Canadian money.

Slowly, she traced her way out, walking to the door and giving the room one long look.

"It's time, Logan. I've waited long enough."

Then closed the door behind her.

It was Scott waiting with the car, already warmed up, and she got in without comment, though she'd expected Jean. In one hand were her tickets and her identification--Marie Summers, the name she'd chosen when her parents didn't claim her that long ago day in a judge's chamber that she never remembered without tears--until today.

"I think you've lost your mind." His voice was even--even he was exhausted from the night before. She remembered the anger, the yelling, the patience and empathy and understanding and shock, all mixed together--and Jean and the Professor alone who didn't comment, letting her fight a battle she'd already won.

"I know."

It wasn't so far to LaGuardia, but it could have been forever, the silence so thick she could have cut it with the metaphorical knife and served it on fresh bread with a side of mayo. She wanted to grin at the thought, but didn't.

"Don't go."

She gripped her bag tighter, folding herself into the seat with Logan's jacket around her. The car came to a stop before the main entrance and she opened her door, placing a foot on the pavement crawling with people that were already, just from watching, making her edgy.

"Scott--" She stopped, then offered a half-smile. "Maybe you'll never have to be jealous again."

He didn't look at her. Slowly, she leaned over, brushing her lips on the visor, where she couldn't hurt him, because her emotions were too close to the surface and she couldn't count on her control to hold. It was brief, but she felt his fingers brush her hair.

"Be careful."

She nodded slowly and he pressed her fingers once.

"If you need anything--anything, Marie--call me."

Marie. He did understand and she nodded quickly, refusing to let the tears break the surface of her eyes. Backpack gripped between her fingers, she stepped out of the car.

"And if you can't get his ass home--just let me know. I'll be there with a car and some handcuffs to toss him in the trunk for you."

The last thing she saw of him that day was through a haze of laughter--as it should be.

"Last call for Flight 438, non-stop from New York to Des Moines, now boarding."

Marie clutched her ticket and considered her course--then smiled at the woman and extended one gloved hand, handing out the ticket.

So it began.

"Thank you."

Des Moines, February 20

Dear Jubilee,

Baby, you won't believe it.

I'll bet you're just panting for the good stuff, so I'll try to get it all in. My flight is leaving in two hours, so I don't have much time. Read the relevant parts to Scott and the others--I think you can guess what I'd prefer didn't become public knowledge, 'kay?

Here is what I learned.

One--bar fights are sort of fun, if you're winning.

Two--Logan has lousy taste in women. Don't tell Jean, though.

The plane flight was--well, pretty good, though kind of boring--what do you know, I forgot to bring a book . Road coach, I didn't want to draw attention to myself. Had muffins. They were pretty bad.

I went to the motel Logan stayed at first. It was pretty--well, I think you can guess. The manager looked really uncomfortable when he saw me--I suppose he's used to a less--em, savory kind of clientele. But I showed him money, got the key, and went in.

Yeah, he'd been here. Bad patching on the wall that had the shape of his claws, and it has that indefinable sense of slumming that Logan is so known for. The bed was clean, though, which I'd guess is a necessity, and for a wonder, it held my weight when I sat on it.

Anyway, Xavier was right about a few things--money talks. I kept it below twenty to get info from some of the prostitutes outside--one of which was a tall redhead with the improbable name of Ginger. You heard me right. Not pretty, but close enough. And she talked quick. Though at first, I think she thought I was trying to proposition her or something, because she kept trying to jack up the price. Didn't believe me when I said I just wanted information. Anyway, she remembered a lot--and a lot I'm not going to tell you, because frankly, I'm trying to forget some of it myself.

In case you're curious, she's the reason for the damaged wall. Let your imagination go, Jubilee, it can't get far off from the truth. Her friends joined in with a few more stories--please let some of them be exaggeration or Logan isn't getting in my bed until he gets a fleabath and a doctor's word that he doesn't carry anything that I'll regret picking up, instant healing factor or not. God. No one can be that active.

Okay, never mind that--I should know better. But damn.

Anyway, he was here for about three weeks. Didn't do much, apparently, but eat, sleep, and make a lot of money in something called "The Pit". From what I understand, two men get in a big dirt hole and try their best to kill each other--or do some serious injury. Cage fighting without the cage part, and throw in some audience participation. There you have it. He's also made some contacts for Xavier I checked on--but that's later in the story.

Anyway, I got Ginger to take me to the Pitt to see what it was like--hey, if he wanted to keep it a secret, he shouldn't have told her. She didn't like it--of all things she was worried and kept saying that I'd get hurt. I told her I could take care of myself and shut her up with another ten. She said she'd take me off-hours--apparently, the actual fights aren't announced until a few hours before they happen to cut down on that annoying police problem.

Now--here's an image for you. Big, round bowl, roughly ten feet deep and thirty feet across with an thirteen foot width. It's well cared-for, so I'm guessing that this isn't just the sport of the poor and needy--there was a very expensive looking spectator's box sitting near the center and when I peeked through--well, leather seats and Ikea furniture doesn't grow in the pavement. I checked through the papers scattered around and I think I recognize a few names--not Logan or Wolverine, but a few others that I'm enclosing for the Professor to look over.

Ginger was like a cat on a hot plate the whole time. I have no idea who the owner is, and from her rather unlikely descriptions, he isn't someone I'd want to have a beer with or anything. I'm pretty sure he's a mutant, though, so you might want to pass that on as well. The address is at the bottom of the letter--though I doubt that this one will be around much longer. If a hooker can find it so easy, it's been around too long and they'll be moving. From the look of the place, it hasn't been used in a few weeks, so I suspect that the last fight was already done and over with. Damn.

I keep thinking I'd like to see one fight. Don't look at me like that either--I didn't say I wanted to participate. Just watch.

Anyway, Ginger got her ass in gear and away as soon as I'd paid her and I got back to the motel in one piece. The manager was perfectly willing to answer some questions too, and that's where I found out where Logan was going next, and why I'm on this next flight.

But let me tell you the good part. Your eyes only, baby. I mean that.

I went to a bar.

Now you look at the letter and wonder on the exact merits of me acting like this is something special. Yeah, I know, we've been to bars. But not like this--it isn't well-lighted, they aren't big into music, and the women--well, let's put it this way, I renewed my acquaintance with the lovely Ginger, who invited me to her table. Which is how I was shooting whiskey with a few hookers and Ginger's pimp, who told me I had real potential.

That is something I needed to know. Really.

But it gets better. Verbatim--

"So what's a pretty girl like you want with that sleazeball?" He's the definition of oily--hair, skin, even his clothes. And the only thing that stopped me from putting a fist through his very ample gut was the fact he actually seemed to know who Logan was. I bought the next round and got ready to interrogate him.

"He owes me money. Laughlin City." I tried to look--well, dangerous. But ya know? I'm not--there's no two ways about it. I look young and naive and really, really vulnerable, which was probably his first mistake. He sidled up close and slinky and said that he could make me more money that Logan is even worth--apparently, he hasn't seen what Logan makes a night then--and starts running a hand up my thigh.

I really didn't like that. And it was reflex, Jubilee, I swear. I was only going to knock him away--but you remember when Xavier imported that really hot little oriental number to teach us jujitsu? Yeah, you remember, you're blushing and I know he spent at least one night in our room when I was otherwise occupied. Well, I reacted before I thought--I guess I am a superhero now--and he ended up against the wall--kind of across the table, which meant I lost my whiskey--and didn't look at all interested in getting back up.

Well, Ginger starts screaming like someone was trying to shove a broom up her ass straw end first and the other chicks just went into hysterics--as I understand it, he takes their money in exchange for protection on the streets, though God knows he couldn't protect a dog from a tree if the tree got aggressive. Two really big guys wandered over--you remember something Logan said? Probably not, but I do. That there are people out there who actually live to get in some kind of trouble, with a big KILL ME sign on their foreheads. I never believed him--but here they were, two guys coming right over, with that recognizable look of anticipation. They see me standing there like an idiot--I hadn't gotten so far in my thought processes as to start running, like anyone with sense--and they practically break out in song and dance. I don't need to be a telepath to know that they are thinking of some free sex that night.

Not to mention the fun of kicking the ass of the chick who kicked the ass of the pimp, who I gather is either a friend or brother of said louts. Go figure.

So they come at me, one on either side, and the weird part is, when I started thinking, I really started to like the idea. They had the height, weight, and reach--I had skin and training and some memories of Logan's that did wonders. The first guy was lucky to get away with a broken foot and a mighty fine concussion that knocked him out cold. The second I threw up against the far wall with what I'm pretty sure was a crushed wrist and that's when I realized that maybe the better part of valor was to run for it, because the whole damned bar was watching at that point. So I dropped some money on the table to pay for the liquor and got my ass out of there.

So if you see any stories in the news about psycho girl in rampage in bar, that's me. Cut out the article too--I wanna keep that one.

Well, it gets better--I got back to the room and didn't even bother going in. The door was open slightly--I left a few things in there, but nothing I couldn't live without, and my backpack was in storage at the airport. Whoever was in there was a bad burglar or an incompetent ambusher, and if the manager hadn't told me where Logan had gone, I think I might have gone in just for the hell of it, but I had a plane to catch and the last thing I needed was for some bright soul to call the cops and get arrested now.

Oh well.

So I went to a payphone, called a cab, and left. And came here, and now I have an hour before flight time and a headache from the whiskey.

Last thing--something the professor wanted me to watch out for.

One of the guys Logan set him up with has disappeared, and I can't get much more than that. Believe me, before the entire bar incident, I tried. But nothing--I checked the apartment he was supposed to be living in and the manager told me he disappeared with some kid a few weeks ago. Left everything, including money, which makes me kind of suspicious. For a fee, she let me go through his stuff. I didn't have much time, but really, there wasn't much there--he lived by the Spartan code of minimalism, let me tell you. I have the address here too--give it to the Professor, I don't have time to write a second letter. The manager will hold everything--I tried to imply that this was Mafia business or something, and I'm not sure she really believed me, but--well, it seemed safer than to tell her that a Great Mutant Leader wanted to check out the place. Hey, what would you do?

I'm off to Chicago. Miss you, give my love to Scott and Jean and Ororo and the Professor. And Bobby. 'Kay?

Marie Summers

Chicago, March 8

Dear Jubilee,

God, I'm tired. I've been on the road for sixteen hours. A few minutes ago a bunch of rabbits barreled across the highway. As you are aware, rabbits are hibernating this time of year and I don't even know if Illinois has rabbits, so I kind of figured I'd best stop. Hallucinations aside, my foot kept trying to slip off the pedal, so I'm shacking up at yet another flea bitten little motel that if Logan hasn't been in, I'll have to give him the address. He's missed a great opportunity to commune with nature--cat-nature outside the window since I got here, flea-nature all over the damned bed, and something-howling-nature that's too damned close for my peace of mind.

Things I Have Learned:

One--suburbanites are scary

Two--their kids are scarier.

Three--erotica is bad, when mixed with certain kinds of mutants.

Xavier gave me their address and asked me to stop by specifically--seems their youngest kid is definitely--one of us. A telepath, no less, and she manifested damned early, which is really disturbing. She's about twelve and clicks around in the head of anyone in range, which made me edgy the whole time and of course, really inappropriate thoughts kept just bursting to the top of my head every chance they got. I mean, really inappropriate, and that kid giggled every damned time.

She giggled all the way through dinner and even I couldn't focus on mashed potatoes and roast beef through that. She asked me who Logan was and why I was contemplating the chocolate cream pie in relation. Her parents tried to laugh it off, but they watched me after that. Well, they watched me anyway because I explained what I was and why I was dressed as a modern day mummy--I mean, with a kid around, I can't be too careful, right?

Anyway, about this house...

You remember the Stepford Wives, that idiotic movie Bobby made us rent last year? Perfect lawn, perfect house, that guy has his wife-zombie-robot screaming "You're the champ!" or something like that? I'm telling you, I was in one of those houses. It was clean, like, everywhere, and I mean everywhere, and there's no way that's natural. There were matching towels everywhere that had, I kid you not, crocheted lace on every conceivable edge and doilies--you know what a doily is, right?--doilies practically leaked off every available surface. I got really freaked when I was in the bathroom and noticed that the toilet wasn't just clean--it was spotless. Like they never used it. And it had this really cute bright pink furry cover that matched this bright pink furry rug and this pepto colored shower curtain--and the crochet-edged towels--which was so disturbing that I didn't want to go anywhere near it. Which meant I had a case of toilet fright and couldn't use it, which meant I took several trips down the street to the convenience store to buy a soda and take a restroom break. They had to wonder why I needed all that caffeine.

And the wife--for some reason, I guess I expected someone like my mom, or maybe Jean if she was older, but no way. Dressed to the housewifely nines, and I think she followed me around the house not to chat but to make sure I didn't track in any dirt. When a leaf fell out of my hair on the floor and she practically threw herself into intervening before it could touch her polished wood floor--oh man, I was sooo trying not to laugh. She cleaned the whole time I was talking to her. The husband was--well, he was there and I can't get more specific than that. Real quiet and really--well, faded. Like he was the Stepford Husband, and when I thought of him yelling "You're the champ!", the kid started giggling again and that just--Jubilee, don't go there, ever. Ever, ever, ever.

Well, everything went okay despite my nerves--I told them Xavier's message and they were really glad to hear that Xavier would take the kid--Rachel, by the way--next year. I'm not sure why he's waiting, but in any case, they told me they were glad then subjected me to the life history of the little girl--and you know, she's a cute kid even if she can pick up indecent thoughts out of your head, but no one is cute enough to be worth two and a half hours of pictures and rambling accounts of her manifestation and all that. I know more about this kid's childhood than I know about my own. Natural childbirth, which was described in such loving detail that when I find Logan, he sure as hell better not be interested in kids. Rachel got her first tooth at three months--did you ever hear the like? Potty-trained by nine months. Was doing fractions before anyone in her class. Oh whoopee.

And she was breast-fed, which explains everything, or at least her mother thinks so. Why oh why can't people keep some information to themselves? Is that too much to ask?

Well, I got away as soon as Little Rachel had to be put to bed, and told them I was glad to meet them but had some errands to run and see ya. They walked me to the door--they were in step, I swear--and waved goodbye with the same rhythm and I just about broke the accelerator trying to get out of there.

The worst part--the whole neighborhood was like that. So I drove really fast for a long time and it's only pure luck that I didn't get pulled over or anything.

Now to the good stuff.

I found the place Logan stayed here--her name is--take a guess--Randi with an 'i', mind you, and she's a stripper. Red hair, legs that go forever, and the biggest smile I've ever seen on a human face. Very pretty, and very friendly, and when she found out my name, she practically dragged me in her apartment and got me some warm milk.

Warm milk. It gets worse, Jubilee. Way worse

Here's something that should just about make you die. He talks about me. In a little-sister way, which was unbelievably depressing. How smart I was, how well I was doing in school--God, Jubilee, I almost sat down and cried, and if it hadn't been for just how nice she really was, I swear I would have just walked out, because I can get past his thing for Jean and I can get past his cross-country treks, but I can't handle de facto incest. Damn, damn, damn.

Anyway, we got passed that and I asked her when the last time she saw him was and what he was doing. She was really helpful (hear the sarcasm?), shared all kinds of stuff with me that if I was his little sister I shouldn't know about--have these people ever heard that maybe some things should be kept private?--and then told me something that actually turned out to be useful. Logan was scouting out a potential contact, with the ever-so-grandiose nick of Specter, who apparently is also missing. Read this to the Professor--this really caught my attention.

About two weeks after Logan left, some chick showed up at Randi's door looking for him--said he was supposed to help her. Randi didn't know what to do with her and couldn't contact Logan, of course, but remembered the Specter person and sent the girl there. Well, Specter and the girl are gone, not a big shock to this community, but still--well, anyway, the address of the apartment is at the bottom of the letter. It's cleared out--I broke in three nights ago when the manager was less amenable to bribes than one might expect considering the state he was living in. That room was bare--but clean as all hell. Really, really clean, like someone went over it with a toothbrush--and repainted--I could smell the paint still, so it was layered and layered a lot, which makes you wonder what was under it. That was six months ago and the apartment hasn't been rented out or anything. Combine that with that very odd little manager and something's going on.

Okay, back to you, Jubes, and your eyes only here--I went clubbing.

You're asking why. Here's the deal. Randi had a dance--even I'm laughing at that euphemism--at a mightily upscale club. Very chic, you understand, and very private, and she wanted to move up in the world--from fifty dollar strips to five hundred dollar strips, if how she explained it was right. Anyway, her partner Lacey--yeah, her partner, and if you ask what Logan was doing with two, then you're too young to read this letter--was in the hospital, apparently the victim of pneumonia or an STD, who knows which. So she didn't want to go alone. Okay, you've gotten this far, Jubes, and you're saying to yourself--Marie strip? Of course not--me as a stripper would be me as an assassin, not a good idea for a future superhero. No, she just wanted company--Logan, being the charming soul that he is, implied that I was in school to be a bodyguard--well, that's what she got out of it and she isn't too bright, so I left it there. Easier that way anyway. She didn't seem to notice how short I was, and maybe the gloves or something gave me an air of competence--well, it was flattering! Anyway, she asked and I had nothing better to do that night and sitting around the apartment categorizing her sex toys and trying not to imagine what she and Logan did with them--she and Logan and her partner!--well, that was not my idea of a good time. So I sucked up my stomach and considered that I was broadening my education and said sure.

Jubilee, if this is what strippers make, we are in the wrong business. I went in black and tried to look mean and sat backstage--and God, in three hours she was up four thousand dollars, I think. It made much better sense why she wanted someone else along. The other girls--for some, you'd have to combine their ages with their height to bring them anywhere near legal--just wandered around and after watching the obsessive interest they seemed to have in the bathroom, I figured they were high on something.

Maybe we're in the right business after all.

And right now, Jubilee, you're asking yourself--Marie, where's the adventure? Where's the fighting, the sweating, the outrunning of something evil or predatory or policeman- like? And if you asked that, if you're asking that right now, I'd have to answer that the part coming up should satisfy you. Because I made a monumentally huge mistake, because I can be so damned stupid.

After Randi--with an 'i'!-got offstage, she, and by extension me, were invited to eat dinner with some of the nice men that run this joint. I should have said no. I should have dragged Randi out of there, because all my instincts were just screaming that we did not want to stay for dinner, but Randi was so darned pleased to be asked--well, I fell for it, and I was hungry anyway. The only difference I can see between this club and that place down in the city that Bobby and Remy go is that the men wear much better suits here and drop fifties like the boys drop fives. The guys still ogle--which is the point of these places, I know--and they still use some of the least subtle innuendo I've ever had the misfortune to listen to. Makes Logan sound like a damned poet. So I'm looking at the food and trying to figure out what it is, because it's all covered with some yellow substance that can't be sauce, looks like something you'd sneeze into your tissue, really. And Randi is eating away like there's no tomorrow, and the fact that the guys aren't eating at all doesn't seem to bother her much--and then this girl comes out on stage and that's when I start to get really, really edgy.

She's an empath. Jean didn't train me for nothing--it only took a few seconds before I knew something was really, really wrong.

You got the distinction, right, not telepath? Empath. She picks up and broadcasts emotions and she starts dancing and suddenly the only thing I can think of is how much fun it would be if I could crawl into the lap of the guy next to me, the one that's been feeling me up with his eyes all the time. And then I start really looking at him and you know, he has hazel eyes and he smiles in this way that reminds me of Logan and he has dark hair and he reaches out to touch my cheek and--

--well, you know what happens then.

I get away before he gets really damaged, but those filthy memories are in me and--and God, Jubilee, I want to throw up. Randi doesn't even twitch when this guy almost keels over in her damned lap and suddenly I'm getting a lot of attention and someone says 'mutant'--and the girl on the stage gets all distracted and I get my head clear and that guy on the floor is a short blonde in desperate need of acne cream.

So I'm on my feet and trying to pry Randi out of her chair, and she acts so out of it that I'm wondering what the hell was in that sauce anyway--and this is the worst place to be, because there's only two ways I know of in or out--and our teachers taught me a hell of a lot better than that. And the bouncers--well, they are big and they look trained, and so I only have one real choice here--

"I can kill with a touch!"

Yeah, I actually said it, stripped the glove off my hand and pointed as dramatically as I could at the guy on the floor. Whether they actually believed me or not is another thing altogether, but they're rich little bastards and don't want to die before they can spend their way through their trust fund. They see the poor little boy on the floor, think about their Ferraris, and suddenly like lemmings they are running for the door--nicely blocking those bouncers, by the way--and I get Randi on her feet and drag her up on stage and out the back door while someone yells for the police or security.

Are you laughing? It's raining and Randi's slowly waking up to the fact that maybe something went on in there that wasn't quite right, but by now I have my glove on and try to play it off as a fire drill and she believes me. And we can't get a cab, so we end up walking half the fucking strip before some cabbie who must have been desperate as hell pulled over. I tipped him big. Real big.

When we got back, Randi was in bad shape--I don't know what was in that food or what effect having someone broadcasting erotica directly into your brain does. So I made her some tea and sent her to bed and since she was sleeping and I was staying there--well, I sort of searched her apartment.

I still didn't know where he was. And this was his last known location, seven months and three days ago, so maybe there was something. Anything, though its not really likely. So I search her room--she's so out that I could have done a tap dance on her head at that point--and then the rest of the place, but there's nothing that will help. So I sat down and started thinking of everything she'd told me and I thought about his usual routes through the greater United States--

--and when she woke up I almost tackled her.

"Did he use a rental car?"

She stared at me like I'd lost my mind but she said yes.

So he drove--I had something--and it took two phone calls to some of the people on my list to access the vehicle registration and rental services, and I narrowed it down to five people who left around the same day Randi said he left. Three went to Maine on business, one went to Alaska, and the last headed south, toward--

--toward Mississippi.

So I'm going. Everything in me is saying this is the right way to go. But of all the places, he had to go there.

I gotta get some sleep. Probably on the floor, the fleas are throwing a huge party on the bed. I'll write again when something happens.

Marie Summers

Jackson, March 24

Dear Jubilee,

I got a trail--I was right--and I'm on the next flight out of here. As fast as I can shake the dirt of this godforsaken soil off my feet, I swear it.

I went home three days ago.

Maybe it was fate, or something screwing around with my head, because I don't know how it happened, I really don't.

I was sitting around Canton, doing nothing really, and it was really odd--I didn't find anything, even the car, and so I just started driving--and you know, I kept driving, and kept driving--and then I was in another city altogether and ended up in front of my house with no real clue how I managed to leave the highway without noticing. Dad's car was out front, and Mom--well, I could see Mom was in the garden, and just for a minute, I thought about getting out and running up and--

--and it all stopped there. Just stopped, and I sat behind the wheel of the car and stared at that house, at my mom in the garden--at who I was. I don't remember her very well, Jubilee--or maybe I never thought about little-Marie, ya know, since she got to touch people and I didn't. Yet there I was, in mummy gear, just--

I never thought of going back before, Jubes. I never did.

When I came to the school, being underage, the Professor needed my parents' permission to keep me--and he arranged with a judge that my parents be notified of my whereabouts so they could come claim me or give permission for me to stay where I was. The date was set three months in advance, so they had plenty of time, and Xavier sent them a letter, explaining everything--me, the school, what he did, what he was trying to do with us. Sent them my progress reports and my grades and--well, you know, stuff parents are interested in. And--and I tucked a letter in with it--no, I'm not telling you what was on it. I've forgotten, it was so long ago.

No, that's not true. Damn it. Damn, damn, damn, I remember every word.

I waited three hours in the judge's chamber, and the screwiest things went through my head. That they hadn't gotten the addresses right, or they hadn't understood where to meet or--or the car broke down and the flight was delayed, and Jean just sat there and held my hand and the judge just--just looked at me, when she was trying not to. And then I thought maybe it was all a lie, that he hadn't sent the letters, that my parents didn't know where I was, that--that--

Shit...just a sec.

They didn't come.

A few weeks later, Xavier petitioned the court on my behalf for a change in guardianship--and they still didn't come. And I thought they would--you know? None of you did, though--I saw it in your eyes when I got back, Jubes. I saw it. Not a phone call or a letter or a word. Nothing, just this blank silence that told me more than any letter ever could have.

Then a few weeks later I sat in that judge's chamber and I had a new name and a new family and--and I cried all the way home. It was that simple magic--from one person to another, all in the space it took to get the my hands to stop shaking when I gripped the pen.

And right up until the moment the judge put the seal on the order, I really believed they'd come through. I thought--God, Jubilee, I thought anything could have happened--they were out of the country, they were looking for me, they were--dead. Yeah, dead, and--and--

--well, I guess they are. Their daughter stopped existing five years ago--Marie Summers doesn't have any parents.

God, Jube, it hurt. It hurt to see that house.

And it gets worse, because--because I went back. After dark, practicing some of my renowned burglary skills--and I always left my window unlocked anyway. But you know, it was locked and for some reason that surprised me, and I had to pry it open--hoping like hell the neighbors didn't hear--and--

This isn't working. I thought writing it would make me feel better. But it hasn't. It's not, and I don't want to even fucking think about it. Not ever.

I'm getting the hell out of this city.

* * * * *

I'm at the airport--if I don't finish and mail this, I'll burn it, and well--while it's a nice idea, maybe writing it will help.

God, something has to help, doesn't it? The truth will set you free and all that?

Where was I...room. Yeah, my room. Almost killed my boyfriend there, in case you're curious. But I never almost-killed anyone in this room.

There was nothing of me left in there. And at first, I thought--I thought maybe I went to the wrong window, or I was at the wrong house. It was dark. I was seeing things. But--it was a nice room--nice spare bedroom, and all my furniture, my clothes, my posters and my stuff in general and in specific--all gone.

It was like--like I'd died or never even existed, and you wouldn't believe how fast I got out of town--you wouldn't believe it. Ended up in Jackson, and hit the first bar I saw--don't look like that. Don't. I know, believe me--but I wanted--

You know, I don't need to explain myself to you.

"Whiskey, straight." It was just natural. Really damned natural and all I could think was that forgetting with alcohol is really underrated.

The bartender was that type you always see in the movies--kind of not really caring who he's serving, kind of too sharp-eyed, and he noticed the gloves right off and pegged me as an outsider--and when he asked what I wanted, it was so--it was weird to hear his voice. I grew up in Mississippi, but the accent was like it was brand new and I just stared at him and wished I could get him to just sit there and talk to me the rest of the night.

I don't speak like that anymore--I heard my own voice, and you know what? My parents' daughter really is dead. So maybe they had the right to make over her room, ya know? That's what I thought.

Three shots later, I don't know who the hell I was, but Marie Summers I was not, I can tell you that right now. And I bought a cigar from some idiot and popped down on a stool and started channeling Logan like he was in the room, disturbing every single guy that found the balls to walk up to me. Not-nice Marie huh? I can bring up his personality and his less distinguished habits, but I don't have his tolerance and when I left I was doing damned good not to throw up on my own feet trying to find someplace to crash.

Call it fate, call it luck, I don't really give a damn--the first motel in walking distance--I couldn't even see my keys, you know--I plopped an improperly large amount of money on and just crashed in the room he handed over and cried myself to sleep. And woke up half-way through the night to do it again and get a good working relationship with the toilet.

God, how can they still do this to me? Five years, Jubes--five fucking long years, and I didn't think about it, I didn't--but I'm getting this so out of order. Never mind...okay, lemme clear my head. Okay.

Well, let me get to the interesting part of this letter. Your eyes only, all of it. I sort of had an accident. Not me with the car, but--well, okay, let me start at the beginning and state that none of this was my fault. None of it. It was fate. Or something close to it, because no one's luck, I don't care who they are, can possibly be this good, and my luck has never strayed any farther than making sure I didn't get killed.

I was still hungover and I was just trying to figure out what the hell to do now--maybe drag out my map and just stab a finger at it in hopes Logan would end up there or something along those lines--and I decided, really rationally, I needed coffee. So I changed clothes and got my pack (somewhere along the line I had the sense to bring it with me), and went looking for the car.

Tell Xavier, carefully, that the very pretty little Geo is very gone and by now is visiting Mexico City with a new paint job and serial numbers.

Anyway, so I'm in a lousy part of town without a car. Solution--get thee to a cab. Got it. Found a phone in the motel office, sat down at the phone book, and started looking up names.

Scribbled in the margin--Jube, I'd know his handwriting anywhere. Scribbled was a name and a number, and my hands started to shake and I almost dropped the book. I looked around--and yeah, it was a seedy damned motel. Just his type.

I called the number--hell, I have no idea what I expected, but it was a cab, so I solved two stones--hehehe, I mean, killed two birds with one stone. A particular cab, right here, one he very well might have used.

And that's when things got surreal.

"Logan?" he echoed when I broached the subject. "Mean fucker."

Logan endears himself to all who meet him. And it should tell you something that many months after Logan meets a guy, that guy remembers. Oh yeah--and if I hadn't had a headache that was splitting my head in two, I might have listened to what he did to offend this poor, defenseless cabbie. But to be honest--well, I sort of didn't care either.

Jubilee, this guy was damned annoying. I mean--never mind. You'd have to meet him, you really would.

"Where'd you take him?"

The guy hemmed and hawed and I got the money out and wondered a little idly if I could break his neck from the backseat with only one hand when he finally just dropped me off in what had to be the worst part of town and I overpaid him big time.

I had to smile, because damn--Jubilee, what are the chances?

It took only five minutes at the local bar for someone to remember him, because he got in a just beautiful fight and got arrested. And got away. Showed up the next night and did some damned heavy damage before he left--apparently, either they caught him on a bad night or someone really pissed him off. I'm guessing on the latter. The chick I talked to was all starry-eyed, which probably should have annoyed me, but since I have been hanging out with his hookers and shacking up with his strippers, who was I to begrudge a little admiration, huh? Anyway, he had to leave town fast, for obvious reasons, and according to the locals, he said he wanted to go to Mexico, so guess where I'll be?

What I've learned:

One--you can't go home.

Two--you shouldn't want to.

Three--drinking whiskey on an empty stomach can lead to good things. Who knew?

Gotta run. I'm not staying here another second.

Marie Summers

Harlingen, April 20

Dear Jubilee,

I know its been awhile. I know, but--well, I sort of couldn't write before now, nothing was happening--and anyway, Mexico isn't exactly known for it's great postal service. I don't know how much you got out of Scott--and don't tell me you didn't interrogate him either, I won't believe you--but I was pretty sketchy on the details to him too. And frankly, I think he's from that school that says it is better not to know.

Am I confusing you? Okay, lemme start at the beginning. Mexico was a huge bust, so I drove back to the border with a case of tequila from a really sweet kid in Mexico City--he kept saying how he needed the money so badly and so I bought it. And some hats and other stuff, because once I bought from one cute kid, all the cute kids locked on to me with money-radar--so expect a package in the mail soon, I can't do anything with hemp rope--well, I could, maybe I'll have you send that back to me if Logan proves intractable--or pottery--thought its really pretty, give that to Jean--well, you get the idea. You'll see.

Anyway, I drove into Brownsville and stayed there a night and did some poking around the area--I mean, a man can't disappear without a trace, right, and I know he really doesn't care to fly much, so vehicle all the way. I checked the motels and the bars and even a few strip clubs (dear God, don't tell anyone that, please), but nothing doing. So I'm sitting in this border city contemplating my own two feet, because I'm thoroughly lost as to what to do now--and I get a really bright idea. I mean, at the time, it sounded pretty damned good, anyway.

I went looking for the underground fighting.

Now you're looking at me and thinking--I know what you're thinking, Jubes. I know. But it wasn't like that--yeah, I wanted to see one, but this was business you understand. Just business.

Logan left me some memories--I found the right contacts--and if you ever, ever tell Scott I'll use your head as a mop, babe--and found out there was a huge fight up in Harlingen that week. And think about it--the purse was huge, even Xavier would have been shocked by just how much--and I kept thinking that if Logan heard about it, he'd be there. Hey, it's a shot!

Anyway, to get in, I had to be someone else, so Erin Costevas was born right there. Gotta thank Xavier for the extra IDs. I left the car in a Brownsville garage--the address is on the business card enclosed--and hopped a ride with the crew taking the trip. Before you start choking--trust me, these people were spectators at best. I could have taken them all without breaking a sweat. So I told them I wanted to participate and showed off a little on the ratty kid who seemed to be under the impression girls can't fight--that was fun. No, I didn't hurt him--remember, I'm Out To Save The World when this little quest is done, so I'm not going to go injuring those I'm supposed to protect or anything--but he was suitably impressed with my prowess and so none of them even considered trying anything.

Lemme give you the run-down of my erstwhile companions here.

Jack was the only one I really talked to--the ratty kid that I was showing off for. He's maybe eighteen at best, really kind of nice if you get past the macho crap he kept trying to pull. Reminds me of Logan without the charm--don't laugh, either, doing a comparison, Logan comes out way ahead. This kid does it for show, though, which may make the difference. His brother--well, there are words for what that sicko is. I'm thinking he was dealer, but I never found anything in the car--well, anyway. And there was a really faded girl with them, the brother's girlfriend if you want a euphemism that works. She didn't say much, and well--

Later on her. She figures in prominently later.

Anyway, we get to Harlingen and of course, I end up in the crappiest possible place in the city--you'd think with the all the funds Xavier gave me, I'd stay somewhere I didn't have to worry about being killed or being eaten by lice or fleas, but hey--I'm looking for Logan, not a Rockefeller here. So I get a room--alone, Jubes, I don't trust those three any farther than I can throw them--and do a little scouting of the area and find a place to store my stuff. I sure as hell wasn't leaving anything in that room, and see, I can have good sense, because when I got back, my room had been searched by a very-much-less-than-expert. I did leave some money under the mattress just to see if anything would happen, and it did, and when Jack's brother showed up with new boots--well, ya know, that's how it goes. Considering how little I had to spend on bribes to random apartment managers, I'm still ahead.

Since I was in the area, I decided to check out some of the nightlife, thinking that if Logan had been here recently, someone here would know about it. Well, yeah, he was, about a year ago--which is pretty useless to me, that would date before Des Moines--but something else happened which is really beginning to bother me.

These contacts of Xavier's keep disappearing. And they tend to disappear a few weeks after Logan does. Shit, Jubes, don't look like that--I don't think he had anything to do with it himself--I'm thinking someone beside me is following Our Hero. Yeah--and so I took some chances and asked a few less than discreet questions and found out that someone else has been asking questions about Logan--and they've been asking in such a way that the people they talk to aren't terribly interested in telling anyone else. And they aren't trying to locate Logan himself--they're looking for a girl, Jubes.

And you know what? I'm thinking about that girl in Chicago, the one that disappeared with Specter. So tell the Professor, kay? I'm in a hurry so I can't get this to him privately.

Anyway--I didn't find out much other than he'd been here and that one of Xavier's contacts had packed up and vanished into thin air--this time with his possessions, so there's nothing much here to search. Before that, he wasn't very visible anyway, but that's the last anyone saw of him.

Well, I got back to the motel where Jack and compadres were getting ready and they had tickets. They had a big guy with them too--apparently, the dude that organizes these here little shindigs, and they were kind enough to tell him that I wanted to participate.

So I was screwed. I mean, what the hell was I supposed to do? I needed to get in and--well, okay, I baked my own goose with this bright idea, so I went with him and hoped to God I found a payphone so I could get one of Xavier's friends to rescue me.

But once I got there--

Wow. They are financed by someone with money, I'll tell you that.

God, Jubes. It's unbelievable. I mean--totally beyond words unbelievable. It's on the outskirts of the city, almost rural, completely underground literally. Like a thousand steps to get down there and you've got to know where it is to even find it. And the second I got in there--they had a place for the fighters to warm up--I knew I could kick all their asses, I just knew it. No one there had half my training or my strength, and the women--well, hon, that little faded chick of Jack's brother could have taken them on. And you know--they were intimidated by me--me, Marie. I strutted and tried to look like Logan does when he's having a bad day and I guess I carried it off pretty well.

The ring is huge--fifty by forty, about ten feet deep, and enough spectator room to house at least thirty thousand people. I walked it over and checked out the lay of the land--just for information, 'kay, don't get your panties all in a twist. There's VIP seating--leather and Ikea again, what a shock, but this is a definite step up from the Pitt, I can tell you that right now. The price per night was minimum two hundred--and now I'm sure Jack's brother is dealer, he can't have that kind of money--and those good seats--I'm guessing they run in the thousands at least--before the manager started getting all weirded out by my little tour I saw some damned fine crystal in the VIP booths.

One odd thing, though--it's really clean here. You wouldn't expect that, would you? The ring is lined with wood and the floor is pavement--real smooth when I tested it--and its cleaner than that suburban house I stayed in. Like, scrubbed, and the whole place is whitewashed, making it damned bright.

So the manager showed me to the warm-up room so I could be tested for prelims and while I was working out, I considered what a bad idea this was, then kind of considered my options.

Logan would kill me.

Scott would kill me.

And I don't care.

No--no, I'm not going to do it--but you know what, I kind of want to. Yeah, it's sick and yeah, it's just not something I should consider doing--but Jubes--maybe it's Logan or Eric in me or something, but when I look at that ring, I get this quiver all through me. I'd fight fair, keep my gloves on--you gotta have gloves anyway, not the boxing type, and they seemed pleased to see I had my own. But--I want to try.

Yeah, I'm an idiot. So shoot me.

Anyway, they ran me through some paces and gave me a card and let me go--my first fight is tomorrow night, against the really unlikely name of Narcissus (you heard me), a tiny blonde who can't possibly be seriously considering doing this. I'll be gone by then anyway--free win for her!--because here's the best part, Jubes, it just rocks. I almost kissed the guy.

Logan is in Rio. As in Brazil, baby.

I was talking to this skinny guy while I watched some of the testing--he looks like he could be blown over by a good wind, but damn, is he strong. He saw the tags I was wearing and asked if I was in the army. So I gave him the spiel about looking for a friend and he looked at the tags--seems Logan has been using Wolverine again, and in the ring. Apparently, he didn't go into Mexico at all--he was in Albuquerque for most of January at least, and said Logan didn't say anything about a trip south. Seems like Logan found out something about his past--the guy didn't know what, he only saw him for a few days and they hung out at a bar. Relatively upscale from where Our Hero usually hangs, if the description is at all accurate. Anyway, he and the bike--he's back on Scott's bike again, how the hell he gets that thing to still run is beyond me--headed to the airport--and you know Logan hates to fly, so it has to be good.

Well, it was pretty cool--I'm at the motel now, getting ready to depart my dear companions, and the washed out girlfriend--did I tell you here name? it's Brenda--comes in and sits down. So I'm trying to figure out how to get rid of her without looking like I'm getting rid of her--and she asks me to get her out of here.

Yeah. Right straight, no pussyfooting.

Seems Jack's brother is even sleazier than my first instincts said, and has her pretty much trapped. She can't go home because her parents threw her out--I know, I know, I have a weakness for that and just about hugged her then--and she has no place to run even if she could get away. No money, no friends--she's so alone in the world. I've been there, Jubes. And you know, maybe its some kind of debt I owe--Logan saved me from this. And I keep thinking that maybe Xavier can find her someplace to go and anyway--

So I'm sending her to you, okay? She's messed up--I think it's heroin, the way she was twitching around the room--seems Jack's bro is a dealer after all--but she's desperate, and I figure you can do something for her, okay? Get her in detox or something. I'm calling Scott to tell him to pick her up at JFK tomorrow night--I'd bring her home myself, but I'm so close, Jubilee--I can feel him, if that doesn't sound too weird. I know I'm close.

I'll overnight this when I leave, okay? She's in her room--Jack's brother is off, doubtless selling his crap to some idiot on the street--and packing up. We gotta hurry--I don't want any trouble, not now.

God, I'm close, Jubilee. I can feel it.

Marie

May 1, Harlingen

Dear Madam,

One of our staff located the enclosed envelope under the bed in one of our suites. As you were the intended recipient, I'm sending it to you COD. I am glad we could be of service and hope you will consider Motel 8 for all your travel needs.

Sincerely,@@@ Johnathan Myers@@@ Manager, Motel 8, Harlingen

May 15, Rio de Janeiro

I'm fine. Expect a letter next week.

Erin Costevas

May 22, Cancun

I need a favor. May 26, 2 AM your time--take your cell phone to the grocery store on tenth street--I need money. Don't tell anyone, ever, Jubes. I mean it, never. When I call, I'll tell you who to wire it to. Please, don't ask me anything--I have a problem and I gotta solve it here. This is being overnighted to you--my hosts are being very helpful.

I'm sorry--I don't have time to explain. Just do it. Please. I'm depending on this.

Erin Costevas

June 1, Harlingen

Dear Jubilee,

I'm trying to think of something to say. I'm sorry, I know you've been worried since I called. God--it's just that--

I'm okay now, okay? Tell the Professor--tell everyone I'm fine. I am. I just--look, I'll write later. Just tell everyone not to worry--I have a little problem I gotta fix, you see. When I'm done, I'll write again. If you're thinking about telling them to come get me, forget it. I'm gone the second this thing hits a mailbox, so don't follow. When I'm done, I'll explain, I promise.

I'm not sure if you got my last letter from Harlingen. If you did--well, it's complex. I'm sorry--I know you want more, but right now, I just can't.

Marie

June 12, San Antonio

I'm okay. Don't worry. Tell everyone I'm--busy. Just busy, doing stuff.

Elizabeth Andrews

June 15, Austin

Still fine. I picked up the trail--I'm sorry, I just can't--I can't write it yet. He's heading north and I am too. I miss you.

Elizabeth Andrews

June 23, San Francisco

Dear Jubilee,

I'm off to the next city in forty minutes--but I know you want me to write every week, so I'm sending this out now. I swear, I'll write when--when I can get it down. I promise. Give everyone my love and tell them I miss them.

God, Jubes, everything changed. I'm sorry--I wish I could explain, but I just can't. But I'm fine. I wouldn't lie to you. Okay? Don't worry.

Marie Summers

July 5, Los Angeles

Dear Jubilee,

Okay, I got some time to kill and thought I'd better update you on what's been going on. By now, the Professor probably told you about what I found in Austin--sorry, babe, I didn't have time to write you much there.

Things I have learned:

One--being a contact for Xavier is only good if you have great life insurance.

Two--Logan still has bad taste in women--and maybe you should tell Jean.

Three--a good party is one where you don't get arrested.

The Professor had a few contacts in town and, considering my usual lack of success, I decided to see if the pattern would continue. Five are supposed to be here--three run what amounts to being a mutant-rescue group, set up when Xavier and Eric were still living and working together. They went with Xavier after the split and I met one, Anna--she's really great--and really scared.

Seems a girl showed up here--a damned half-assed way at that--from Chicago the long and rural way. The girl's a mutant, but Anna had barely found her someplace to live before she disappeared. Interesting thing--the Specter-person sent her, with specific instructions for Anna that Anna now doesn't have, because the chick is gone. You get the picture? I don't either, but it gets odder.

Of those three undergrounders, one is missing and one is on the run, apparently. And the missing guy wasn't like the others--his public life was upper middle class lawyer and he wasn't exactly the kind that jumps up and leaves a wife and four kids. Now here's the kicker--Logan was in contact with him before he left. Like, three days or so beforehand.

So I've got a girl, Logan, and missing contacts strung across the country and I don't have any answers at all except Anna's going underground--she's pretty wealthy and a recluse to boot, so she can do it easily. Anna doesn't know what's going on, no one knows, and I'm thinking that whatever it is, I definitely don't want to be involved if the participants tend to go bye-bye on short notice. Xavier knows, so I guess he'll have to find someone new for this area.

Anyway, just for the hell of it I stopped by to see the wife--she took one look at me and slammed the door and said she didn't want anything to do with my kind and to get off her property that second or I'd be in jail.

So I left quick, my friend, and left tire marks on her ever-so-pristine driveway. Okay, I'm not being fair, her husband is missing but--damn, I didn't nab the poor guy!

But I'll bet you're wondering what I've been doing, besides sitting around trying to solve a great mystery.

Well, I went down to the mall and spent some time getting some new clothes--mine are shot to hell now. Then I went to check out a few places I've heard Logan mention from time to time. Then I went back to the motel and--well, this is sort of cute.

One of Logan's exes showed up. Dina.

Now ya know, I'm not advertising my presence or anything--in fact, I've been using one of the IDs Xavier gave me since I left Harlingen, since there are a few people I'd really prefer never found out who I really am or where I'm going. But ya know, she heard I was looking for Logan and stopped by to chat.

See, I asked around some in the less reputable bars in the city--there are a lot, though I eliminated sixth street real quick--not his kind of place. It's not a huge shock to guess that His Broodingness isn't exactly popular, right? Well, this little out of the way place north of the city--oh yeah, they remembered him. So--well, he got involved in some kind of brawl--not his fault this time, I understand he just happened to be sitting near the participants and for his bad luck was almost knocked out--well, you can imagine the mood that put him in. Anyway, to make a long story short, one of the idiots fighting decided it would be fun to take him out too, and the guy was definitely in the hospital, with some really unusual wounds. This happened back in March, so I got to find out a little more than I usually do.

She's not a stripper. Wait, it gets better. Nor is she a hooker--don't have heart failure there, Jubes, I know, you're thinking the same thing I am--huh? So I took some breaths and while I looked for something to drink, I tried to figure out exactly who and what she was. Red hair (what a surprise!), big blue eyes, really pretty if you like the delicate type (didn't know he did). Really demure, and I got her some water and it turns out she's a paralegal and she picked him up at that disreputable north Austin bar--apparently, watching Logan fight is a turn-on and really, for that I can't blame her--and they had quite a memorable night together.

I swear, he has got to get some girls that can keep their mouths shut. At this rate, nothing he does is going to surprise me and that's not a good way for relationships to start. I mean, a little mystery is kind of fun, and--never mind.

And have I mentioned she has a voice like a tortured cat? Soprano don't cut it--I'm still in shock the windows didn't break when she spoke. She also trails a cloud--a cloud--of perfume behind her like a blanket and within a few minutes I started sneezing and getting all watery-eyed, and you just can't look intimidating when you're blowing your nose with toilet paper. So Dina-girl immediately felt her superiority to me and showed it, which would have been really funny if she'd stood above five one at best. In heels.

Anyway, she did end up giving me some information that I didn't have before--namely, where he was going next and even when he left, which is more than I'd been getting.

Verbatim--this conversation was too surreal to not remember.

"So how do you know Logan?" she asks me while she puffs away on a cigarette and tries to look really wise and sophisticated. Uh-huh.

How the hell do I answer that? So I'm scrambling for a reply--you know, I should have an answer ready, but the weird thing is, I couldn't think of a damned thing, probably because of the perfume fog that is threatening to turn my eyes into water faucets--and she kind of smiles this little condescending smile.

"He's a very--energetic guy." She puts so many worlds of meaning in that--I'm pretty sure she didn't guess the image I got from that was of Logan doing track and field, and it was all I could do not to laugh in her face. Or sneeze--perfume and smoke do not a good combo make, dear.

If she's trying to make me jealous, it's not working. I have Logan in my head, for goodness sake, I know what he does and who he does it with. And I should really have told her about the red hair thing--

Damn, that was an opportunity wasted.

"Yes, he's very energetic," I agree, so sweetly you wouldn't even recognize me, Jubes, I swear. "And I'm so glad his condition hasn't--well, slowed him down, you know."

Well, Dina blinks and gets all fish-mouthed and it's all I can do not to start giggling, but I try to keep my expression serene--think Jean here--and smile like there's nothing weird at all about what I just said. And sniffling, because--well, I can't help it. But it does work, for what it's worth--I probably look so pathetic that she can't imagine I could be straight lying to her.

"Condition." She drops the word like a brick.

"Oh." I sat back and tried to look really shocked, dropped my voice and then leaned forward--which in hindsight was a mistake, since that jumped the perfume factor up by twenty and my nose kept twitching. "You know--oh you don't."

So Miss Dina gets awfully nervous all of a sudden and gropes for her cigarette and takes a deep drag before she speaks again.

"What condition?" Her voice, if possible, becomes even sharper and somewhere in the world some fine crystal shattered.

"Well--he's been on medication for this little--problem he picked up in Rio," I explained, and I swear, she lost every trace of color. For the life of me, I couldn't think of a single disease--I blame it on the perfume hampering my wits. But she took the implication well enough and got up so fast that she almost tripped over her heels--six inches, Jubes, I'm not joking.

Well, that ended that little interview and now I had Logan's next target--hehehe--and a good idea of where to look for him. I called to get tickets on the next flight here, Los Angeles, and the next available flight was early the next morning, so I considered my options and decided to go downtown for a bit--

--and you can probably fill in the blanks here.

I fell in with some college students from the local university and they didn't even blink at my attire, which was rather nice. So we go from club to club and sheesh, I spent a really indecent amount of money and generally had a blast, even if every damned one of those girls was dressed in clothes that would have fit in my pocket--there was that little of it. Me in gloves and long sleeves, as you can imagine, was a little odd, but then, there are weirder outfits, so I was good to go and I let them think it was religious--question, Jubes, what religion would require the cover of that much skin? I know we learned it in religion class, but I can't remember--and that would come in useful maybe.

Well, we moved on to someone's apartment, and this is where things got fun--sit back hon, you're going to choke.

Well, I wasn't drinking much because I really just wanted to be on that flight, ya know? And flying with a hangover isn't my cup of tea. So okay, I'm staying light on the beer and was trying to clear the liquor from my head when it happened--and you know it had to, and it wasn't my fault at all, I was really in the wrong place at the wrong time.

One of the girls started stripping. She was beyond drunk, Jubes--I mean, she was like, walking at a weird angle and she was laughing at everything, even the trees, and the trees weren't doing much, so maybe that was my first clue that these kids weren't just drunk. So I start thinking that I should get back to the motel and maybe just stay there, boring or not--I've got to buy some books so this kind of thing doesn't happen anymore.

Well, she starts removing her spandex--peeling it rather, which was kind of fascinating, because I've been watching pros and she's not half bad--well, she wouldn't be if she didn't keep falling over and having to right herself each time. Well, she gets her top off and starts on the skirt--if you can call a piece of stretchable skin, as it were, smaller than the width of my palm a skirt--and one of the guys jumps up to help her and somehow they get tangled in each others feet or something, because they both fall over and knock the keg on the floor.

Now me, you're wondering what I'm doing? Well--his name was George and he was an engineering student and really nice--if you like the arrogant, every-girl-wants-me type. He was sober enough to talk, which was something, since the other kiddos were not talking if they could help it, having other interests to keep them busy. So I'm sitting on the couch with Mr. Man, trying to avoid his cute little attempts to feel me up and nursing my beer--and they distracted me when the keg went down--and it went, down, Jubilee, with style. It was nearly full when it met it's untimely end and splashed its way across the room--all over my boots up to my knees.

Anyway, I got distracted and Little Georgie apparently never heard about Georgie Porgie, who made the girls cry, because he leaned over and tried to kiss me--

--and inevitably, he got himself one hell of a headache when he gets up. Plus, he tasted bad, which was topping injury with insult. And I have a few new memories that keep me up at night, and I don't sleep well these days anyway.

So I push him over and no one notices anything--I mean, people are passed out everywhere--so I think, okay, I'm so out of here. So I get up and start getting to the door, poking among the kids lining the floor and doing things that any self-respecting person would try to avoid doing in public, and wonder of wonders, the door opens when I'm five feet from it--and it's the police.

Drug bust, love. Yeah, yeah, yeah, don't say it. I know already.

It was instinct. Jubes, I'm carrying false ID and I'm a mutant--neither one of those circumstances is likely to make them exactly friendly with me--at best, I'm going to jail for a night and lose my ticket to Los Angeles and my stuff from the motel--at worst, I'll be here for a few months and get a trial, and--Jubes, I can't be found in Texas. I can't afford it. Even Xavier would have problems getting me out of this, if he even found me in time.

I don't even want to think how Scott and Logan would react.

So I panic and make a run for the balcony--what, now I think I can fly?--and just stand there looking down and I wasn't nearly as sober as I was wanting to be, because the drop didn't look that bad. And the police are yelling at me to freeze and I just--well, I got a hand over and started the drop.

And a hand caught me before I could let go and I looked up--and it was him, from Rio. And he recognized me. I saw it in his eyes, they just lit up like Christmas had come to hell or something.

No, you don't know about that, do you? Never mind--suffice to say, this guy, who serves the public on the fucking police department, who's supposed to uphold the fucking law, has a history with me now. And something happened in me, Jubes--I can't explain it. I mean--shit, this sounds so damned--

I got a hand back up and pulled him over with me.

And he hit the ground on his feet and grinned--and I was right, he was the one. Blue eyes, blonde hair, vicious as anything the devil ever put on this earth and his favored weapon has always been something sharp and I have the scars to prove it.

"Marie."

And he knew my real name. I never used anything but Erin until I got back to Harlingen. I didn't even have any other IDs until I got back to Harlingen, they were all safe and sound in a bank box. But he looked at me and knew me and knew what I was--he saw everything in Rio and I'll never forgive, Jubes, not until the day I die.

He had gloves on and attacked---he was good, I'll give him that, but then, he should be, shouldn't he? And he avoided everything I threw at him--he knew my style now, you see, and I couldn't take my gloves off--I didn't want that thing in my head, even for a second, even for the time it would take to knock him out---because hon, I wouldn't have let it be only a second. And he got a good punch at my face and almost broke my damned nose before I tripped him and he landed on the pavement--and I wanted him dead, Jubes. I mean, I straddled him and pulled his gun and put it to his head and just stared in his eyes--I could taste it.

I didn't. But I wanted to, and I still do, and there are some nights when I wake up and think that it would be a better place if I had, if he could never do to anyone else what he did to me, what he did to the others.

This isn't who I want to be--I hated Magneto for strapping me to that damned machine of his and I hated my parents for disowning me--but this is so different--it's filthy and I can't get it out of my head. It--it just clings to me, and it wakes me up at night and--and Jubes, I--never mind. I'm sorry, but I can't yet--I don't know if I ever can.

Well, to finish this off quick, I got away and grabbed my stuff from the motel and spent the rest of the night in the airport lounge. He's doubtless still in intensive care in Austin, Jubes, so no one could really identify me, and even if they did, they were looking for Elizabeth Andrews, not Marie Summers, and Marie Summers had her hair all twisted up under a scarf so that pesky white streak didn't give her away.

Okay, I'm outta here--I need a drink or a nap or something. Give my love to everyone.

Marie Summers

July 15, Seattle

Dear Jubilee,

Well, I've solved-okay, I didn't solve, but I heard about it--the Great Contact Mystery and rescued a cat from a tree. I also had an epiphany and have eaten the best damned hamburger in the world.

Damn, he moves fast. Gotta give the man credit.

Anyway--oh, you probably want to know how all these circumstance came about, right? Well, it's sort of weird..

What you may not know about Seattle--its rainy. Hehehe, aren't I just the comedian.

Things I have learned:

One--cats here don't like water here any more than cats anywhere else

Two--A hamburger can minister to a mind diseased.

Three--Logan has spectacular taste in women, and grind that into Jean's head while simultaneously reminding her just how wondrous Our Fearless Leader is. Do it twice.

Well okay, let's begin with the fun stuff--Logan was here, he left, c'est la vie and all that right? Now, either my tracking skills are just beyond words to describe good or Logan is getting sloppy.

The beauteous Dina the Paralegal told me that Logan had mentioned something about a contact in southern Washington. Down in a tiny little town called Derry, in which I spent a forgettable three nights, Logan got picked up for speeding--do you hear the lack of shock in my voice?--and according to all known reports, he was headed back into Seattle. That's good--I'm happy, because I'm not just looking for Logan, I'm touring the damned continent, and I haven't seen Seattle yet.

Well, I'm back under my name again--I'm figuring if someone can track me up here, well--well, I can handle that. And I'm now a month and a half behind His Elusiveness, so he may hear about the weird gloved chick stalking him--and a part of me wants him to because--and you know, babe, it just occurred to me--what the hell do I say when I see him?

Yes, these are the thoughts that are keeping me up at night. As if I needed any worse nights than I already have.

Well, at the time I was thinking this, I'd just made myself comfortable in this remarkably clean little Holiday Inn. Checking outside--decent neighborhood, no hookers, no dealers, and no wanna-be thugs, which means Logan is moving up in the world, don't you know. As per standard operating procedure, I left all my needed stuff in a locker at the airport and just brought some ID and some cash and a card.

Now--it's rainy and chilly and stalking the streets just isn't an option when it's like this and anyway, I'm hungry, so I call a cab and go a-looking for the neighborhood Dennys or Chilis or whatever.

No, I didn't feel my destiny on the horizon--I mean, the cab was crappy at best and I was nervous about where to put my feet--you have no idea what condition my boots are in right now. No, I didn't have a sudden inevitable sense of foreshadowing that they always have in those romance novels--well, I'm not a romance novel heroine either, so maybe that's why I seem to be lacking that. No, the clouds didn't ominously darken with potential meaning, because they were already pretty damned dark, and no, I didn't suddenly get a chill up my back--well, I was already chilled so maybe I did get one of those but just put it down to my general state of miserable wetness.

What I got was a really good idea--right in front of me was one of those neighborhood bar/eatery-type things and well, I could get my hamburger and ask questions all in one convenient location. So I inform the taciturn driver to come to a stop and he does--and I step right out in a puddle that nearly swallows my ankles.

Little bastard. There went his tip.

So I plod along through the water until I get to the sidewalk-which isn't much better--and my hat comes off--of course--so I go chasing it as it floats merrily down the road and in the process the braid comes loose and my hair gets wet in the puddle during retrieval of said hat and--well, shit.

And when I look up, there's this woman staring at me. Mouth kind of agape in such an elegant fashion, let me tell you.

It took me two steps to get a hand around her throat before she could do whatever it was she was going to do.

"Who are you?"

She kind of moves her mouth. Oh yeah--the whole strangulation thing. So I drop her back on the ground and she starts rubbing her neck like I was trying to break it or something--geez, Jubes, I think I left bruises. I felt a little bad, and she sputtered for a minute--

"Rogue?"

That stopped me.

"Whose asking?"

She gets to her feet--she's got balls, Jubes. Looked me over once and I'm getting kind of edgy, which she notices and she motions for me to follow her into that little bar place. And I see no reason why I can't be intimidating and eat a hamburger--I've seen Logan look intimidating trying to wash dishes, so it can be done--and she knows the management, so I get a table quick as can be and they are already getting my order before she says anything more.

"You gonna tell me what this is about?" I ask her--I try to kind of growl it, but I'm also trying to control my chattering teeth, so that didn't work out too well.

"I've been waiting for you."

The only thing she had going for her at this point was that she was half a table away and I don't have nine inch metal claws to put through her. But she must see me getting ready to do something and I'm pulling off a glove under the table so I can get some answers direct from her little skull, so she puts both hands on the table where I can see them and doesn't seem inclined to make any sudden moves, which is all to the good, Jubes, because I've noticed I'm getting a little twitchy.

"Look, I just have some information--Anna gave me a message for you."

"What city and when did I know Anna?" I ask.

"Austin, Texas, June 20th," she answers promptly. "Codename, Rogue, name Marie Summers AKA Elizabeth Andrews. Westchester, New York."

Hmmm. The odds that some of those Brazilians finding out that much was pretty slim, so I sort of relaxed into my chair.

"All right. Who are you?"

"Mary, primary contact for Washington state--I've worked under Anna since Eric went freelance."

So Jubes, I've always had a suspicion that Xavier had a pretty good underground system going--at least in the US--and the one in South America isn't bad either. But the level of sophistication is amazing--the thing is, a lot of his improvements occurred real quick, and not when Magneto left--no, they occurred when the Mutant Registration Act thing was on the table. I'm guessing here that if it had gone through--well, we wouldn't be living in Westchester anymore.

"So we know each other," I said finally, and considered my course of action. "What'd she say? Is she okay?"

"She's safe and already made a report to Professor Xavier. This is for you, since she understands you are not in direct contact with the Professor."

So she knows about that. Well, it's not that I don't want to write--but I'm moving a lot, okay? So I only have time for one letter.

"How'd you know I was going to Washington?"

"Anna said that was your target's next location. I anticipated your arrival a week earlier, however." My target. Hehehe.

Yeah, my sort of unscheduled stop in San Francisco and LA. Sorry, hon, I don't have time to explain now.

"Okay." Fair enough--I've only been in town a day so she's good at what she does--and I did leave Anna a vague idea of what part of Seattle I'd be hitting after I went to Derry, so...well anyway--

"The Specter isn't who we thought he was."

See what I mean about foreboding? She makes it sound like Magneto's out of prison or something.

"Okay."

You see, I hate to say this, but I haven't really been thinking about the whole Contacts MIA thing much. I've been musing on--well, Logan and sort of caught up in some personal issues I'm trying to resolve. Anyway, here's the short version.

Mary has to leave Washington--it seems that there's a leak in the chain here, and some anti-Mutant groups are sniffing about her little rescue operation. So she's being succeeded by someone else--I don't remember the name and its not important for the purpose of this conversation anyway. She's going to meet up with Anna somewhere or other and start a new center somewhere else--I guess Xavier will give her the orders or something.

Anyway, when Logan was here, it seems the anti-mutant protesters sort of figured out who he was and tried to track him down. They didn't have much success. Now, here's something new about ye olde Wolverine--since he's wandering about the continent anyway, the Professor asked him to do some checking on how reliable some of the contacts are, since obviously every good organization has some bad seeds. And it seems Specter isn't exactly what he appeared to be--he was in with Magneto and has been playing both sides--keeping his rep as Xavier's representative and giving Magneto's people information. So that girl from Chicago I told you about? Well, she somehow figured out what he was up to and made a run for it, which is why it took her so long to get to Austin. Logan didn't know that when he left Chicago but by the time he got to San Antonio, he picked up the rumors and left Anna with some things to think about. So she sent word up here that Specter was missing and presumed to be the one that was scaring the contacts, and that the girl and the lawyer from Austin were missing.

Have I totally confused you yet? Shorter and sweeter version.

Specter is a Bad Guy. Chicago girl knows which ones of Xavier's underground are in Specter's pay. She runs to Austin and she and lawyer dude disappeared. Better yet--every single person she's made contact with has vanished--see, she was trying to follow Logan's trail as well so he'd find out. And it gets even ickier, because now Mary and Anna both think that maybe Specter wasn't just in the pay of Magneto--she thinks he's also selling info to anti-mutant groups.

Hence that mob after Logan. What exactly he knows remains a mystery, but I think I know--I think he knows what's going on in Rio and I think he knows that Specter is involved.

Which means I have a debt to collect from that son of a bitch.

Sooo--anyway, you're wondering about the cat. That's a little later.

Now here's the fun part.

Well, I get my hamburger and Mary drinks tea and we chat about things that aren't world issues for a bit. She's remarkably nice and really understanding about the whole choking thing, so I'm having the first quiet and civilized meal I've had since home. She asks what I'm doing and it's odd, I actually tell her all about Logan and the running and Laughlin City and what I am trying to accomplish, and she sort of smiles into her cup.

"So you're chasing him down."

Well, yeah, I guess so.

"Uh-huh." I'm trying to get through all those fries--honey, these people are great, they feed you really well. I may put back on all that weight I've lost at this rate.

"He's an--interesting man."

Immediately, I stop chewing--I think I stop breathing--and then I look at her hair color and damn--she's a redhead.

Shit. Here I thought I'd finally talk to a chick he didn't nail.

She must've seen my expression and laughed.

"No--it was just that night."

Honey, it's always only one night. So I finish chewing my mouthful and swallow and start fumbling for my money when she grabs my wrist--didn't I tell you this lady has balls?--and looks real concerned, which is really sweet and I would have appreciated a lot more if I hadn't just heard she's done the nasty with him.

"Does that bother you?"

You know, it did. Hookers, strippers, even one night stands he picks up from bars, okay. I can live with that. But she's--she's nice and well-dressed and speaks decently and I'm sure she doesn't frequent bars.

Looking at her, you know what really just rips me up?

She reminds me of Jean. All that cool serenity and that controlled power and--and Jubes, she's beautiful. Not pretty or cute--but beautiful and intelligent and kind and--shit. And I want to hate her, but I can't hate her any more than I can hate Jean--and I tried, dammit--I'm twenty-two going on a thousand in some ways, but that inner peace, that--that--that way they have of calming you down just by looking at you--only experience can bring that, and ya know--I really don't think I can ever have that. I have too many people in me I fight every day to be Marie. And maybe that's what Logan is looking for, why he looks at Jean like that--he doesn't just want to screw her, you know, he wants her. He wants that balancing peace inside that he doesn't have--that I don't have.

"What do you think you're going to find, Marie? When you find him?"

And I think about that--and all those questions you and Scott and Ororo asked me and yelled at me and everything--well, it all started to sort of make some sense. I told you I was going after him to find out if how I felt about him was remnants of a crush or hero-worship, if I was trying to replace my father, if it was all based on gratitude--but that's not why I went at all. It's not, Jubes, because I knew when I left that it was a lot more than that. He's been in my head and held me when I cried and touched me when no one else would. And he helped train me and called me kid and ruffled my hair and smiled at me the way he smiled at no one else.

So what am I going for, since now I have the proof right in front of me that Jean is the one he wants, Jean is what he needs? I could pack up right now and come home, put on that uniform and be his friend and his partner for the rest of my life. And suddenly, I want to and maybe she sees it, and she reaches out and touches my hair--not my face.

"One more question--is it worth it, to know?"

Wow, and that was easy. Risk is what I am--I'm a fucking walking bag of risk, and a long time ago on a road you've never been on, Jubes, Logan knew what I was and picked me up anyway.

"Yeah."

And she smiles again, real sweetly, but her eyebrows go up high and I have no idea what she's thinking then.

"I think Logan's going to be surprised."

And isn't that an understatement. But she didn't mean it like that--and she shakes her head and pays for my dinner and we share a cab back to my room. We part on good terms and she tells me where he's going next.

So life is good.

But of course, nothing is ever that simple. Well, okay, this was kind of cute.

I grab the little duffel I picked up in San Antonio and go out the door, look just casually over to the other side of the road--

--and there's some kid, standing out in this godforsaken rain, staring straight up into the only tree in sight--and I mean that, greenery is scarce here, hon--with the most heartbroken look on her face I've ever had the misfortune to see. And the tree--apparently making up for the fact that it is pretty much alone in the apartment complex--is huge.

My cab will be here in five minutes and I fight it---but geez, even I can see what she's looking for--her pet cat.

So--I'm such a softee.

Well, the cat didn't take it well at all--I was rescuing the little bastard and he fought me the whole way down, and the only thing that saved him from being choked was the fact that he couldn't do very much damage when I was wearing so many layers of clothing.

And my cab waits--see, my luck has returned!--and I get in and make for the airport, because I'm off to Canada-

--and the weird thing is--somehow, I know it will all end in Canada, one way or another.

But you know what else, babe? It's going to be the one way, my way. So that's it.

See ya, sweetie. Give my love to Scott and Jean and the others.

Marie Summers

Vancouver, August 1

Hey Jubes babe!

Eh--it's been--interesting. This has gotta be short, for reasons that will become apparent.

First off--I'm just about vibrating, hon. I'm one month behind him, exactly. One month, and I know his next three stops, so if I'm right, I'll be seeing him sometime in November. Well, if I'm right, if Mary was right, and if Logan doesn't take it into his head to take some detours. I thought at first I could manage by September, but well, I have two targets now, you see.

Enough on that.

Anyway, the part you always wait for--what have I learned? Good question, and I'm struggling here to make it come out right.

One--I seem to eat best at bars.

Two--I seem to attract weirdos.

Three--well, I think I'll leave that for the end.

Okay, where do I start? Vancouver is beautiful--I mean it's gorgeous. Of course, I did the tour, saw the sights, then got myself down to some serious Logan-hunting. Now, according to Mary, Logan actually has a pattern of sorts in Canada--it's his home, so while he doesn't always use his name or anything, he's pretty well known in certain parts of every city. So it was relatively easy to find the place he stayed--a run down little motel on the edge of the city with the unlikely name Paradise City. Lemme count the ways that the name didn't apply and I won't start with the fleas, because they were the good point--they seemed to keep the rats from wanting to come in the rooms much--even rats have standards.

It was Des Moines all over again. The manager was shifty-eyed and nervous but was willing to talk for considerably less money than I expected. So I found out that Logan had four visitors--three of whom he brought here himself. And as far as I can ascertain, none of them were along the run of his usual gutter taste. In point of fact--well, he had another guy, was an upper class male who was remarkably free with his cash--you see, this visitor wasn't visiting when Logan was at home. In fact, he came three days after Logan checked out. And was damned pissed to find Logan gone.

In case of fact, he called himself Specter. Advertising, I suppose, the idiot.

I got a description and I faxed it to the Professor already at the post office a few minutes ago. So if this guy shows up anywhere in sight of one of the Professors contacts, he will be identified and hopefully disposed of in some gruesome way that my imagination will happily describe if you're interested. But you're probably not.

Anyway, the three people looked pretty nice, according to The Faithful Manager, and he gave me two names--Josephine and James. Both Americans, according to him, and both very nervous. Unless Logan is AC/DC, and I haven't gotten that impression from any of the girls, I'm thinking that these must either be contacts, potentials, or mutants. They came and left together and may or may not have been married, since he only saw a ring on the guy's finger--the woman's were gloved and she kept her head down a lot.

Interesting.

That was really all he had, and I retired to Logan's room to check it out--he's not big on leaving clues or anything, but there's always a first time. And--well--

Okay, I was going through the drawers and looking under the bed and generally doing my sleuth routine and I found a picture--of me. Remember last year, when Jean had us all photographed for the album? Logan hasn't been home since that was taken, Jubes. No where near. He was doing stuff in Brownsville or something, if my timetables are right, so how the hell did he get it? And those pictures--no one has a copy outside the school.

So who the hell sent it? There's no date or anything on it, and I didn't find anything else, so anyone from the school could have sent it. Maybe Jean sent him one or something when he was in Des Moines, but he never leaves an address. I don't know.

Okay, beside the point. Moving on...

Person number three remained sort of a mystery, since it could have been a him or her, though the manager, such a reliable witness indeed, thinks from the clothes it was a guy. So I'm thinking on this and trying to decide if I should just pack up and hit the next stop, but you know, something stops me--one, Logan could have a change in plans since he talked to Mary and two--well, two is personal. In any case, I really don't want to lose the trail this late and so I make myself comfortable.

Now the Manager couldn't tell me how often Logan went out--so I decided to go prowling around the general area. His pattern seems to be to stay relatively close to an escape route, so inner city won't do it, and if he stayed here--well, I checked at a three mile vicinity and found the sleaziest joint there was around--and to be honest, even though I put it like that, it was sort of nice, not picky on its clientele but pretty clean and it served food, so I was all for it. Anyway, I climbed up on a bar stool and ordered some nachos and a beer and went to find myself someplace to eat and watch the place at the same time.

Anyway, I knew that a female alone, even a female dressed as completely as I was, gloves, hat, and scarf in all, would get some attention. There were a few women around--barflies is the term Logan used, I think--but it wasn't like there was anything going on that should have made me nervous. But as I said, I've been twitchy for awhile, and that guy really shouldn't have come up behind me.

Anyway, he found himself stretched out on the table with a gloved hand against his throat--I'm learning, I didn't choke him, just held him down--and we got some attention, but the place took it real quiet--makes me wonder. He sort of stares at me and then tries to smile--girlfriend, he's got a pair, that one does--and asks me if he can buy me a drink.

And that's when I started laughing. I mean--okay, in his position, what would you do? So I let him up and tell him to sit down and he does.

"I'm David," he says, stretching out a hand, and I take it and shake, still sort of amused by the whole thing.

"Marie," I answer and he calls over a waitress, who is really nervous, as can be imagined. Nor is she amused by the fact that the nice beer she just brought me is now cleaning the floor. But she gets our beer and finds a mop, and after she leaves, David asks me what I'm doing here--like he's actually interested or something.

"Looking for a friend," I answer, taking a drink--the local brew is not bad, but I don't recommend it on an empty stomach, as you'll soon understand. "You live around here?"

"Just traveling," he answers, kind of playing with his glass. All to the good--we're off to a fine start. So he asks what I do, and since my resume wasn't with me, I said I was a teacher from Wichita touring the city. If you ask where that came from--I have no idea. The first thing that popped into my head--and don't laugh too hard babe--was stripper and I almost choked on the beer.

Well, he figures I'm lying but doesn't much care. So we chat about the weather--great weather--and talk a little about hockey, since that's the one sport I follow, and meander from topic to topic and I start eating nachos and he buys me beer and--well--

He asks me to dance.

Now, I'm nowhere near drunk, hon, but I'm feeling good about the world and say sure. I mean, I'm careful and besides, I'm feeling mellow so my concentration exercises will work and I can keep from killing him if he does touch my skin. He leads me up to the little floor and we start dancing to this country song I don't even remember.

It was sort of fun.

"What the fuck are you doing with my husband?"

This is my luck.

David sort of stiffens up and I come out of it to the bang of something very small and hard on the floor--heels. So I turn around and lo and behold, a cute little blonde storms up--heels so high she looks like she's on fucking stilts--but it takes me a minute to really take her in because--well--

"Who are you?" I ask wisely, because, as I've said, I wasn't drunk, just--em, cheery.

She plants both manicured hands on her hips and her truly impressive chest swells--Jubes, those were double Ds at least, which completely floored me--it was like talking to two huge breasts with a big mouth attached. She stands there fuming and I throw a glance at David, who looks guiltier than hell---hehehe, this is sooo funny in retrospect--and then I try and think of something to say.

"I'm sorry--I--um--didn't know he was married."

"Fuck that, bitch." She reaches out with extraordinarily long fingers and snatches David the Cheater's hand off my waist--why the hell is he still touching me?--and--God, Jubes, he was wearing a wedding ring.

So this is not how I envisioned my evening. Yeah, I know--I'm a magnet for trouble. But still--

Before I can think of something to say--well, I'm sort of on the floor and my head is throbbing. She looks short, Jubes--but damn, can she pack a punch. So I stare up at her and David starts gibbering and--

--well, she tried to kick me with those indecently high heels.

Oh my God, that was such a mistake.

To make this sordid little tale short, I'm currently trying to get out of the province to escape assault and battery charges. I didn't hit her that hard--I mean, I'm the one with the black eye!--but well--anyway, I considered the options and sort of ran. So--that's the life.

So what was number three I learned?

Three--watch the guy's hand for rings.

Well, I'm mailing this now--more news on the next stop. I'm feeling a little--er, exposed. Give my love to everyone.

Marie Summers

Winnipeg, September 23

Dear Jubilee,

I'm not sure where to start, hon. Logan left ten days ago--I know where he is and I even know how long he'll be there. In fact, if I leave right now, I can catch him before he hits Montreal. So--well, it's almost over.

So you're wondering what I've been doing for the last month or so? Yeah, promises, promises--so I suck. I'm used to it.

Jubes, there's some things that have happened, and I've been trying to just--I don't know, mark time or something. Get my head back on straight, kind of deal--it was really weird, because I was thinking I was handling everything pretty well, I did. I mean--I thought it was behind me. And it really was--the whole Great Contact Mystery was pretty much solved, Specter was on the run and all--and Logan only a drive away.

So what is keeping me here? And I'm sitting in a bar, trying to drink a beer while I write this, because there is no way on God's green earth that I'll be able to do it sober.

Specter is currently cooling his heels with Amy's contacts--they're sending him to New York for the Professor to question.

Okay, I said it, and Jubes, whatever you're thinking right now--just stop, okay? Just sit somewhere quiet and read the rest of this, then burn it or blow it up or--or something. I think--you see, I don't know anything anymore.

And I'm confusing the hell out of you, aren't I?

The girl from Chicago was found dead in Calgary in early September--I found out in the paper, of all places--she and the lawyer both, if what I read was correct, and I had Amy verify for me through a few channels that I don't think Xavier knows about--he got the info faxed to him so he can decide if I can--if I should come home. I sent him everything that's relevant, so Jubes, don't--don't share this. This is you and me, kay? No one else, not ever. Some of it he knows--but some of it he doesn't. And he can't, no one can, not ever.

Shit, I'm crying again.

Okay. I'm going to try. But if I screw this up, it goes in the trash.

Her name was Alice--a telepath, really fucking strong, like amazing, with a history of mental dominance of those around her. Anyway, she apparently didn't originate in Chicago--she came from Des Moines and contacted Amy, a rescuer there, who then contacted Logan while he was there--thus Logan wrote that letter that said where he was, so the Professor would know how to contact him about the girl. Xavier sent back to get Alice to Chicago for a new identity, since she was being hunted by both Magneto's old adherents and the anti-mutant groups. Well, they went to Chicago, and there was a leak in the chain and they were almost caught. Amy used the new contact list that had Specter listed and went to him--and left Alice there, since it was safer than Alice staying with her when she had a mark on her.

Well, where exactly Specter planned to send Alice is unclear from the beginning--he was either double-crossing Xavier to get her into Magneto's people's hands or he was double crossing all mutants and handing her over to the anti-mutant groups--he wasn't even sure. But Alice found out what her life was worth dead or alive--I get the feeling that Specter might have been taking bids from both sides--and made a run for it, carrying in her head everything Specter knew--and there were some mighty important names on that list, Jubes. You'd be surprised. I was.

You sort of know the rest--she was scared to death, kept running and ended up finally in Austin, where that nice lawyer decided to take her to Canada, where the anti-mutant groups don't have so much power, with an eye to sending her straight to New York, new identity or no. Well, they got up here and met with Amy and Logan--everything was going swimmingly, and they got Alice a new identity and got her in a car with the lawyer bound for New York. They stopped in Calgary overnight and Specter shot and killed them both.

Do you know what their lives were worth? One hundred grand for the girl, dead or alive. Twenty for the lawyer, dead. One hundred and twenty-thousand dollars was all it took for Specter to kill a sixteen year old girl and a father of four while they ate their supper in this little diner that no one should have known about.

He was following Logan. He knew Alice would eventually show up around him, and he waited. He fucking waited him out.

Amy was still in Vancouver when she heard about it, and we met at the murder site. It was just--fate. Or God, or whatever runs the universe, because the odds are too big against it. But she saw my gloves and the way I was avoiding anyone see me--and for a moment, she said she thought it was all some huge mistake and I was Alice.

Well, she figured out who I was because she had reported to Mary in Vancouver and knew I was in the general area, and she was really in shock, so I rented a room in the closest place I could find and left her there. And--and it was horrible.

And it just--it's everything. It just all came together, all at once. Shit. I need another beer.

Specter had a third interest he was watching out for, though Alice wasn't suitable for that. He runs a very specialized little service that not just mutants get into--he runs a fight shop. Out of Harlingen, with a line to Rio. Play to the death with not necessarily willing participants.

This isn't---I'm trying, I really am. Just--it's hard to even think about. You wired me fifteen hundred dollars in Cancun--that was the price of the heroin that Specter gave Eric's brother in Harlingen to get me. It was so easy--all they needed was to find out if anyone would notice I was missing, and they sent Brenda to find out. And I fell right for it, like an idiot. I didn't tell her much--but I told her enough. I was a mutant, which jacked my price up considerably, and that I had friends but I wasn't in regular contact. My fucking stupid idea to try for the prelims--they watched me and they thought I'd make a good addition, because, as I said, good females are scarce in this field.

I was in the motel and I'd just finished that letter, Jubes--and she came back in and said she was ready--and I just sealed the envelope and turned around--and there was Eric's brother, who knocked me out cold. I wasn't ready, Jubes--I didn't even fucking suspect a thing.

When I woke up, I was in Rio and they had me so high I couldn't even remember my own name. And they ran tests to find out what my particular gift was--and they were so fucking thrilled, because I was a prize now--I couldn't do any of the meditation exercises and they--

Well, suffice to say, Eric's brother got ripped off. The asking price for an assassin that could kill with a touch was--it was high, okay? Really fucking high, and you don't need me conscious or consenting for that. Just sit me in a room and whoever you want dead throw on top of me or keep me high enough that I just--I just--

No. I can't.

Remember when I said that Xavier's network was good? Well, they heard about it--I don't know how--and they managed to get the cash to buy me, but they didn't know who I was and I couldn't tell them because---well, I didn't know myself. Anyway, I was sent to Acapulco, but something went wrong or I went wrong, I don't know--and I--I ran. And I just kept running. No identification and no money, and pretty much a sitting duck and going through withdrawal by this time--and these people picked me up off the street in Cancun and how I got there in one piece I don't remember. I don't want to remember. They didn't have to, either--some of those bastards from Brazil were tracking me and it was common knowledge--they had a description--and they offered money to whoever found me. I couldn't afford to hope that they would keep me--I mean, by their standards, it was a fortune--and they didn't have a phone and I could barely sit up--so I wrote you.

As soon as I could, I got back to Harlingen and I barely took a breath there before I was on the road for San Antonio, where Eric's brother was staying last heard.

Brenda was in Los Angeles. I got some closure--no, I'm not talking about it. They are alive and they are lucky, lucky, lucky I was Rogue that day, because Marie would have slit their throats. You can ask the Professor--I sent him a report--I can't talk about it.

Anyway, something in me just--it snapped completely. So I talked to Amy and called some of Xavier's contacts, and yeah, Specter was making for Montreal like there was no tomorrow--probably to pick up his money. I caught up to him outside Regina--such an idiot, he didn't even think of trying to hide where he was going. He never thought anyone had caught on and was still using Xavier's people to move around.

It--it was so easy. I didn't expect that. I mean--he just stood there and stared at me and then he sort of smiled.

"You're worth a lot of money to some people I know."

That's the first words out of his mouth, and he just--just smiled. At me.

--and I took off my gloves.

He begged, Jubilee. And that was good--I mean, it felt fucking good. I needed what he knew--all those contacts, all those people---everything. And I got it, every damned bit of it, and--it's justified for that, right?

But you know what runs through my head? How Alice looked when he shot her--I got that memory Jubes--the bastard liked it. He liked what he did, he didn't care she was only sixteen and alone and scared. He didn't care that lawyer has four kids and a wife that needed him and wanted him home--he just shot them both--and other people along the way.

And he bought and sold me and--

God. That's it. I mean it--Jubes, burn this when you're done reading? Okay? Just--just burn it and--

I need another beer.

--then I came here and I haven't moved since.

It's just so beyond me--I can't figure out what to do. I just sit here and sit here and get drunk and just--

I thought I was over it, okay? But I have his memories and sometimes these things pop out of my mouth that make me sick--and when I go to sleep--I don't want to. And--and--

Sorry, Jubes. This'll have to wait.

October 10

I'm in my room and dead sober, in case you're curious. And I'm looking over what happened--whether Xavier will ever even want me to come back--and I keep thinking--why am I doing this?

I looked in the mirror today--and I look the same, and what does that mean? That I can wander about and--and just take a guy's mind apart in cold blood--plan it out, there was intention there, Jubes, that little knife he was waving was no threat to me. There are a thousand things I could have done there--but--but I wanted it to hurt, and what I did hurt him in a way he's never gonna get over, not in this life. Never, never, never, and I still can't bring myself to feel bad about it, and that's the worst part.

So you wanna know what I'm going to do? I'm going to go somewhere--somewhere and just sit and think about this. I can't see Logan like I am--I hate looking at myself in the mirror, Jubes, I hate it. I broke the one in the bathroom, because I look the same except that cut Specter put on me--but everything is--it's so wrong.

Someone at the door. I'll end this now. I miss you, Jubes. I'm--I'm sorry.

Marie Summers

Postscript: October 11

Amy's asleep next door--she--well, Xavier's people here contacted her. She'll be on a flight to New York tomorrow and she's taking this with her to you, Jubes, okay?

Logan's in Niagara Falls. Amy found the info and came all the way here to tell me, among other things. Funny, I guess--I still haven't been there and I still--I still want to go. And--and I'm scared to death, because--

I can't change what I did. But--but Xavier called. Amy guessed--she's a smart girl--and when she found me, she called the Professor. Maybe--maybe I can tell you about it one day--I don't know. I have my year and a day, and then I'm scheduled to come home and start saving the world on a daily basis, and the year is getting old--and I gotta make a decision. And I don't know if I can, or I should--but you know, weird as it sounds, I learned something--hey, weren't you wondering if I'd get to it?

Here's what I learned. And it's pretty simple, don't you think?

One--Don't argue with Amy. She always wins.

Two--a decision is a decision

I don't think--I think it's time I made a decision. I only have five days before Niagara is a bust and I think--I think if I don't do it now, I never will.

Be nice to Amy. Take care. I need to think.

Marie Summers

Niagara Falls, October 13

Dear Jubes,

I'm doing it. Screw being scared.

Marie

October 13, Niagara Falls

There are a lot of things you expect to wake up to--morning, coffee, someone screaming, a knife at your throat--well, all of those things have happened to me, so I know what I'm damned well talking about.

But a smell usually doesn't do it. And it was one of those things that don't make any damned sense. I come awake and smell her--and you know, it actually took a minute to realize two basic things that maybe should have been self-evident--one, that I'm not at home, so I'm not going to be smelling Marie, and two--even if I was home, I wasn't going to get that at three o'clock in the fucking morning. Well--okay, a nice thought, which is why it didn't seem so strange until I sit up and flip the lamp on---

--and you know what? This wasn't a dream. And I also realized I was thinking of the mansion as home. Damn, damn damn.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

I'm not tactful. Live with it.

She's sitting in the chair across from the foot of the bed, like she's been there for God knows how long and can just continue to sit there for a hell of a lot longer. But she didn't really react to my less than enthusiastic greeting--and that's when I started getting nervous, because--well, she wasn't just looking, she was staring, and that reminded me of exactly what I wasn't wearing--shit.

So I try groping for my pants--carefully. Near the bed. They weren't there, and I'm trying to remember where I threw them and in the back of my mind I'm thanking God that I'm alone, because I don't even want to imagine--

"Did Magneto get someone to break his ass out of that little plastic prison he's stuck in?" It seemed unlikely--in that case I'd expect that Scooter and the gang would be here in force and that there would be a little more effort in getting me moving. But not Marie--she just stared at me with those eyes and shook her head and--frankly, I'm getting damned spooked.

And the second thing I realize--she looks thinner. A little pale and--well, different. And that spooks me too.

"Is there some major fucking crisis that just has to have my attention?"

She tilts her head and she actually seems to consider it--then smiles a little and shakes her head again and I swear, she isn't blinking and now I'm getting really nervous. And I have my pants--problem is--well, it's fucking obvious what the problem is.

Then it dawns on me--yeah, I'm a bright guy right when I get up--

"How the hell did you find me?"

The last time I contacted Xavier was in Des Moines, and there's no way she could have--

"You want me to leave while you get dressed?"

Yeah, Marie, that would be damned nice, thanks. She doesn't even wait for an answer, but gathers up her coat--and I'm wondering how long she's been sitting there and how the hell she got in without me waking up--

--and then I'm wondering why the hell I'm not just a little more pissed. Well, the answer to that was obvious.

When she closes the door, I fucking dive for my clothes--and I'm still trying to figure out why Marie is here--how the hell she got here--who's with her because I honestly couldn't see Xavier letting leave home without supervision--much less trot up to fucking Canada---

And I'm calling it home again. Damn.

Anyway, I go outside after her and she's sitting on the hood of her car--I'm assuming here she doesn't jump on the hoods of random cars--and she looks up the second I walk out the door and just--watches me. And suddenly the space between the door and that tiny little Geo she's sitting on is way too long, because no one, and I repeat this, no one, can look that long and not blink.

"Marie?" That gaze is getting unnerving--yeah, I've had women stare at me and that doesn't bother me usually--but Marie--well, let's say it's just a bit different.

"I made a decision."

That's fucking helpful. And it's cold--she's shivering--and it takes me a minute to realize what jacket she's wearing--and shit, I still don't get it.

"I want to tell you what I learned. You have lousy taste in women." And she kind of smiles then. "Except Mary."

God. There are so many ways that isn't answerable. I don't even want to think what she means by that.

"How did you get here?" I know, it's obvious--she's sitting on a car, I'm not an idiot. But it just doesn't really make any sense and, as I said--I'm not at my best when I wake up. I was doing damned good just to be able to follow the conversation.

"I've been following you."

And I'm thinking maybe I want to sit down too, because as I said, the last contact I had with Xavier was over a year ago from Des Moines--

--and there's no damned way she's followed that.

"How?"

And she reaches into her pocket and pulls out that damned letter and drops it on the hood--I pick it up, and yeah, that's it--and there it is.

There it is.

"You've been--"

"Everyone was really helpful." And she gets that little smile again and then I really do sit down and try to figure out what kind of dream is so fucking cold--because this isn't even in the near realms of possibility.

"You've been following me since Iowa?" I must sound a little faint there--God, that's embarrassing to admit--because she smiles again and turns a little to face me.

"I lost you after Jackson for a bit," she adds helpfully. She stuffs her hands back in her pockets, and that's when I see her face in the light--and God, whoever the hell touched her--

I don't even think about it. I turn her head and tilt it up--remember, it's been awhile since I saw her last--and there's the line of a half-healed cut above her eye--I know what kind of scar a knife leaves--and it's about that time that I know I have to be dreaming, because I'm still alive and she's smiling--

"I've learned a few other things since you've been gone."

God, has she ever.

"Who?" It's recent, that little cut--and she stops smiling and shakes her head and I know that look, she'll tell me when she's good and ready.

My girl's stubborn. Cyke swears she got that from me. And I can wait, because whoever the hell touched her is going to be very dead very soon anyway, so he can have that last breath or two.

She doesn't pull away--and she's still staring and since obviously this is a dream--

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to find you."

She makes it sound so obvious, like this is something I should know automatically.

Then she stands up and you know what? I really didn't like letting her go. She turns to look at me and the smile is gone--and she looks really determined.

"Okay, here's the deal--I've been on this little hike for awhile. You move a lot--I'm not holding that against you, because it's been sort of enlightening."

I want to ask--and I don't, because she her lips curve up like she's remembering something funny--

-and shit, there aren't many people she can exactly contact to find out where I am--and the places they are at--and if she's been to some of those places--. And you know--it occurs to me that if she has been following me, I can guess who she's been talking to--

Shit.

"It's time you came home."

I'm still stuck in the enlightening part. She crosses her arms over her chest and just looks at me--oh, she wants an answer.

"I was going--"

"Home. Soon. We have--" she tilts her head, eyes narrowing just over my shoulder, like she's calculating something--"four months left."

"Four months." I say intelligently. I'm down to echoing. Very smooth.

"Four months."

Maybe she notices that I'm pretty much the definition of fucking lost--because she stops and looks at me, frowning still, then sighs.

"It's complex."

And when I'm trying to get through that, she shivers again and shakes her head.

"Can we go inside? You are alone, right?" And she smirks, turning on one heel, and leaves me sitting there.

How the hell much does she know?

Well, it's cold and I'm not going to figure out this little mystery without her, so I follow her in--like a damned puppy or something--and she strips off my jacket and puts it on the chair and I hear something metal--

--and she's wearing my tags and I don't need a fucking engineering degree to put it together now. I just don't believe it.

"Marie--"

"Don't say anything else. Just listen." She looks so serious--so I sit down and she starts pacing, as if she's trying to marshal some arguments or something. "I know--well, you'd be surprised." Yes, I would, and I'm hoping that it isn't as much as she looks like she knows. "I'm not a kid anymore."

She hasn't really been a kid since I've known her, but I'm thinking she's going somewhere else with this conversation.

"I graduated in December. Xavier--well, he gave me some time off."

"You've been--"

"Don't talk, okay?" Got it. She looks tense enough. "I left in January--and it's been damned difficult to keep up. But that's okay--it worked out and anyway, I shaved four months off thanks to Mary." And she smirks--

God, Mary. I remember her. And apparently, Marie does too, and she just looks amused.

"Logan--" she stops, and a part of me thinks maybe I should just stop her and explain a few things, when she turns and looks right at me and I don't expect at all what comes out of her mouth.

"I want you." And yeah, I've heard it before--but never from someone who said it like that, and anything I wanted to say just stops right there, because she's looking at me again with that steady gaze that makes me think she's remembering what I look like without the damned clothes--not a bad thing. "I understand your thing for Jean, okay?" I wince--shit, that's sad to know about myself--"But you're never going to get her. Never. And not just because Scott would try to kick your ass, either." Good thing she put 'tried' in there. But this is sort of fun--I'm a sick bastard, but obviously, she's been working this out for awhile, so she should damn well be able to get it out without me jumping in on it. "I'm twenty-two, I'm well over being in the surrogate little sister category--I'm way past that, and Logan, my patience is out. So I decided--well, if you weren't going to do anything about it, I was."

No false modesty here--I've had a lot of women attracted to me--seems to be what I do best, besides getting in fights and generally growling down the world. So--okay, it shouldn't be such a shock.

But no one has ever followed me for it either--the equivalent of a few thousand miles. And she takes a breath, but I'm getting the impression she isn't done yet and so I just wait, when what I really want to do--

"So--I'm here to bring you home. So you can sit down and do some comparisons on what is possible and what isn't, because Logan, there is no good reason to go obsessive over redheads in this unrequited love crap."

And I'm remembering a comment Jubilee made--and she didn't mean to make it in my hearing either--when on her eighteenth birthday my girl here tried to dye her hair. With unusual results I never saw, because I missed that--and I gotta admit, I'm not exactly sorry about it either, because I'll be damned if I know what I'd have said to her.

I'm not--shit, let me try to explain here. It's not that I didn't guess something was up when I left her there--it was obvious, and despite the fact that I really did have some searching to do, I also knew pretty well the she's a kid and--well, she needed to be one. And--well, there was Jean and there was Marie and I couldn't stay with that kind of double team with one that I wanted and one that wanted me and had the memories in her head to maybe do something about it--and not against my will, either.

Marie is smart. Give her time and she'd figure out a way around the touching problem and the Jean issue and I'm not saying I wouldn't have liked that a whole damned lot. The age issue, though--well, that would have been a definite sticking point--okay, maybe a sticking point.

Shit, it might not have been a point at all after awhile, and that scared me.

So anyway, I've gone back and left again and trained her and took her to movies and really, really thought that--well, she's a kid, I took care of her, and I'd be damned if I take advantage of hero worship and all that crap.

But it took everything in me to go the last time I left--there's Jean with Scott, which is just like fucking sandpaper sometimes, though Cyke and I have a working understanding that makes me think that maybe I'm not as much an idiot as I think I am, and then there's Marie, with two little kids sniffing around her and you know, I realize maybe about that time she's a big girl and maybe she's old enough to tell the difference between a fantasy she has in her head about me and the real thing--

--and she starts dating Bobby.

And maybe I want to give her that, because I'll be damned if I'm going to complicate her life further. Or maybe I think if I stay, I'll complicate it anyway and neither of us will ever know how much is based on a seventeen year old's crush and how much of it is something real.

Not to mention that quick, instinctive response that I've seemed to have picked up to anyone touching Marie--so I left for Bobby's safety.

Yeah, right.

But shit, she's standing right here, and no kiddie crush on earth drags you eight months and a few thousand miles.

So screw the ethics.

"Okay."

She stops and turns and looks at me, a little startled.

"What?"

She's been under stress--unlike me, she's usually pretty fast on the uptake.

"Okay."

And she kind of stares again, a different stare, and I want to just sit her down and maybe get my explanations out and everything, but then--

--God, no one's ever looked at me like that before.

"Then--you--" she kind of takes a step back and sits down, and it just hits me--she's been following me for a few thousand miles with no idea how the hell I'm going to react. And she's sitting on my bed, which brings up a few thoughts--I'm a man, dammit--and then she's staring down at her feet.

"That easy?" Her voice is sort of faint--and is she disappointed? Did she have a fucking debate planned?

So maybe I think I should explain now, but she doesn't let me.

"So no Jean fantasies?"

Oooh. Jean is gorgeous. That's going to take some effort.

"None." And it's the truth--despite my penchant for hair color, I have to admit that Marie shows up in my fantasy life a hell of a lot more than I'm comfortable with. Usually with gloves.

--which may explain the thing for redheads, if I was the type that liked to psychoanalyze myself like Cyke always seems to want to do--

Like the ones she's wearing now--and shit, I don't need to be thinking that way when we're trying to work this out intellectually as adults.

"Logan--"

And she stops, and I stand up and walk over to her and try to think of a way to get this out without sounding like an idiot, and she looks up again and God--

And she reaches for my hand and just holds it a second, then stands up and just--I'm not sure she's even breathing.

And I know I'm not.

"I love you and I'm damned well able to know the difference, if that's what you're worrying about." She doesn't sound worried.

That's not at all what I'm worrying about either. Because she smells good and I can touch her and you know, Jean isn't anywhere near my head when I'm looking at Marie, who's standing there just fucking offering herself like--

God.

Oh, no, no, no, no, not like this. So I sit down and pull her to sit too--and she sort of looks hurt.

"Logan--"

"Okay." So maybe I'm not great on explanations here--screw that, I can't think around just looking at her--she's lost weight and I know something else has happened on her little tour of America and maybe I need to get some of that out of her before--well--

--and she just lifts herself up on her knees, still staring at me, and just leans forward--slowly, like I might want to move, which is the fucking farthest thing from my mind at the moment--and she kisses me--and I'm thinking--

--explanations can wait. THE END