Manhattan Beach,
Brooklyn, New York.

It was a glass bottle that had struck his head, that much he knew. What he didn't know, however, was whether or not it was blood, or the remnants of alcohol that was soaking the back of his skull.

Stopping to check was not his priority, though. He just needed to get away. Get away to somewhere safe, or somewhere to where someone could help him. It would be useless in the end, though, and somewhere inside he knew that.

His breathing was quickly becoming hoarse, and ragged. The pink-skinned, bald headed brute may have had the physical mass to take a series deal of blows, and keep on trucking, but he wasn't in shape to out run the six, college, varsity football players on his tail. Even with one eye, he could see that much.

"C'mon, ya cycloptic freak!" one of the voices behind him, the apparent flinger of the bottle, taunted in a wild yell. "We just wanna show ya where the bus stop is like you asked!"

"Yeah, man! What ya runnin' for, pinky?!" another voice yelled in his own patronizing, hate filled voice. "Ain't like you're gonna get anywhere!"

"Timber, motherfuckin' gene trash!" a third one had yelled just as he came upon the stammering, though indeed, fleeing soul. It was a sharp kick to the back of his ankle, and the pink-skinned brute went down hard.

No seconds had passed before they were savagely on him. The tips of their hard-souled boots, and Nike tennis-shoes crashed and raked upon him devastatingly. He had been too slow, and now all chances of survival for him were gone.

There had been so much adrenaline going through his system, that he couldn't even register the pain of the blows. But he knew they were there, nonetheless. Each one of them. A shot to the face, a stomp to the kidneys. It wasn't long before each hit felt dense and blunt, and his body seemingly went numb to all sensation.

No longer could he count the attacks, or decipher where they were striking, or by which one of the thugs that were upon him. His nerves were being racked senseless by the overwhelming kicks and stomps, by the beating.

And though he had long ago closed his eye tightly, as to block out the frightening, unprovoked brutality, it was just then truly getting dark for him. It was just then, his body was truly growing tired and null-responsive to all around it.

It was just then... his consciousness was truly growing distant.

For the mutant known only as Basilisk... he wouldn't even be awake when his life ended. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that the scared, lonely suffering he had endeared finally ceased?

No. No, it certainly wasn't.

In the eyes of any with a bleeding soul, it was an atrocious sin against all that was humanity that his life had been so inhumanely smothered away, and stomped out.

And all because he had asked the wrong people where the bus stop was. Because he had lost sight of where he was, and because he so modestly had forgotten the instructions given to him by the bewildered guidance counselor.

Most importantly, because he hadn't seen the armbands they wore. If he would have, things may have been different. He may not have drawn attention his way as he went about his business. They may not have noticed him as he went about.

Or they may have been eying him the entire time. Waiting for just the right moment, a moment in which his ignorance and chum-naivety provided.

Never mind any of that, the six of them were in unanimous agreement. Their almighty mission in life had been one step closer to being reached. It was time to dispose of his lifeless corpse by any means necessary.

A bottle of Jack Daniels's finest alcohol, and a nearby, rusted out trash-bin had been suitable enough to accomplish the task. It would only take the flick of an open lighter to reach ignition. To unleash the flames of hate.

And the bloodied, beaten carcass of the mutant known only as Basilisk burned...

And while the six, hate mongering college students -- driven by the mighty words of a campus visitor the evening before -- celebrated their first victory in the dream of a new state of human purity, with the pass of the bottle, and cries of hate...

It was five figures, hidden by the shadows of Manhattan Beach that early, January morning, who watched on.

Little had the students known that the attention of the burning mutant carcass in front of them had been brought to them not by the sense of sight, or even the sense of sound. But by the sense of mind.

It was the sense of mind that had given them the push they needed to accomplish what they have. And the five figures, a new brotherhood spawned not long ago, took this opportunity to lash out at the coeds they so intentionally sought to antagonize from the shadows. To slaughter them all.

And neither would their screams of mangled suffering and enriched pain, much like those of their fallen victim of one just moments earlier, be heard that morning.

Warren Worthington, III cleared his throat as he looked out the window of the X-Corp executive board office. He brushed a small feather off of his shoulder that had molted from his wings and promptly tightened the tie around his neck and straightened out his suit. The sun had just begun to rise in the eastern sky. The jagged, uneven Manhattan landscape below him appeared as a modern day industrialized mountain range, dulled in comparison to the pureness of the clear blue sky.

Warren has many names for himself. CEO and Chairman of X-Corp, the former Horseman of Death, but is probably known most worldwide as Archangel -- the angelic-winged field leader of X-Corp's volunteer strike force putting a stop to mutant threats against humanity. As Archangel, he has pledged his family's fortune towards his respective team of X-Men...and has become the object of many females' (and males') desires. From his dashing good looks to his multimillion dollar fortune, he has become one of the most accepted mutants in the world.

The secret anguish Archangel goes through, however, is the constant media attention. His upcoming wedding to his longtime lover (Elisabeth Braddock, Vice President of X-Corp and also known as the telepathic ninja, Psylocke) has been almost pressured from the start, ever since the buzz began. That's not to mention everything the board's strike team says is in public situations is dissected and pasted into tabloids...taken out of context, usually.

X-Corp's motives were not Charles Xavier's way. Nonetheless, it has allowed its six member (seven, if you count Joseph) mutant roster to gain acceptance with the rest of humanity. In that respect, Xavier's dream of a peaceful coexistence between human and mutant has been achieved.

But too little, too late, it seems.

While X-Corp is generally accepted as a group of unlikely celebrities, as have the many mutants who have been members of the various superhuman teams such as Excalibur and the Avengers, Xavier's dream has yet to be totally achieved. Bigotry, fear, and hatred of the mutant species of humanity still remained like an ugly scar.

The door opened suddenly as Psylocke, her purple hair tied up into a bun, walked in and placed her briefcase on the discussion table. She wore a trendy business attire get up. She was into that kind of Euro style, being a former British supermodel...as well as secret agent. She wooed as she lightly touched her forehead, "What's with all the jumbled thoughts, Warren?"

"Hm?" Warren asked as he was disturbed from his early morning blank-out. His eyelids slowly opened and closed as he turned and walked over to the automated coffee machine and selected a double expresso. When the warm brew filled the brown paper cup, Warren took a sip and smacked his lips, "Want some?"

"No, dear, but thanks," Betsy replied. She sat on the edge of the table and crossed her legs, propping herself up with her arms, "Really, what's wrong?"

Warren took another sip of the uber-coffee and felt the jolt to his system as the caffeine took its effect, "I'm just...wondering. Mutants, I mean. I get the feeling they're starting to resent us, like we're making a mockery of homo superior everywhere."

"Maggott said he wasn't sure about doing that one episode of Cribs. He wasn't expecting the other celebrity to be Wonder Man," Psylocke said as she crossed her legs the other way. Recalling the episode, MTV had taken cameras into Maggott's beach house in Miami, Psylocke flinched at the atrocities. Especially that poster of Magneto making out with Dr. Doom. Damn that poster. Wonder Man's Santa Barbara pad was much more distinguished...at least, by comparison.

"We're doing alright, Warren," Psylocke said reassuringly. "The company has had a slight dip, but we'll get out of it just like you always have."

"Well, there's still all that happened with Cyclops's team...," Archangel said as he sipped his coffee. He swore to himself that he was still tired. He walked over to the coffee machine again and poured a triple expresso, "My uncle and this new Brotherhood that's sprung up. The mansion and subbasement are totally just...gone. I have a feeling it's about to get worse. Just when we were all starting to get along."

"You can't blame yourself, Warren," Psylocke said. Betsy turned and looked towards the door. She looked back at Warren, "Scott and Jean are on their way up."

"I didn't know they were coming in today," Warren said.

"It's Monday, dear," Psylocke said as she got up off the table and walked towards the door.

Archangel arched an eyebrow, "It is...? Where was I over the weekend?"

"Getting over the hangover Feng Tu's performance enhancers had on all of us," Psylocke reminded with a smile.

"Ah, yeah...," Warren said as he sipped his expresso. He casually leaned up against the wall. He raised his eyebrows, "Hey, we should make a caffeinated product and call it...X-Presso!"

The twin door handles both simultaneously turned and the doors whooshed open. Standing there with her arms at her side was Jean Grey-Summers, Phoenix, wearing a long coat over her uniform. As fate would have it, all of her civilian clothes went up along with the mansion. Behind Jean was her husband, Scott Summers, Cyclops, leader of his new X-Men, wearing a similar-styled bomber jacket over his uniform. His ruby quartz visor was placed firmly over his eyes as he sat in his wheelchair.

"About time you let us come here," Jean said with a smile as her red hair seemed to fall flat. Recent events have caused her normal hair priorities to shift elsewhere. Jean looked behind her with her green eyes as Scott wheeled himself into the board office with a grim look on his face. He observed the architecture of the room briefly and then nodded.

"Warren. Betsy," he greeted. "Forgive Phoenix's telepathic manipulation of your normal employees, we need to keep our presence here a secret...for obvious reasons."

"Hey, don't worry about it, Scottie," Warren responded. He tried to not stare directly at the wheelchair or the fact Scott was in a wheelchair and sighed, "Um...well, take a spot at the table and we'll start."

As the four mutants walked and/or wheeled over to the table to sit and get down to business, Jean said, "Thanks for having us this early, Warren. I know you're not much of an early riser."

Warren cleared his throat as he firmly gripped his triple X-Presso! He tried to come up with an excuse, but...in the presence of two powerful female telepaths...it's just about as pointless as giving Playboy models breast-reduction surgery, "No problem."

Psylocke opened her briefcase and pulled out financial records she pulled up from Xavier's accounts. "How's baby Jacob?" Psylocke asked to ease the anxiety.

Jean smiled, "He's doing fine. His mind was a clean slate for the first couple months of his life, but now that Farouk is gone, I think Jacob can develop on his own. No long term effects later in life that I can see."

Betsy smiled and opened the file, "Alright, good to hear. Well, the accounts have been drying up as of late, it seems."

Cyclops nodded with a sense of frustration, "I spent it all on expanded security for the mansion. Beautiful investment, I know."

Phoenix smiled sympathetically at her husband. She looked at Psylocke, "How much do you think X-Corp can bare to do without?"

"Whatever it takes, Jeannie," Warren was quick to respond. "I feel partially responsible because of my uncle. I don't care if we go bankrupt, we'll help you get everything back up to standards."

"Are you sure, Warren?" Cyclops asked. "I know our teams are different and it's dangerous when your every move is monitored by the media. If word gets out you're funding us...the 'known terrorists,' it could get messy."

"We can make sure it stays secret," Psylocke assured.

Archangel folded his hands, "Well, I guess the obvious inquiry is...how much do you want us to lend out?"

"We'll need around $60 million for the materials for the mansion itself. We've got the original blueprints and then we'll need to pay the construction crew, so that's into the hundreds of thousands," Jean said after meeting eyes with Scott. Psylocke vigorously scribbled down the amount.

Scott sighed, "And then we'll need around $150 million worth of supercomputers and training facility technology."

Psylocke bit her lip as she added it all up, "So, roughly $210,500,000?"

"For now," Scott responded. "We still have Ambassador St. Croix's support...hopefully, at least."

"Not a problem," Archangel responded.

Phoenix's trait of consideration for others seemed to turn itself on full power, "Are you...?"

"Totally sure, Jean," Warren chuckled. "Trust me, that's not really a lot of money...I mean, for me. I know that sounds snotty, but--"

"It's not, Warren," Jean said as she got out of her chair and hugged him. She kissed him on the cheek, "When's the wedding?"

"Whenever we get to it," Archangel responded as he looked at his fiance, Psylocke.

Psylocke crossed her arms and joked, "We're expecting a very generous gift from you two." The four erupted into laughter.

"With Scott's tight pockets? Ha!" Jean giggled as she playfully rubbed her husband's shoulders.

"Well," Warren said as he grabbed the file and stood up, "I'll see that the money gets transferred into the account. Looks like the future's going to be bright for once."

Cyclops chuckled to himself as his visor flashed with a brief stroke of red energy, "Indeed."

The Colorado Rockies,
Former Worthington Estate.

The remnants of one of many of the Worthington Family winter retreats had long been hauled away by the workers. Where there was a lavish, modern day mansion, there was now an empty crater of rock and dirt. Nothing on the outside had been salvage after the explosion that tore most of it apart.

Nothing on the outside, and the explosion that tore most of it apart being the key words. For those exact reasons implied, the three of them had arrived early in the day to set to work. Set to retrieve what they could, at the discretion of the estate's owner...

"I've been working on the railroad, all the livelong day..." Hank McCoy sung to himself in a chipper tone, as he with his massive, though lean, blue furred arms dug, then effortlessly heaved aside the thick layer of rocks and dirt.

Purposely, as to catch the attention of his two assistants in this affair, his voice grew playfully louder, and more inappropriately enthusiastic. "Weeee've... been working on the railroad, just to pass the time of day!" he sung, and as he did so, he just to hide back the growing smile on his face.

He wasn't supposed to know it was festive and inappropriate, after all.

"Whoa, Henry," Alison Blaire chuckled to herself and stood upright, running her forearm across her sweat-drenched, bandanna covered forehead. She let out a worked sigh, and stabbed her shovel into the ground up right, so she could lean into it as she looked to her blue furred comrade. "I never knew you had such a flare for music."

"You ought t' have heard 'im in the shower last night back at the hotel," Sam Guthrie was quick to pitch in his comment before Hank could get in a word of gratitude. Alison's chuckle grew into a full-out laugh at the Southerner's quip, surprisingly adding much to the unease he had been feeling at her presence.

"Better then one's sleep-apnea flaring up in the dead of night," Hank had retorted sharply, pointing an accusing finger at his shirtless, thinly tanned, male teammate. He threw up his brows and wallowed in remorse, "And just when the beautiful  and I were arriving to the most provocative part of our ski-trip..."

"Trade verbal blows all you want, boys. Still doesn't change the fact that I'm impressed, Mr. McCoy," Alison smirked playfully and nodded her head to Hank before she began digging again, "If you ever want to break into the biz, I know a guy who knows a guy."

"Why thank you, Ms. Blaire," Hank paused again in mid-dig, and nodded his head back to the strawberry blonde haired woman courteously. "It's good to hear that at the very least SOMEONE around here has an appreciation of sorts of my musical efforts," he mused playfully, before narrowing his eyes towards Sam.

Sam laughed quietly to himself, and was about to return to digging when he caught sight upon Alison's sapphire, blue eyes. She smiled warmly at him, and winked his way before she, too, went about her digging ways.

The two of them hadn't had a moment to speak privately since arriving that morning, and for that, Mrs. Guthrie's baby-boy was relieved. After the confrontation with Cyclops and his new team of X-Men in D.C. a few months back, he hadn't seen her at all. Neither of them had called the other, just figuring it was best to give each other space.

Now that they had reunited, not a word has been spoken of their slated romance. While Alison had always been perfectly content with their continuing relationship, something in Sam was telling him it wasn't right.

Though it wasn't very gentleman-like to string a woman along, or flat out avoid her, he couldn't help but think their distance was for the best. At least, for the time being, anyway. He would confront her when he was ready with his feelings, and when he prepared to deal their unspoken separation.

Digging, he thought to himself as he pried rock and dirt from the ground with the spade tipped shovel. Just keep on digging, Guthrie. Mind off the lady, and just keep on digging. That was what was important at the moment. That's why they had set out for this very site at five-thirty in the morning, after all, so that they could recover --

SHNKT!

The sharp sound of Hank McCoy's metal tipped shovel being driven home cut off Sam's train of thought, and the three of them froze in anticipation. This was it. The moment they had been waiting for hours on end. All of their hard work, and it was going to soon pay off. But first...

Hank brought his shovel back over his shoulder, and gradually leaned down to the on his primate-like arms and legs to examine his findings. With the swipe of his large paw against the firm ground, a cloud of dirt entered the air. It was confirmed.

"My dearest, and as of this moment nearest, comrades..." Hank addressed the two with a sigh of relief, and smiled a toothy grin as he raised back up to his full height so he could note the expressions on their faces. "I believe we've struck the proverbial oil."

"Wooo!" Alison let out a cry of mock, overzealous, victory. She jabbed her shovel back into the ground and tiredly hugged it close to her as the fruits of their effort became clear. "I've got first dibs on the first appraisal."

"Sam, my friend?" Hank asked, running a hand through his loose and shaggy hair. He then offered a hand down towards the exposed, metal plate that he had uncovered. "Would you care to do the honors?"

"Why, I do believe Ah'd be honored, Hank," Sam quaintly accepted, and tossed his shovel aside. Alison and Hank began clearing out of the giant crater they had taken part in digging as Cannonball prepared to take on his namesake...

Near the far end of the Catholic Church, rested a small room dedicated solely for the business of the Church's resident representative, Father Matthew. For counseling those in need, reviewing the Church's weekend activities, or merely taking a quiet moment of reflection for himself, it was Father Matthew's.

Approaching this office of sorts, was a robed clad figure. The robe itself, and it's significance, wasn't anything special to him. He had longed left the life of his fellow brethren, and a monk he wasn't. It was actually because of his appearance, that he had deemed it more appropriately in this instance.

When he reached the door of Father Matthew's office room, he lowered the hood of his baggy robe and knocked on the hard wood. A gracious heed to the knock by the office's occupant was what he got in response, and so he entered.

Father Matthew looked up from the paperwork littered on his desk, and was hit with a bout of surprise at the one who entered.

A demon from Hell, he surely was in the eyes of anyone who didn't know better. Curly, seemingly unnatural, dark blue hair atop his head. Eerily glowing, yellow and pupil-less eyes. And jet black skin and lips the likes of a haunting, damning abyss.

"Brother Kurt," Father Matthew greeted with a pleasant, welcoming smile as he stood from his desk. The man before him was in no way a messenger from the underworld, and was indeed quite the contrary. "It's good to see you again."

"And you as well, Father Matthew," Kurt Wager replied, reaching out to shake his hand. Father Matthew himself took it vigorously with both of his, enthusiastic as to his arrival. He walked out from around the desk to face Kurt without any obstruction.

"Please, take a seat," Father Matthew said as he gestured to a chair before his desk. Kurt accepted the offer wholeheartedly, sitting with an investment of interest.

Father Matthew himself took a seat at the very edge of his desk, and looked down to his brother in Christ. He stated open-heartedly, "I... assume you're quite curious as to why I've asked you here."

"Ja," Kurt smiled modestly, taking a look at the scenery outside a nearby window in Father Matthew's office. "And in this nation's capital, no less," he said before returning his yellow, pupil-less eyes to the religious figurehead before him.

"You must excuse me for being curt, brother," Father Matthew apologized with the side-ward nod of his head, and he clasped his hands as he uncomfortably admitted, "We haven't much time before the Church's meeting with the nation's press this evening."

"Alas," Kurt digressed in his meek, German accented tone with the raise of a tri-fingered, shadowy colored hand. He continued, "Pay it no mind, Father. What is it you've summoned me here to speak of?"

Father Matthew's eyes fell to the floor, and he paused before he would respond. He wanted to choose his words carefully, and once decided, his gaze returned to Kurt. "As I'm sure you're quite aware, the Church of Humanity fiasco recently launched by the utterly misguided Father Stryker has farcely tainted the image of the Catholic Church."

Touched before Father Matthew could even finish his statement, Kurt sighed and felt an obligation to interject. "His slaughtering of so many innocent souls was a modern day massacre, indeed."

Kurt's heart skipped a beat at the very thought. He had seen a lot in his day with the X-Men, but such a horrible event he was lucky enough to not bestow upon his eyes.

In contrast, part of him argued that he was also unfortunate in that respect...

"Yes," Father Matthew concurred with a steady nod, allowing their moment of silent reflection to pass. He sighed, and spoke. "It is one of the many issues that will be addressed at tonight's speaking with the press."

Steadily, an idea of what Father Matthew was getting at was taking shape in Kurt's mind. But he had to be sure. He tilted his head to the side, and quietly asked the man, "How do I come into this, Father?"

And Father Matthew couldn't help but smile to himself, and then he turned his head to look down at his side. From there, he reached down to a handled object on his desk, and gently pulled it about face. On the top end of the handle, was a round, sterling framed mirror. A mirror that reflected Kurt Wagner's true heritage.

Kurt stared at the image of himself reflected, and unknowingly held his breath. The point Father Matthew had wanted to make was clear, and the intent behind that point would soon follow from his very, somber lips.

"We here at the Washing D.C. sect of the Catholic Church... are asking you if you would be so kind as to represent us on behalf of the Church's stance on mutant relations at tonight's press conference, and for quite possibly, the foreseeable future."

Near Washington, D.C.

Inside a hall built specifically for the Friends of Humanity meetings, the walls themselves could barely contain the shouts and rumblings of their intense feelings of sheer hatred. A man stood on a small stage and shouted as many others held anti-mutant signs as their protest became more and more enraged, "We have received reports from police in New York that our fellow brothers and sisters who were viciously murdered suffered from intense beatings, burns, and massive blood loss from slashing of some kind!"

The African-American man wiped sweat from his forehead as he paused to wait for all the boo's and mutant obscenities that were yelled out bitterly, "It is clear now that mutants have overstepped their evolutionary boundaries! Today, it is time for the Friends of Humanity to band together and convince the governments of the world that we are fighting a war! Today is where humankind prevents its demise by eliminating the mutant problem once and for all!"

Cheers erupted in the small hall that once served as a church as a part of the Underground Railroad. The speaker took a sip of water from a glass and cleared his throat. He adjusted the microphone on the podium. Two FoH officials stood on stage, but they themselves applauded with a strange intent in mind. Monet St. Croix and Jared Corbo glared at the speaker as he continued his speech.

"We will NOT suffer the same fate as Neanderthals by way of Cro-Magnon man's influence!" the speaker yelled. "We are intelligent, courageous, and most of all...NOT AFRAID TO FIGHT! No longer will we tolerate mutant leaders of foreign nations! No longer will we tolerate ancient pharaohs or manipulative ghosts intent on taking over our world! No LONGER will we tolerate mutants who operate outside OUR laws and destroy our precious everyday lives!"

Cheers and applause exploded from the audience of avid FoH followers. Monet and Radius looked at each other as Senator John Stocker entered the hall. The applause escalated as Stocker's presence became known. The speaker on stage smiled and said as he breathed slowly, as he was exhausted from his passionate rant, "Brothers and sisters, may I present our biggest supporter within Washington, Senator John Stocker!"

As Stocker stepped on stage, he waved with a wide smile on his face. He shook hands with the speaker and blinked as dozens of photos created a miniature light show, as the beginning of the Friends of Humanity's most ambitious move solidified itself in the most significant event of world history.

"What are we gonna do?" Radius asked as he tried not to move his lips. He echoed his thoughts within his mind, intent on the telepathic Monet to pick up on it.

Monet remained emotionless as she stared at Stocker, "We need to contact Cyclops. This has gotten much too out of hand."

"Why do Ah feel like we've just entered a scene from '2001: A Space Odyssey?'" Sam muttered in apprehension as he shined a flash light about the dark and dingy, almost cavern like, sub-basement.

Hank stopped short in his tracks, and looked over his shoulder to Sam with an inquisitive brow. "Have you even seen '2001: A Space Odysessy?'"

"Heh, well ah... no, actually," Sam shrugged meekly, smiling with a touch of rascally Southern charm as he continued to visually search about the corridor they were walking down. "It just seemed like a witty thing t' say..."

Dismissing the joke, as he was more overwhelmed with curiosity as to what their findings would be, Hank McCoy looked away from Sam and suggestively continued onward. The third member of their party, however, wouldn't let it slide.

"Hmph," Alison snorted in mock-displeasure at her estranged boyfriend's antics. She smirked at him teasingly, and poised to say, "Redneck."

Now Sam was the one who found himself still in his tracks. Alison was nonchalant, however, and continued on as if nothing had happened. She was still flirting with him, if even just lightly, and it was making him uncomfortable to say the least.

Or maybe he was just feeling more and more anxious to say something back to her as she continued with her actions... That had to have been it. Alison was clearly onto him, and now she was trying to draw him out to face her.

"Pssh," Sam whispered to himself as he started walking behind the two again, feeling very somewhat proud about his deduction. "Fat chance, Ali..."

Hank and Alison had paid his words no mind, though. If it wasn't for the fact that they were busy in their own right for the search, it was definitely because that search had ended quicker then thought possible.

"Thar she blows..." Alison mused as she paused in place, plainly directing the flash light in her hand over their findings. "I think it's safe to say that's two jackpots for the day, huh guys?"

"Pardon my French..." Hank declared as a forwarning to those around him in a bewildered sense of amazement, "but oh my stars and garters. It's a miracle she was able to survive the explosion."

"Though the real question is, does it still operate okay?" Alison interjected as she followed beside Hank, her arms casually crossed over her chest. The blue furred scientist steadied his backpack by its straps, and ventured closer to the sleek, dark metallic framed jet.

"We'll have to start her up and run a diagnostic to find out for sure," Hank clarified objectively, tilting his head sideways as he observed their findings.

With that, he found himself having to adjust the round bifocals on the bridge of his nose, and narrow his eyes as to clearly scan over the outline of the jet. The diagnosis was clear as day, though that was more eerie then one would think.

"There doesn't appear to be any external damage to the craft, however," he stated, and began to stroke his chin in thought. The surrounding area of the hangar bay had all but collapsed in on itself. "That's a good sign, I suppose."

"You can bet Ah'm crossin' my fingers," Sam commented as he followed behind Alison and Hank to the Aurora's boarding ramp. He shuddered to himself, and shook his head in tortured sorrow at a memory coming to mind. "Especially after what Bobby told me about what too much teleportation can do to one's... err... man parts..."

Alison and Hank both furrowed their brows, and shot Sam another odd look. Sam gave off the same, meek smile he had before, and Hank again dismissed it, with Alison in tow.

Sam couldn't help but sigh to himself, and he shook his head. He was trying so hard to compensate for his uncomfortable feelings around Alison, that he was beginning to make stupid jokes a lot like Iceman.

Lifting his head back up, he shrugged the feelings off again, and jogged after his two partners on this mission. They were already boarding the ramp to the Aurora, and he hadn't wanted to miss out on their findings.

"This ramp has probably been open for so long, I bet it won't even close when we get into the air," Alison said as she traced a gloved finger over a layer of dirt on the hatch's lining. She pointed the flashlight at her finger, and huffed at her findings.

"I think you're forgetting one thing, my dear..." Hank started to say as he entered the cockpit of the Aurora, carefully shining his light over the terminals. He then concluded, "That's IF we get into the air."

"Sounds like you're a little scared of jinxing us, Hank," Sam observed as he slid into the cockpit, the last of the three to do so. It was cramped, much to his chargin, and Alison had already taken the co-pilot's seat at the controls. He shrugged, and continued to say, "Ah thought you weren't a man of pegan superstition?"

"Jinx, sminx," Hank declared almost profoundly as he took seat in the pilot's chair. A quick overview of the controls, and the familiararity, the remembrance of how to pilot the jet, had set in. "It's just that a true scientist never rules out any possibility, my friend."

"True dat," Alison retorted with a confident nod, and Sam shot her another look. Was she acting overly playful today or was it just his paranoid imagination acting up again, he wondered? Was it a game to her? The returning gaze he received from her, the batting of her lashes, the twinkling of her deep sapphires...

Yeah, it was just him. Definitely had to be.

"Looks like we have ignition, guy and gal," Hank announced, and a vibrating, humming like noise overcame the large craft. Tiny lights, gold, and red, and green alike, had lit up about the cockpit immediately following the Beast's words.

In those few moments of Sam's and Alison's silent interaction, there had been a flick of a few switches, and the insertion of a few codes, and the Aurora's systems flared to life.

"A round of applause for the man of the hour," Alison said with a smile as she looked to Hank. Hank bowed as best as he could in his seat, accepting the sentiment of his teammate whole-heartedly.

*BEEP....*

*BEEP....*

*BEEP....*

Came the distant and faint sound of destiny, far in the back of the Aurora jet. The mechanical, beeping chirp, was barely apparent to the two men and single woman at best, but it was apparent nonetheless.

"That wasn't you, was it, Sam?" Hank asked sarcastically, raising his brows up to his tall, lanky teammate. Sam shook his head and turned around on the heel of his foot, heading to the back of the aircraft.

"Can't say that it was, Hank," Sam replied as he manuevered about the tight confines within the Aurora. A computer terminal was liberally flashing red, and apparently active. "It looks like the on-board Cerebro is on the fritz."

From the cockpit, Hank looked to a monitor at the side of the pilot's console, and hit a few commands on the display. "You're right," was all the former Avenger said in response as he looked over the flood of information Cerebro was reading out.

The computer's brief headline summarized all that information in enough words, though...

PRIORITY ALERT: Severe energy spike detected, originating from that of a mutant X-Factor. Location at designated coordinates.

"Geeze," Alison squinted her eyes as she looked over Hank's massive form, outling the electronic read out Cerebro had displayed. "Look at the date on that alert."

"It's from over six months ago," Hank noted as he continued to scale down the massive amount of information being read to him, and Sam in back of the Aurora. "It seems as if that was only the longest standing priority alert. There's a load more still listed."

"They're old, though," Sam said from the back of the jet, continuing to read down the list himself, particularly the dates. "Some of them date back t' the mission at the ol' Smile Bright Offices, and others... jus' recently, it looks. The Sons of Set, even."

"But this one has gone untouched," Alison suggested from the co-pilot's seat, and Hank nodded as he looked over the listed coordinates for it. "How come no one at the mansion, or X-Corp was able to detect it until now?"

"Oh my..." Hank broke in abruptly, swallowing back a growing lump in his throat. "I have no idea why, especially with the mansion's updated equipment, that Cyclops's team was unable to detect this spike... it's just... oh my..."

"What is it, Hank?" Alison asked as she tried to see over him to the monitor's read out. She was wondering why he was stammering more then usual, and the answer would come not from him, but her estranged boyfriend.

"Because the spike was detected in Egypt," Sam said as he walked into the cockpit, almost appearing breathless at the possible implications.

"Wait a moment..." Alison started up in confusion, her brow furrowing over as she looked from Sam to Hank. "That can't be right..."

"It is, though," Hank confirmed, and he turned back around to the two, and away from the display at his left. He sighed and took off his glasses as so he could rub away the tension he was feeling out of the bridge of his nose. "I think we need to call the mansion..."

The Institute.

While most of the mansion has yet to be rebuilt, like the subbasement, hangar, Danger Room, War Room, Cerebro's chamber, and the Ready Room, however what was there was substantial living conditions for the X-Men. Cyclops sat in his wheelchair in his study, what was once Xavier's. His eyebrows raised as Jean walked into the room wearing a yellow shirt with a pair of khakis.

"Hey," she said as she wrapped her arms around her husband's body.

Cyclops simply stared off in space emotionlessly. He hadn't changed out of his uniform since they returned from X-Corp. He clicked a button on his visor as it shifted into his normal-looking ruby-quartz sunglasses and sighed, "Hey."

"Seems like things are looking better for us," Jean said.

"Yeah, after all, I've been manipulated by Falk and Emma nearly killed us all," Scott retorted.

Suddenly, Jean looked off as her telepathy told her something, "Jacob's crying. Jubilee's having a tough time getting him back to sleep. I'll be right back. Hope the poor kid recovers...for Logan's memory."

"Okay," Scott said as Jean left the room.

{{Cyclops.}}

Scott pressed the earpiece in his left lobe, "What is it, Cerebro? Kinda busy here."

{{Beast, Dazzler, and Cannonball have left Worthington's former Colorado estate with an old Aurora jet...and are headed for Egypt,}} the sentient, mutant-tracking computer informed.

Cyclops sighed, "You know what to do."

As Jean reentered the room with Jacob in her arms and Jubilee following close behind, Cyclops's face shifted from a look of urgency to a look of calmness. As he saw Jean with the infant in her arms, he couldn't help but feel a sense of guilt. The two have never been able to raise their own children properly.

And yet, Cyclops felt...jealous.

"Who were you talking to?" Jean asked as she rubbed Jacob's back. His face was tearstained as his wide eyes stared at Jubilee, who simply gave him a little wave.

"I wasn't talking to anyone," Scott said.

Jean sighed as she laid Jacob in a crib which was in the study, "Come on, Scott. I heard you talking with someone. Our rapport has been whacked out lately and I really need you to tell me what's wrong--"

A bright flash of pyrotechnic energy popped in the back of Phoenix's skull as she fell flat on her face, which left Jubilee standing behind her with a menacing stare and a smoking finger.

"Nice shot," Scott snickered as he placed his hands on the arm rests of his wheelchair and grunted, pushing himself up to stand upright on two feet.

"What should I do with her?" Jubilee asked as Jacob began to cry again within his crib.

"Lock her up somewhere with one of our only remaining psi-dampeners," Cyclops said as his visor flashed. He slowly walked over to the unconscious body of Jean and stood over her menacingly, "It's time for the next phase of our dream."

Jubilee grinned to herself and nodded to Cyclops, then did as she was told.

Now THIS... was the way it was supposed to be.