A/N: I was actually going to do another X-men story before this one, but I was recently inspired and decided to do this story first. I was struck by a sudden burst of inspiration and thought this would be a fun story to write--considering it won't be that long. This is the first chapter though, so as always, enjoy!

Seeking Solace

Chapter 1

My name is Parker.

I am a mutant and I have lived my life to the best of my abilities.

I have no regrets, save one. I didn't kill him when I had the chance...

Those were the first words scrawled in a sloppy form of script. It was only the start, only the opening passage to a notebook that would soon be full of words. It was just a regular run-of-the-mill notebook you could buy at just about any store, but the words made it mine.

My mother always told me to keep a dream journal, ever since I was old enough to write. This was before I began showing my true powers as a mutant, but for as long as I can remember I've had dreams that could only be described as prophetic. Dreams in which I saw things that were to come, things that could and would happen.

The notebook in which those words were scrawled was just one of the many I have written over the years in keeping up with that habit. The most recent of my volumes. I am sorry to say that many of my precious journals were lost to me during one of the many midnight escapes I had to make in my life on the road, my teenage years on the run.

This newest one I bought on a whim, using the last of the change in my pocket as I stopped at a store for gas and some beef jerky. I really should have saved the dollar and seventy-five cents for something to eat the next day, but like I said, it was a whim. When I saw the notebook sitting there amidst the treasures of snack food, I knew I had to have it.

And so I bought it and I sit here now in one of the stalls in the gas station's bathroom. The lock is broken and the light overhead flickers every few seconds, but at least it's quiet. Quiet because its the middle of the night.

I've been driving for nearly three days now, dozing infrequently, mostly just moving. I've had my first lead in weeks and I can't rest until I reach it. My destination is a school, in New York. I've seen it in dreams, heard about it from other mutants, but never been there myself. That will change in a few hours. I'm in New Jersey now. Almost there.

I look down at the page and stare at the three lines looking back at me. Then I turn the page, ready to start fresh. I hear the bathroom door open and sigh as two late-night drivers walked in, talking loudly. There goes my solitude.

With a sigh, I leave my pen inside the notebook and stuff it into my side bag. I'll deal with it again later. Right now, I'll get back to my motorcycle--which is probably done being filled. I have a place to go to, questions to be answered. I can write in a notebook later.

With a weary sigh, I leave my broken stall and walk back outside into the night air. I pull my jacket tighter around myself, warding off the chill that was as much internal as external. It is the middle of August, but the nights are cold after midnight.

There are a few vehicles in the gas station's lot. Truckers and late night travels like myself, but not many. I am thankful for that. Being around a lot of people always bothered me, which is one of the reasons why I'm pretty much nocturnal.

My motorcycle sits by the far pump, fueled up and ready to go. I had already paid for a full tank, so I just stride over and pull out my keys. First I check the saddle bags, to make sure none of my invaluable clothing or few belongings are gone, then I straddle the seat and start up the engine. The feel of a machine turning over beneath my legs has always given me a thrill. I've ridden motorcycles since I was fifteen, and preferred them over a car no matter how lush the interior. Yes, I get wet when it rains. And yes, I get cold when it snows. But there is no feeling like riding free down a highway, weaving between hunks of metal on a thing that could almost breathe itself.

Maybe it's just because I'm such a lover of freedom, having been a prisoner before.

Before I pull out of the station, I rev my engine and drive over to one of the workers at the gas station. "Do you know where I can find a highway to Westchester, New York?" I ask him.

He looks at me strangely for a moment, then points to a Turnpike sign. "Just follow the signs," he said with a shrug, then walked away.

Lovely state, New Jersey.

I know why he looked at my strangely. I would probably look at me strangely too. It's not often you see a seventeen-year-old girl riding a motorcycle alone in the middle of the night. It's not often you see one wearing sunglasses either. The glasses were supposed to help me avoid stares, but usually is just brought more. I simply took them off and shoved my helmet over my head instead.

Without flourish or really any thought to the matter, I just steered my bike in the indicated direction, and I drove. The same as I always do, and always have, since I began my search over a year ago.

It might sound strange to the average person, or maybe even a little illegal. I am still a minor. Not able to drink or to vote, and yet I'm living on my own on the road. I've never been to an actual school. Since I was a baby I was home schooled, though I wouldn't call the last six years of my life a schooling experience.

My life is, always has been, and always will be, strange. I can't say that all mutants have to deal with the same thing, but I would say the majority of us live out our lives much differently than the average human. It's not even due to our powers. It's because we look at things differently than normal people. Because we aren't considered 'norms', the mutant slang for powerless humans.

There are good and bad mutants, just as there are good and bad norms. It's just the way of things. I have never thought myself better than other people. I have never thought myself less than other people. I am just another human being. Maybe I've dealt with more things than your average seventeen-year-old, but my mother would say it builds character.

She was full of words like that, my mother. Granted, Selene Watson was not my actual mother. She was the closest thing to a parent I had ever known. A mutant with the power to read emotion, empathic if you will. Selene was the person who raised me and taught me what I needed to know to survive. More than that, she loved me like a mother would love a daughter. I was happy with my mother.

Until one night, when somebody killed her.

It happened when I was eleven. I don't think I ever fully recovered from that blow, but who really recovers from such a loss?

I carry her picture with me everywhere I go, usually in my side bag but sometimes stowed in one of the saddle bags on my motorcycle. When I'm lost or sad, I take it out and talk to it as if she was still here. As if she could still hear me and tell me what to do. If Selene was here now, I'm sure she'd tell me that where I was going was right.

For the first time in weeks, I had a lead. This school in New York, a place I had never been but had seen so many times I felt like I knew it. This place where mutants lived and prospered. Maybe I could find my answers there, hidden between the secrets it kept.

I drove into the night, following highway signs and crossing the border into New York. Dawn came up beside me, a bright array of yellow and gold and flesh tones. I parked at a rest stop to watch for a little while, and to nap for an hour on one of the picnic tables. I only left when one of the workers came over and kicked me out.

I didn't mind to much considering I don't sleep very much, or very often.

My mother's theory was that I don't have to sleep as much as the regular person due to my powers with dreams. An hour of two every night had me charged and ready for a new day, which annoyed her to no end when I was a child. As I got older, I realized that most people slept more than that, and I learned to stop turning the lights on and off to get her attention as she slept.

On I drove, unsure of my exact destination. All I had was the name of a town, the name of a school, and the hope that I could find what I was looking for. All I had was whispered rumors and ominous dreams. I had Bayville. I had the Xavier School for Gifted Children. I had hope.

I didn't actually reach this school for the Gifted until late in the afternoon. Around dinner time. I knew that because my stomach was growling. I knew I should have saved that money for food. Yet, as I reached a hand into my side bag and felt the spine of the fresh notebook, I couldn't regret the purchase. It was a small comfort, one that would get me through a few lonely nights if this place ended in disappointment, as every stop before this had.

This is where I sit presently, at the gate to a huge mansion-like estate. There's a lump in my throat and a pain in my stomach. Anxiety rises in me, reminding me that this could mean the end of my search, or just another dead end. I struggle to remain optimistic because negativity requires too much energy right now.

The name of the school stares at me from a small plague on the gate, a warning and a welcome. With a deep breath, I move my bike further. The gate, wrought iron and large, opens slowly to admit me. There is no other way, nothing else to do, but go forward. So I do, I press on, like always.

I must admit that my first impression of the school was one of awe mixed with intimidation. It reminds me more of a prison then a school, and too much of a place I had once run from. The building is in shadow, but the lights burning within gives it a more sedate feeling, enough to warm me into pressing on.

The driveway isn't as long as I thought it would be. It was a little deceiving at first. There are cameras positioned around the road, watching my movements. I can seem them hidden in the dark spots beneath tree branches and under bushes. For a school, this place is guarded well.

Though I know it's more than a mere school.

When I get to the door, my heart is beating a mile a minute and I've already forgotten all about my previous hunger. For right now, my mind is on what I must do. My mind is on what it all could mean. Another steadying breath later, I park my bike and leave my helmet on the seat with my saddle bags. My side bag is always on me; so are my sunglasses.

Self-conscious, I smooth out the wrinkles of my black jacket, and tap my boots against the steps so that any clinging mud would let go. I run a hand over my hair, smoothing it out after a day of being held in a helmet. It's not that long, you see, only to my shoulders. I never have time for it anyway. It's not like it's anything special, like midnight black or flaming red. It's just blonde, not golden or silver. It's dirty blonde.

Adjusting the glasses on the freckled bridge of my nose, I raise a slightly shaking hand and knock soundly on the door. Then I take a step back, adjusting the strap of my side bag and trying my best to look older than what I am. Taller than five and a half feet, older than seventeen, and less afraid than I was.

The door is opening and I hold my breath.

A woman stands in the doorway now, a beautiful woman with mocha skin and bone white hair. She looks down at me from a lovely height, her face a mask of both welcome and warning. My own expression remains closed, something I was trained into keeping at all times. The lovely woman brings her hand down from the door and links it with her other in front of her. I can tell that she's sizing me up.

"May I help you?" she asked me. Her voice holds a silky accent.

"I'm here to see Professor Charles Xavier," I say calmly. The voice carries no tone, and I'm proud by how calm I sound. I can't let on that I have hopes in this place. Hope can kill a person if left unchecked, so I always try to keep mine in the smallest measurement.

"Do you have an appointment?" the woman asks me.

"I would have called," I say, "but I didn't know the number. I have not been to New York in several years."

She looks at me for a long moment. I can hear voices behind her--young voices, laughing and yelling and carrying on. The voices of the students. The mutant children who call this place home. For a spilt second, I envy them for it, for having a home together. It's gone as fast as it came, and I give none of my thoughts away.

"Shall I tell him who's calling?" Her eyes, dark and exotic, seem to see through me. She is looking for any signs of ill-will, of ulterior motives. I have none.

"I would prefer to see him myself," I say as politely as a can, even bowing my head slightly out of respect. It's an act of submission bred into me.

"Follow me please," she says lightly, opening the door wider and allowing me access. I smile slightly, not a grin but not a frown. She closes the door behind me before walking out to lead.

Suddenly, I am in a world of polished wood, of homey designs and school-like decorations. I am in a world of boarding school. I see a few students in another room, by a fire place. They are sitting around, laughing with each other, though one by one they fall quiet as we walk past them. I feel their eyes trained on me as I follow behind my lovely guide, head high.

There are some students in the hallway that we pass. They look at me, sizing me up, guessing my story. I say nothing to them, or to my guide. I just follow, silently. As I walk, I finger the rabbit's foot on the zipper of my side bag. It's my nervous habit.

Finally, we reach our destination. The polished wooden door to an office, much like all the other doors we have passed in the hallway. My guide goes first, knocking lightly, then opening when an answer comes from within. I follow slowly.

"Professor, there is a visitor for you," the woman says politely.

"Thank you Ororo," the man says.

I am surprised by his appearance, this man who I have heard rumors about for many years. The man whose life goal is the peaceful coexistence of mutants and norms. He's not a warrior, not tall and built for war. Instead, he is bound to a wheelchair, a man of limits. His head is bald and he's dressed formally. I would expect this man to be a school principal rather than a crusader for mutants. Perhaps that was his reasoning. Perhaps he simply wanted to be as normal and approachable as anyone else.

Ororo, my lovely guide, is leaving us now, closing the door as she exits. I am left alone in the comfortable office with this man. I look at him from behind my sunglasses, and he looks at me with a light brown gaze. I don't feel threatened, which makes it much easier to speak.

"Forgive my rude entrance," I say calmly, bowing my head. "My name is Parker Watson."

"Welcome to my Institute, Miss Watson. I am Charles Xavier." I shiver at the way he says 'institute'. Too many old memories combined with too many old threats. I am suddenly keenly aware that I am alone in a room with a man and I keep my distance safely. He is in a wheelchair, but that makes him no less dangerous as a mutant.

"You'll have to excuse my bluntness," I begin again. "But I see no point in rounding edges. I know that this school is a place for mutant children."

He is not surprised when I say this. I am reminded again that his mutant powers are all psychic. If he so desired, he could tap into my mind and read everything there. Somehow, he didn't strike me as the kind of man who would read a mind without permission, so I continued anyway.

"I have heard about your school many times over the years," I say with all the admiration that I had in me for this place of legend. "Recently, I have…" I falter. What could I really say? 'I've been having dreams that tell me to come here…?' He'll think I am a lunatic, or worse, he could think me young and not intelligent enough to interpret fact from fiction. "I have been struck with a note of urgency," I continue, struggling for words. "I was hoping that, perhaps, you could help me."

"Oh?" he asks calmly. A smile curves his lips and he steeples his hands over his desk while listening. "And why would you think a school for mutants could help you?"

He wants proof. I'll give him proof.

I reach up and tentatively remove my sunglasses, looking at my hands before blinking and looking up at him. I see him raise one eyebrow, but say nothing to what I have just revealed. My eyes are, I am sorry to say, my most mutant quality. Like many mutants, most of my powers are inborn. A power that can not set me apart when you place me in a crowd. My eyes, however, are a different story.

I was born with cat eyes. That's what my mother called them anyway. Human shaped, but with irises of bright yellow. My pupils are set vertically, slits rather than circles. I can also see in darkness, like a feline, due to the reflective membrane covering my organs of sight. Since birth, I have been different in that one aspect.

"The Mutant Underground said that this would be as good a place as any," I comment, cocking my head to the side for effect.

Charles Xavier nods his head. "You can stay here as long as you wish," he comments.

I laugh, holding up my hands. "I don't want to enroll," I say with a smile.

"You don't?" he asks, looking surprised now.

"No," I say with a bow of my head. "I am here for information."

"Regarding?"

This is my cue. I reach into my side bag, rummaging around in it for a moment before my hands close over a small framed photograph. The frame is black and soft to the touch, the corners lined with a few fake sparkling jewels. I always thought it was pretty. Lifting the photograph out of my bag, I walk forward to the desk. I lay the photo down in front of the man in the wheelchair.

The photo shows a young boy of eleven, with flaxen hair and yellow cat eyes. He's sitting on a swing, a huge grin on his face even as his long bangs fall into his strange eyes. It's the only picture I have of my brother, and it's six years old. The corners were bent and the back is yellow from so many years hiding under my pillow. I only got it framed a few months ago.

"That's my brother," I say. Even I can hear the emotion now in my voice. "His name is Peter Watson, though he might have changed it, or how he looks." I paused, trying to marshal my emotions. "He's only eleven in the picture, but he'd be seventeen now. Same as me."

"Your twin?" Xavier asks, looking up at me.

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. "We were separated…after our mother died. I was adopted and Pete…wasn't. I've been looking for him since I left home a year ago. I've been told that this place was good to start, that a lot of runaway mutants come here."

"I'm afraid I've never seen a boy like this, or named Peter Watson," Xavier says, handing my picture back to me. His face conveyed his regret and his sympathy. Disappointment nearly undoes me. I take my photography from him, hugging it to my chest as I lower my head. I try to hide my hurt, but I know it's not very affective. I had hope, but it was dashed.

"I'm sorry that I wasted your time," I say in a small voice, turning quickly and heading to the door.

"Wait," he calls after me and I hesitate. My hand is at the knob. All I have to do is turn it and run. Run, like I've done so many times in the past year. For some reason I could never begin to explain, my hand lowers to my side. I turn to face him. He's come out from behind his desk, wheeling forward slightly and looking at me levelly. "Perhaps I can help you."

"Help me?" I ask. "If you don't know Peter, then I have to keep looking--"

"I understand your drive to find your brother," he says reasonably. "But I might be able to help you find him."

"You can do that?" I ask, stunned. "I've heard rumors about a machine that can locate mutants…but I never believed it was real!"

"Oh, it's very real," Xavier says with a smile. "I built it."

I am awed now and I drop my head. "Sir," I begin. "If you could help me find my brother…I would forever be in your debt." What could I ever have said, ever have done, that could convey to this man how deep my love for Peter goes, and how desperate and determined I was to find him. If only to find his grave. Something to which I know what became of my other half.

"No need for life-debts," Xavier says with the hint of a laugh in his voice. "We would make an even barter." I look at his quizzically. "If you remain here at the Institute, I will search for your brother."

I am shocked, and I am not a person who is easily shocked. My jaw drops and I simply stare at him for a long moment. When I finally regain my speech, I cough first. "Y-you want me to s-stay? Here?"

"It's a fair bargain," he replies.

"But you don't even know me!" I protest.

"That can change," he says calmly. "My doors are always open to young people like yourself."

"I doubt you've ever met someone like me," I comment idly, shaking me head. "Not to say that I'm more unique or anything. I've simply…been around and seen some things. And if I were to stay, which I am not agreeing to yet," I say quickly. "I can not stay long. My past is still chasing me."

Xavier never wavered. "You can stay as long as you like. And I will help you look for your brother as long as you are here."

With a nod, and bow forward. "I accept your hospitality and will remain as long as I feel it is safe to do so in exchange for your assistance in finding Peter."

"Then we have a deal," Xavier says with a smile and a nod. He wheels himself back behind his desk and indicates an open chair across from him. "Please, sit and tell me about yourself."

I hesitate only a moment. The enormity of what I have just done and what it will mean won't really weigh on my mind for a little while yet. Right now, I'm riding a new wave of hope. Hope that my search might yet come to a happy end and that I will find my brother and rebuild the family that was stolen from me.

I take the open seat with a sigh and look at the man across from me with wet eyes. "It all began when we were born," I begin. "Peter and I were born with our eyes as they are, so we were pegged as mutants from the start. What normal family would want two mutant babies? So our birth parents gave us away as soon as they could. Luckily for us, we were given to a mutant woman named Selene…"

A/N: I have never done an X-Men: Evolution fanfic before, so I ask that you take my work with a grain of salt. Reviews are welcome in all shapes and forms. This is simply a story I've done because of my love for the story and my respect for the characters--and because I have nothing better to do.