A/N: I've decided to rewrite this one (as I hate it and have for the last few years) but it's nearly 5 am so I didn't get anything more down than a prologue. Still, I feel it's a vast improvement over the original. I'll leave up the original stuff for the time being, but I'll be taking it down as I replace it.

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Prologue: I Once Was Lost...

Pain is a warning mechanism. It not an old friend, nor an enemy. Sometimes it's a whisper to beware infection, sometimes a constant nudge to take it easy; it was a scream now. A demand that he stop moving and admit that he was in real trouble this time.

His back braced against the wall so that he could catch his breath and grit his teeth against the wave of agony that shook him. His fingers, calloused with years of hard work, worked up through the layers of fabric until he could feel the reckless pound of his own heartbeat. Damn. He had been in touch with his own body for long enough to know this kind of pain was not something he could safely ignore, but he had to press on. He didn't see another option, at least, not one he wanted to admit.

It was three am and he was in sight of the facility that was holding Magneto. It had been no easy feat to find where they were holding the infamous mutant, and he'd burned bridges with contacts he'd hoped to have for many years to come, but here he was: Hope. Without Hope or the direction it gave him, he would have to face a life without purpose and the prospect was too grim.

But hope, they say, is like a flame, though it does not burn eternal. Pain returned to scream in his face, to numb his left arm and to demand that he stop. His head bowed and his lids shut to blot out that vision of hope. He had to accept the inevitable. It was quite possible he was dying. There weren't many men could survive being struck by lightning or the swim in the Hudson that followed, he should have counted his blessings and found medical attention. But instead, he'd run himself ragged tracking down his hope and was now forced to face the fact he would not be the one to release him.

The number had been in his wallet for a good many years now. Soft from the rub of his thumb across it, but still legible. It's existence was a source of constant shame and self loathing, but perhaps now it would serve it's purpose and save one lonely life. Even as his body began to shut down, he punched in the numbers and listened to the ring. He didn't doubt they would come for him, and that somehow made his shame all the more palpable. He'd wronged those at the end of this line. He'd tried to kill them and they him, they were mortal sworn enemies, and he would not have gone to their aid. But they would come to his.

He didn't hear the groggy words as they greeted him, just slurring in response to the sounds, "I'na know who'lse t'call."

He managed to make himself a clearer part of the conversation from there, though his eyes were shut as he slumped in the bottom of the phone booth and held the hard plastic to his ear.

"Who is this?" He recognized the suspicious voice then: Cyclops, he couldn't remember the man's real name. He saw no reason to lie. Not now.

"Toad." The silence followed and stretched on through the erratic heartbeats he was sure would end soon. Toad," He repeated.

"I heard you. Why are you calling?"

"I'm ..." Then he admitted what he'd been reluctant to admit to himself, "Having a heart attack. I got nobody else. There's nobody else t'call."

And just as he'd known they would, they came for the young amphibious terrorist. He was no longer conscious when they found the corner he'd related over the line, simply a sad little lump curled at the bottom of the phone booth.