DISCALIMER: The only things owned here is my OC Emmaline, the idea, and any poetry... NOT X-Men:Evolution (unless this is another dream of mine...)

Hello dearest readers! Um, to put it bluntly- this fic was not written that well, and I apologize. So, I will be gradually rewriting it. This is the first rewritten chapter; all rewritten chapters will have a message similar to this.

Again, please review- constructive criticism is greatly appreciated! PM me also!

Thanks- happy reading!

Chapter 1: Letters From Fantasy

With a sigh, the young girl folded up her final hopes and dreams into this last letter, this last chance, and sealed the envelope tightly. Scrawled on the small piece of paper was a plea—her plea—for help. The years had simply flown by her in her endless misery, but now she had finally gathered up the courage to ask again. Whether or not help would actually result was beyond her, as this particular girl did not wish to think of what she did not wish to bear—a future ridden with death.

A passing car's headlights lit up her face, and for a precious moment, you could see her. She was pale, with long brown hair that fluttered in the breeze and oversized glasses that made the rest of her features seem tiny in comparison. Noiselessly, she stood, and slipped the envelope in its box, as she began the long walk down the dreary streets of New York that would hopefully signal the end of the long journey across the country.

The wind whispered in the trees, and the streetlights scarcely seemed to emit a glow into the overwhelming darkness on the road ahead. After what seemed like another lifetime, the girl finally reached her destination, and relief flooded her mind as she slipped the envelope under the crack of one of the store's doorways along with twenty-five cents. As soon as she heard the plunk of the quarter hitting the wooden floor, the girl darted into another ally, snuggling against the all-too familiar brick wall.

It was particularly hard to bear the wait that following week. Somehow, though, she managed to stay well-hidden until Bryan's message arrived.

As always, she was asleep when it came. A gentle tap on her shoulder quickly drew her into the midst of the dream-note. Luckily it was brief, as Bryan had chosen to hide in the shadows of the willow tree again, although it was hard to concentrate due to the other dark figures floating around her.

To the most basic point, he told her to go to the mansion—they had received her note, and were as ready as they would ever be.

So later that morning, the girl spent the last of her money on a ride to the countryside, just outside of the Big Apple. As she nervously walked up to the gate, she began to wonder how much to tell them; when she had sent the letter, her thoughts were mostly of hope that they would accept her. The girl tried to breath in and out, steadily, to calm herself. It worked to an extend, allowing her to continue.

Surprisingly, as soon as she reached the tall metal gates, they opened on their own, as though expecting her. The walkway to the set of doors seemed to stretch for miles, and each of her steps shook precariously. At long last she reached the doorway, and gave three surprisingly sharp raps on the door. Inside the mansion, she could hear a pair of heavy feet stomping their way to "greet" whoever waited at the door.

A gruff man opened the door, and growled slightly at the unfamiliar face. The girl was suddenly aware of the rag-tag state of her attire, and she glanced down at the stained, overlarge t-shirt, dirty jeans, and muddy tennis shoes that hung off of her tiny body, then looked back up at the man. The strange man shook his head, then turned to the staircase and hollered, "CHUCK!"

A shiver ran up the girl's spine as she remembered who this man was—the famous Wolverine. She resisted the urge to spin on her heels and dash out the squashing the notion in her mind, she squeezed her eyelids shut momentarily to remind herself why she was here. When she opened her eyes a few seconds later, she saw the man still standing there, looking at her expectantly. "Come on, girly. I ain't got all day to stand here looking at you." Feeling ashamed, she quickly darted inside before Wolverine could slam the door on her. Wordlessly, he gestured to what she assumed what must be the sitting room. She nervously half ran, half walked to where he was pointing, and gently sat on an armchair, as though the floor might crumble beneath her feet.

The minutes crawled by, as Wolverine leaned against the spotless walls, arms crossed. Finally, a older man, likely in his sixties, wheeled into the room with a warm smile. Professor Charles Xavier. She inhaled sharply.

In a welcoming, friendly tone, the Professor began speaking. "I am glad you could come. Surely, I speak for all the students and teachers here when I welcome you to our home." Here, he paused, and she could see the questions hidden in his eyes.

"I'm... Emmaline, but call me Emma," she stuttered, painfully aware of the eyes just around the corner, homing in on her every word. "I... come from... um, I used to live... I mean—" Emma sighed. This was so hard. "I was born in Duluth, Minnesota. After a while, though... I just... didn't fit in anymore, and... um... problems came up, so I just—left. I was... wondering... I mean, I've heard amazing things... if maybe you could help me?"

Another warm smile crept up on the Professor's lips. "Of course. You are welcome here, to stay as long as you wish. We all will help you."

Wearily, Emma followed Jean into the dining room for dinner after a tour of the house. She was very nervous to be eating with everyone—what would they think of her? Jean had seemed nice enough as she informed Emma about the mansion and herself, without prying.

Emma knew from experience, though, that people are never the same, not even close.

As soon as she sat down, she could tell she was marked down as different. Jean had offered to lend her clothes, but Emma had refused, knowing that this tall redhead's wardrobe must be several sizes too big for her twelve-year-old figure.

Dinner was... eventful. Emma did not know anyone's names, and even after introductions, she continuously forgot who was who. Everywhere she turned, her eyes were greeted with stares. When she retired in the guest room that evening, her head was spinning as her brain went on overload.

So, was that better? :) :)

Thanks for reading!

-flying feather scribbles