PETE – 3:00

As the three X-Men traversed the school grounds, Pete knew something was off.

The walk back to the B&B was made in silence, despite his attempts to invoke conversation between the two ladies. When they'd reached the house, Myka had immediately fled up the wood staircase and disappeared into her room. Pete had offered to give Helena a tour of the place, seeing as she was now living in it, and the Brit had hesitantly agreed. Yet, despite exercising his most flashy showmanship, her mind was light-years away, eyes always darting towards the stairs whenever she thought he wasn't looking.

"And here we are, back at the kitchen," he announced as they strode into the room. Leena stood beside the marble-topped island, hands working at slicing a large an onion on a wooden cutting-board. "Where the lovely Leena creates the greatest works of art ever experienced by man's taste buds."

The B&B's keeper snorted and glanced over at the pair. "HG, if you're tired of him dragging you around, your room is ready for you. Turn right at the top of the stairs, and it'll be the second on your left."

"My thanks, Leena," the Brit replied. "Actually, if you all don't mind, I think I might have a look. And thank you for the lovely tour, Pete. I'll see the both of you later."

She turned on her heels and left in a flurry before he could jump to her aid.

Pete sighed and shook his head. "Women." He caught Leena looking at him with an arched eyebrow, smile playing at her lips. "Except you," he amended. "You, Ms. Leena, shall forever hold a place dear to my heart," he said in his best Southern gentleman's drawl as he pulled up a wooden stool and sat across the island from her.

"I don't suppose that has anything to do with the fact that I -," she set down her chopping knife in favor of air-quotes, "I 'create the greatest works of art ever experienced by man's taste buds.'" She finished in a deep, breathy imitation before resuming her cooking.

"You caught me," he kidded, hands in up in mock surrender. "And I don't talk like that!" But his smile faded. His fingers fiddled with a crystalline salt shaker, spinning it in tight circles. Another sigh slipped past his lips. "But really, sometimes it feels like I'm looking for lovin' in all the wrong places."

Leena scraped the diced onions from the cutting board and into a glass bowl. "That's probably because you are," she admitted. "Wash your hands and grate the cheese?"

He went to the sink. "But then where should a guy look?" he asked over the sound of water. "You and Myka are like sisters to me. I know I come off as immature sometimes, but I don't want some shallow girl." He dried his hands and slumped back onto his stool, grater and mozzarella in heavy in hand. "I'm not shallow."

"I know you're not, Pete," the dark-skinned woman agreed quietly. "But there are other women with some depth in the world."

"I know but… oh, I don't know. I mean, I don't exactly have time to scour the Earth for a love interest, you know? Not to say I would have to. I mean, I can't even scour over Univille. And then there's the whole mutant thing. How many ladies will that scare away?"

"You do realize, Helena, Myka, and I are not the only available women on campus," Leena said as she cleared the counter and began to sprinkle flour on it.

Pete snorted. "I don't think Mrs. Fredric is my type. Plus there's the issue of her being a 'Missus'… and the fact that she could be my mom." He dragged the soft cheese down the grater's serrated edges. "Who else is there? That cafeteria lady with the big mole?" His hands flew up in innocence. "Not that there's anything wrong with moles. Many women rock them, and I have a bajillion. But she could be my grandmother. So, where does that leave me? With Dr. Hernandez?" He scoffed. "I'm pretty sure we hate each other, so I'm going to go with 'when Hell freezes over' on that one."

He was too focused on his work to see the slight smile on his companion's lips.

"Well," Leena said after a moment's deliberation. She threw a ball of dough onto the floured island. "I'm pretty sure there are more than what, five, eligible, not-shallow bachelorettes on this campus in the same exact boat as you and who are just waiting for a fun, loveable guy to sweep them off their feet." She smiled. "You've just got to find them."

Pete set down the block of cheese and eyed the B&B's proprietress. "You know what? You're right. There's probably a whole flock of women out there just waiting to get their hands on this," he reasoned, jabbing a pointer finger at his chest. He stood up from his stool. "I've just got to go looking."

"Hey, hey, hey. Hold it, mister," Leena called out, stopping his him on his path toward the door. "You know, the love of your life isn't going to disappear in the next few hours. You're young. You've got time. But this pizza…"

Pete was back on that stool in an instant. "You're right of course, Ms. Leena," he drawled. His hand snuck towards the bowl of pepperoni the second her eyes returned to her rolling pin and pizza-crust-to-be. He watched her cautiously.

Yet, an unexpected show of speed and awareness smacked his hand away long before it could reach the goods. "Oh, I'm onto you," she declared, never looking up.

He grinned and picked up the block of mozzarella once more. I know. The thought settled warm. Heavy. I know.

HELENA – 3:30PM

The room was crisp and elegantly furnished, its surfaces all fine-grain cherry stained into deep hues of brown and crimson. It should've felt cozy. Safe. Electrifying and captivating even after a day of scientific inquiry in this new world.

But staring out through the panes of glass into the courtyard below, any such sensations were drowned out by the low keening of her soul. Figures danced in the fiery leaves as they fell. The sweet smile of a ten-year-old who thought the world could herald no harm. The life in her eyes. And even Charles, when the three of them were hidden away in the countryside manor. His body was void of pretense as he hefted his niece towards the clouds, twirling her about, his coattails billowing and cheeks flushing from the sting of cold and little Christina, arms outstretched towards the autumn sky, her tinkling laughter filled with the innocent certainty that she would not fall. That she would never fall.

Helena crossed her arms and rested the bared skin of her forehead against chilled glass. What had brought this about? Why did the ghosts never fail to come calling?

This time had made her hope. One century and half of another had stuttered past, the beckoning calls of the eras drowned out by the cries of the past, but for a few days this age had shored her will against them. But how long had it truly been for her? How many days had she spent after those nights in the cellar, shooting chemical cocktails into her veins, searching for the key to those secrets of the human body which might give her the strength to recover what was lost.

Had it been a year?

Two?

Five?

How many evenings had she dropped out of time-travel to collapse upon the nearest horizontal surface just long enough to find the strength to go another month?

It was the Professor, no doubt, who had dredged all of this up. That silent plea to say nothing of the diamond band upon Myka's finger had carried such weight. It had been more than a simple verbal request. It had felt all too intimate. The dull, tired weight of agony that had accompanied those words had struck a chord within the Brit, and now the notes refused to be wrestled back into silence.

Perhaps she ought to leave once more – to disappear into the future where there was the dim glimmer of hope. Who am I fooling, she thought. 150 years and nothing to show. Would another 150 truly make a difference? And even if she thought it would, this time period had a hold on the Brit which she'd not felt in so very, very long. There was hope here. It was in the self-conscious smile of a red-headed youth, hiding behind the laugh of an invisible man as he tried to hide his fear of perpetual loneliness, and lacing the presence of a woman professor whom the likes of which Helena was becoming more and more certain had never before existed. These few days had been enough to develop a connection to this age, a connection which argued against the urge to run.

Forcing herself away from scene, Helena left the confines of her quarters in search of quiet comfort. It was that which brought her to the opened doors of the B&B's library.

She was not the only one searching for the forbearing security of ink and binding. The slim body hovering before a shelf, sheathed in a cream shirt come untucked from skinny-legged jeans, was none other than Miss Bering. It wasn't until Helena drew the door closed behind her, the handle clicking shut, that the brunette turned around.

Myka's face was all too similar to the one Helena had witnessed in so many looking glasses over the years – a tight mask housing eyes that begged to flee lest someone think to poke and prod for information.

Yet the Brit merely smiled as best she could and made her way to the tall wooden shelves lining the opposite wall. She perused the collection mindlessly, taking comfort in the feeling of stiff spines beneath her fingertips even if the names were foreign.

"Helena?" the brunette called uncertainly.

The Brit's eyes and hands faltered. She turned.

"About what happened earlier. I'm not… I just don't..."

Helena held up her palm. "Myka, you need not explain. We've all secrets, and yours are your own; you need not fear prying or a loose tongue from me."

Greens eyes pierced into hers, but when no response came, Helena turned back to the shelf. Yet, a moment later, there was warmth at her back and a set of long fingers stretching over her shoulder to grasp a tome.

"TS Eliot," the professor said quietly as she pulled the book free and held it in the slight space between them. It was nothing more than a name, unfamiliar and informative and disconnected. But as Helena met the gaze of this woman who she'd known for only days, who had coaxed her into an at least temporary reprieve from the passage of time, she knew it was something more. This stranger of a woman did not feel strange. Perhaps it was that moment of connection in the lab, or the woman's apparent brilliancy and kindred soul, or merely Helena's terribly over-active imagination. Yet the Brit took it all the same.

The pair settled into lounge chairs across from one another, separated by a glass coffee table. And, as they each turned pages and drifted through the words of dead men, the battle between loneliness's craving for company and security's demand for solitude came to a standstill in both.

Little did she know, such easily found companionship would not last.

STEVE – 6:30 PM

Steve was the last to make it to dinner. The aroma of pizza made his mouth water as he slid into his customary seat next to Claudia, returning the "Hey Steve"s and smiles in kind. "Artie told me to tell you all he wasn't going to make it tonight," he informed, settling in.

The red-head frowned.

"He'll be eating with Dr. Calders," Steve explained, smiling in conjunction with the smirks that began appearing around the table.

"Oooh, Grumpy Bear's got game," Claudia mused. Steve could almost see the wheels turning behind her eyes, scheming about how to use this scrap of information.

Pete and Leena moved around the kitchen, a cacophony of offers of help following them but denied all the same. The man pulled two plates of carefully sliced pizza from the oven where they were being kept warm and set them on the table with a flourish. "Pizza a la Leena and sous chef Pete."

Steve watched as the group dug in, plates being passed around, some being filled and others emptied. Inquiries about the day were passed along, jibes about not trusting Pete's cooking thrown about only to be taken back after the first bite, and a moment was spent Googling on smartphones how many years HG had missed the re-invention of pizza by. It turned out to be less than five.

"You know, I'm happy for the old guy, but we haven't really seen him in a while," Claudia pouted as the conversations lulled, drawing the topic back to their grizzled superior.

Leena took a sip from her wine glass. "He, Mrs. Fredric, and Dr. Calders have been working non-stop on this Black Diamond thing. Mrs. Fredric spent half the day in Cerebra, searching for a lead."

It was true. The trio had more or less thrust their day-to-day duties upon the school's staff and ploughed forward into the enigma. The thought of headmistress jogged Steve's memory. "Speaking of Mrs. Fredric, she and Artie asked me to make sure that you all brought HG up to speed, and doubly so on the rules." He rolled his eyes. "I told them with Myka as mentor, they shouldn't worry."

The other end of the table, where the telepath sat and Victorian sat across from one another, was silent. In fact, the man couldn't help but notice that it had been rather quiet most the evening.

"You, uh, did go over the rules, right?" Pete prodded Myka after a moment.

Myka shook her head after a moment. "We can do it after dinner."

And that was the big giveaway. The giveaway that something was very, very wrong. Myka, the walking, talking embodiment of protocol, forget to teach HG the rules? Unthinkable!

Except that it wasn't. Steve knew what it was like to lose someone close, and what was more, to have to shoulder the self-inflicted, misplaced blame and guilt for it. Being so near the anniversary of Sam's death, he couldn't feel anything but empathy. Empathy, and worry. It wasn't healthy, the way she always came back to this stage of grief. But here I am, calling the kettle black.

"Hey, it's no big deal," he offered. "Really, we could go over the brunt of it now. What are the rules, guys?"

"Mrs. Fredric will pop into your head when it's time to go. Just do whatever she says," Pete announced. "But that's easy... mostly because she's scary."

"Do not improve Artie's personal gear without his expressed permission," Claudia chimed in with an eye-roll. "Though, I never really follow that one…"

"Stay in contact at all times when in the field," Leena contributed, pulling them back on track.

Myka cleared her throat. "Stick to your assigned position, follow the field captain's orders, and don't try to play hero. We play a clean, team game except that it isn't a game. Kill only when necessary, but don't hesitate when it is."

The room went silent. "You'll get the hang of it," Steve plowed onward, trying to keep his voice light.

"Yeah!" Pete agreed over-enthusiastically. "There's a handbook somewhere that Artie always gives out, but no one's ever read it."

Bemused gazes under arched eyebrows stared at the man.

"Okay. I've never read it," he amended. "And I'm doing just fine." He slapped a palm on the wooden table top in finality.

"There is one matter which could use a little clarity," Helena admitted. "How precisely will Mrs. Fredric get in contact with me? Will I know it when I see it?"

The question could not have been better timed.

We've located another incident. Report immediately. The headmistress's voice resounded within Steve's mind. The Brit bolted from her seat, her fork clattering onto the ceramic plate before her.

"So, I suppose it feels like that?" Helena asked, running a hand through her hair and pulling at the hem of her shirt.

"Yes. Just like that."

MYKA – 9:00PM

The first thing to cross Myka's mind was just how poor of a job she'd done preparing the newest member of the team for this. She wondered if she ought to order the Brit to stay back for this trip.

Yet, despite being unprepared, the Brit proved her worth immediately. The fumbling, door-bound movements of the team were halted before they could even begin when Helena turned away and held an open palm before her like a guard at a crosswalk. The air began to shift and shimmer, a lightless fissure appearing in it and spreading until it was large enough that Pete could just squeeze through. "To the hangar," she explained, ushering them through one by one.

The Black Bird was airborne in four minutes flat. Its programmed destination: Wilson, Oklahoma.

"Agent Bering, you'll be heading this operation," Artie's voice rang out over the Comm system. Apparently his late-night liaison had been cut short in order to brief them. Though, in all honesty, Myka was pretty sure it had probably been more of a working liaison. "Break into two teams, secure the house. 411. Beige, two-story with a single-car garage. The victim is the first priority, but be safe. We still don't know what this is. I'll be in contact."

"Claudia, Steve, you two take the front door," Myka dictated as the jet began to slow. "Helena, Pete, and I will go around back." The aircraft hummed as it drew to a halt, black nylon straps with polymer buckles swinging from the ceiling and cargo shelves.

The instant her foot hit the pavement, Myka's eyes were scanning for the target house. "To the right," she called softly as her gaze settled upon the small, fenceless building. Her legs churned, carrying her over the sidewalk and past the front lawn. The pale brown siding flew past, dark with shadow, until she rounded the corner to the backyard. The sight that greeted her eyes brought her to a sudden halt.

Stumbling across the grass beneath a young oak tree was the figure of a man. They'd found their mark. Alive.

Though, it didn't look like he'd be that way for long. "Sir!" she called out. His face turned upwards long enough to meet hers.

"Help." He hunched forward, back tight with tension that seemed to ripple beneath his sweat-soaked shirt. Swaying and bobbing, his motions became more and more erratic, sharp yet wobbly like the tick of the second-hand on an old clock. He began stumbling their way, thick beads of liquid glistening on his skin. He was falling apart before her eyes.

Think, Bering, think. She chided, beginning to back away under his advance. Yet, fingers wrapped around her forearm, stopping the movement. Instantly, the man froze in mid-step. Tracing the hand back to its owner, Myka found herself looking at the Brit's shadowed features. Time was on her side. Now to use it.

"I'm going to try to communicate," Myka said quickly. "Let the seconds trickle."

She watched motion resume at a fraction of its previous speed before taking a deep breath and staring at the ramshackle figure before them. Her power slipped past the flimsy barriers she'd spent most of the afternoon trying to put back into place. Some small part of her, hidden deep in the back, asked why she even tried? Myka ignored it. Her mind reached out, coaxing the man, searching to find a sense of commonality.

Yet, rather than a single consciousness, she felt herself connecting to several. The sensation was foreign. It was as if a handful of people inhabited his single body, crammed inside the fleshy shell with their distinct voices still intact. It was upsetting, but to recoil, to lose their only lead, was not an option.

"My name is Myka, I'm a mutant, and I'm here to help you. Tell me what is wrong. How did this happen?"

The reply came sharply, a disjointed chorus. "How are you… are you… he did this. I can't… everything feels so wrong…the air is… Wrong." His foot landed on the browning grass as his next step began.

"Please," Myka tried to focus him. "I need you to tell me what happened if I'm going to help you."

"The reverend. He gave me a… no. The injection… oh, God. Please, it hurts…"

"Focus," the brunette begged, fear moving her prodding her a step forward. "You need to help me save yourself."

But even the quickest of thoughts require time, and Myka watched as they ran out of it. The man before them began to lose his shape ever so slowly, skin sagging and outstretched arm bending downward like grey chewing gum stretched too thin. The voices in her head became screams of agony.

Eyes slamming shut in pain, Myka tried to sever the connection, but the cacophony of excruciating pain refused to let go.

Her body bent over double, and her fingers blindly grasped at Helena's hand. "Make it stop!"

Whether or not she'd actually managed to make the words leave her mouth, she was uncertain. Yet, either way, the Brit seemed to understand. The pocket of time around them suddenly disappeared, the horde of shrieks with it.

"Myka!" Pete was at her side in an instant, his and Helena's hands grasping her sides, hauling her body upright. "Are you okay? What happened? Don't turn into a puddle!" he beseeched.

As her breath evened, Myka glanced down at what had been a man just moments prior. Mucus, glittering in the moonlight, stained the grass, sinking, spreading, soaking through a pair of empty blue jeans and an ownerless white t-shirt.

"It wasn't enough," she said distantly, the pain still pushing and pulling in waves against her skull. The numb words drifted into cold autumn shadows.

AN: This has been sitting in storage for forevs; I never was fully satisfied with it, but they say the show must go on. Thoughts? I truly appreciate all reviews. But in-depth commentary on my writing style and plot/character development and things that could be improved always, always, always earns you … an extra cookie?

Though, the giving of metaphorical/imaginary cookies always makes me feel like a bit of a cheat… :D.

And I apologize for the long hiatuses I subject you all to. But hey, it'll be winter interim very, very soon…currently in semester finals.