Editor's note:  The first couple pieces I did were light and airy.  This one most definitely is not.  It deals with hate crimes, the KKK, and the blasphemous Identity church, and racial epithets are used, as well as some coarse language. 

Corruption

It was only the three of them that went on this trip. 

The fact that the Professor stayed behind surprised no one.  Though it was February break, most of the children chose to remain at the school.  He was needed there.  However, though he could not leave, it was he that suggested that other "faculty" take the time to recharge their metaphysical batteries. 

Scott stayed behind ostensibly to help run the school, despite the Professor's gentle prodding.  The man wanted nothing more than privacy, and nothing less than to be in close proximity to Logan (whether he consciously realized it or not).  Losing one's fiancée did that to a man.

That left Ororo, Kurt, and Logan to their own devices.  That, in turn, begged the question of how they were supposed to go anywhere with Kurt?  It wasn't embarrassment; it was logistics.  Thanks to Stryker, Kurt's face had been plastered over every newspaper and news broadcast as "The Oval Office Assassin".  Even if the warrant for his arrest had been rescinded at the top level, the last thing they needed was for some "patriot" to take it on himself to avenge the president.

To Logan, the solution was obvious.  Go someplace out of the public eye.  None of this "bright lights, big city" garbage.  It was time to get back to nature.  Ororo was fine with that.  As remote as the school may be, it was still too close to civilization sometimes.  It would be good to wake up and not hear a leaf blower.

Kurt's only request was that they please, please steer clear of Canada.  He'd had enough Canada to last a lifetime, thank you very much.

"Won't even leave the states," Logan had assured him, running his index finger along a map of the eastern United States.  "There's all of the Appalachians callin'."

"I have never been to any of these states," Kurt said, a bit warily.  "Is there anything I should know?"

"Just steer clear of the weird kid with the banjo.  You'll be fine."

Logan said Kentucky, Ororo wanted Tennessee, Kurt tossed out West Virginia because he found the name intriguing.  Since it was one of the few times Kurt suggested anything, and no one had a vested interest, West Virginia it was, though that placed them more properly in the Allegheny Mountains than the Appalachians.  They loaded up a van with backpacking gear, had Kurt climb into the back where he wouldn't be seen, and were off that day.

And now they were getting ready to hike up into the forest. Two of them were immune to the cold.  Logan, as usual, wore jeans and the lightest denim jacket.  Ororo wore something synthetic and warm just to blend in with the other hikers.  It was Kurt they worried about.  Given his reaction in Cerebro that horrid, horrid day at Alkali Lake, it was abundantly clear that he did feel the cold, and quite keenly.  But then they saw the way he insulated himself with layer over layer of wool clothing, like a man who'd dealt with snow his entire life. 

He glanced back at them from his position in the back of the van as he wrapped his strange, tridactyl feet.  "What?"

"Nothing," Logan commented.  "You just look like you're getting ready to climb K2."

Kurt smiled.  It was a little dim in the back, as the rear windows were heavily tinted, and his eyes and smile shone vividly against his dark blue skin.

"You've never been to Germany in winter, have you?" he asked

Logan shrugged.  "Not that I recall."

Kurt wound the wrappings up to just below the knee, then tied it all off.  "Let's just say I know snow.  Are you sure you will be all right?  You are only wearing cotton.  That's not good.  It can't hold heat."

Logan gave a lopsided smile as he put a cigar in his mouth.  "I've got this to keep me warm."

"Just don't smoke it around me," Ororo told him.  "I'd like to breathe fresh air for once."

Kurt finished his ensemble with a scarf, neoprene face mask, mirrored ski goggles, and knit cap.  Not one inch of skin was left visible.  Once he put the mittens on, he looked like any other hiker out for a trip.  Just as long as they didn't look at his feet too closely.

And that duster, Logan thought.  That's the other thing a little out of place.

Oh, well.  How else was the guy going to hide his tail?  It looked a little much to shove down his pants, especially with that big spade at the end.  The long coat would have to do.

The ground was covered with a good foot of fresh snow, and the area Logan chose was remote enough that there were no footprints to mar its beauty.  Not a beer can, not a candy wrapper, not a single sign of humanity short of the road itself.  They silently shouldered their packs and headed off the road, quietly lost in the stillness around them.  It seemed such a shame to break it.  Just the footfalls seemed invasive. 

The lovely silence only lasted until a helicopter flew by.  All stopped and looked up as the noisy bird slowly swept across their path.

"Sweep pattern," Ororo noted.  "Maybe they're looking for some lost hikers."

"I dunno about that," Logan mumbled.  "You don't see that model in civilian hands very often.  They're probably Feds."

The chopper did not deviate from its flight path, though the trio knew they had been seen.  It kept going, disappearing around another mountain.  Eventually the sound faded as well.  Whatever the pilots were looking for, it wasn't them.

"If you don't mind," Kurt said, "I think I would like to head under the trees for a bit?"

Logan and Ororo nodded as Kurt took the lead, punching through the snow with practiced ease.  The helicopter did not return.

As they got further in, the chances of accidentally being spotted, by other hikers or by air, dropped to zero.  Kurt gradually removed his scarf, his duster, and everything that covered his head.  That layer of temporary clothing, needed only until the hike itself warmed him up, eventually found its way into or over his pack.  When he pulled off his mittens, however, he hesitated longer than necessary.  Instead of briskly walking along, he stopped completely, staring down at his hands.

Logan tensed, smelling the sudden shift in scent before Kurt had even finished removing his mittens.  Kurt's stress levels had just gone through the roof.  Damn.  All that shit Stryker put him through had to come out eventually.  The memory recovery had been confined to the occasional nightmare before.  This was his first actual flashback.  Well, Charlie warned them this was going to happen sooner or later.  That was part of the reason for this trip.  Logan just hoped the poor guy had an easier time of it than he did.

Ororo noticed a split second later.  Kurt froze in place, still as the surrounding pines.  Even his tail, that strangely expressive limb that had been lazily swishing back and forth all through the hike, had stopped.  Only the very tip, the spade itself, was moving, the sides curling slowly inward until they nearly met.  Then the tail itself started to curl in.  She glanced at Logan.  Was it safe to approach?  Logan gave a long, steady exhale, narrowed his eyes, and shook his head slightly.  Uncertain.  She walked up behind Kurt, stopping out of reach of his long tail, let alone his arms.

"Kurt?" she asked softly.  "Are you all right?"

He said nothing.  She walked around his left side, still keeping her distance, until she could see his face.  He was staring blankly down at his hands.  She repeated the question.  A second later his tail snapped away from her like a whip and he straightened up with a grunt of surprise.  He blinked, shook his head to clear it.

"Kurt?" she asked, edging closer.  "Do you want to rest for a moment?"

He looked up at her quickly, a little startled.  Then he closed his eyes and shoved his mittens in a pocket.

"No," he said quietly.  "I'm sorry.  I don't want to...spoil things for you and Logan."

Logan crunched through the snow and took the lead, stopping a few feet ahead.  "Look, bub, we all knew this was gonna happen.  Hell, it's one of the reasons we came out here.  Don't worry about it.  You ain't wreckin' a thing."

They took off again, Ororo keeping pace with Kurt.  His experience had rattled him, that was plain to see.  His posture had been more carefree a minute ago.  Up until that point his arms swung from side to side and his head swiveled around to see the scenery.  Now he hunched over and gripped the shoulder straps of his pack, his focus straight ahead, his tail curling and uncurling until she feared he might tie it into a knot.  He glanced at her, then away, and mumbled something in German.

"I'm sorry?" she asked.

"There is no way but through," he repeated in English, putting some less-than-convincing strength back into his voice.

                *              *              *              *              *                             

Rasheed woke after far too long, laying on his side.  Bound, blindfolded, and gagged with duck tape, he could tell little about his surroundings.  The last thing he remembered was stopping to help some locals with car trouble.  Four men, one with a cane, all in their mid-to-late fifties, if not older, with the hood of their pickup truck open to the lightly-falling snow.  They said they'd thrown a rod. All they needed was to use his cell-phone to call a tow.  Now he was here, his head aching and spinning, and with his eyes closed he had no frame of reference to make the spinning stop. He tried to sit up, but the pain and nausea grew so much that he stopped and laid his head back down.  He didn't want to think about throwing up into a sealed mouth.

He heard voices nearby, but couldn't make out the words.  It was a call and response, almost like a religious service.  He shook with fear and fatigue.  Something inside told him he wasn't getting out of this alive.

He heard a door abruptly fling open in front of him.  Hands pulled him up by his elbows.

"O.K., raghead, getcher mud ass moving," someone grunted.

The voice was all too familiar.  It was the man to whom Rasheed had lent his cell-phone.  They ripped the tape off his face.  He cried out in pain as it tore at mustache, beard, and eyebrows.  The light blinded.  His captors wore white robes with red stripes on their sleeves.  Rasheed trembled as they dragged him into the larger hall, afraid to look up and see the hoods he was certain covered their heads.

They were going to kill him.  He was doing to die.  He would never see his wife again.  He stared at the worn floorboards, then the cheap, coil carpet, dully realizing they were the last things he would ever see.  They pulled him up to his knees, yanking his head back and forcing him to look up at a face he never expected to see in a Klan hold.

For the man in front of him, standing before a large swastika flag, was not white.  In fact, he had the handsome face of a prince of Arabia.  Soft, loving, gentle, a vision of strength and beauty in blue and gold robes.  The rough men left him there, in front of the prince, and Rasheed just sat where he was, transfixed. Was this his savior?

But as the prince knelt down and reached for him, something changed.  His placid expression was still there, his gentle, reassuring smile, but there was something in the eyes.  Something empty that spoke of death.

Rasheed started trembling.  And as the beautiful man with the empty eyes touched his shoulder, Rasheed began to scream.

TBC…..