BA…

The world reappeared in a swirl of violet smoke that lasted a quick breath before it disappeared once more.

…MF

The universe was suddenly upside down. He was only vaguely aware of his perceptions adjusting as he raced along the ceiling on all fours, darting around long broken light fixtures and exposed pipes. It stank in there…of age, damp, squalor and decades of squatters. Moldering refuse decayed in every room, rendering the air thick and nearly unbreathable. He didn't have time to be appalled…to feel for those forced to dwell in such destitution. Someone was about to die.

"Nightcrawler." Cyclop's voice was faint and muddled by static …the reception was poor in there. Strange. The abandoned building lacked anything that would interfere with a signal. "Where are—" The team leader's message dissolved into white noise.

"I'm in." Kurt whispered. Maybe it would be heard, maybe not. The team would catch up. Wolverine was most likely just meters behind him. Logan had his remarkable senses to guide him. He was probably ahead of him and Kurt would discover his friend enjoying a victory cigar with the fight over and done with. He'd left him scouting the perimeter, but Logan had a way of showing up in the thick of the action…usually personally responsible for its cause.

Kurt darted to the shadowy refuge of the high ceiling's corner. He was in a---surgery theater? A balcony overlooked the center of the room, long benches stacked in a semi circle behind iron railing that had rusted into little more than reddish dust that blended with the ever constant condensation to drip in ruddy rivulets from the masonry to pool on the cracked tile below.

He suddenly regretted ever watching Katzchen play Silent Hill.

Kurt? Jean's mental voice echoed in his thoughts.

I'm fine. I've reached the surgical theater. He sent back, slipping his hand into his jacket pocket. He pulled out the hastily sketched blueprint of the asylum, squinting in the dim light as he scanned the crude drawing. The therapy room should be down the corridor.

Ok, since the comlinks seem to be being temperamental, I'll keep you linked to me this way. Jean's thoughts were so much louder than his own, as if someone turned the volume up. He could feel her presence in his mind like an persistent itch. It was both unsettling and comfortingly familiar at once. God, how awful is it? A creepy condemned asylum. Watch out for zombies. Jean added helpfully, If you see anything shambling, 'port first, ask questions later.

I'm the romantic lead. Kurt replied, tucking the sketch back into his pocket, I'm guaranteed to live.

You sure you aren't the plucky comic relief? And you're seriously lacking in damsels to rescue. Unless you're going to be rescuing Bobby in drag…and then I really don't want to know about it.

If I find Bobby tied up and wearing a pinafore I promise to keep it hidden from you. Kurt tried to force flippancy. Gott, this place was awful…and despite the almost stifling humidity, he'd caught a bone chill that set his sweat soaked fur bristling inside his uniform. Anyway, I see anything that even so much as hints at Dawn of the Dead and I'll be testing my theory on the possibility of teleporting all the way to Thailand.

Belay that. I want photographic evidence for blackmailing purposes later. Mean Jean out.

With that, Kurt released his hold on the vaulted ceiling and flipped to a crouch on the ground. The floor splashed unpleasantly. I'm too old for this. Kurt winced and tried to ignore the smell of the stagnant water and Gott-Knows-What-Else. Wait. How old am I?

Twenty-four. A voice in his head chirped merrily before he could work out the mental math. So, you're not 'too old'…Logan is way older than you. She paused, her tone turning serious…and tinged with genuine worry. Be careful, Kurt. They managed to get their hands on Bobby…don't underestimate them.

I won't. I promise. If he's here, we'll get him home, Jean. He smiled and tried to tint his mental communication with the confidence he didn't quite feel. Something was 'off' in all of this. He dragged his tri-digit hand through his hair and jogged lightly toward the door, peeking through the tiny screened window into the hallway. Looked clear. He pressed his cheek to the scratched glass…ja, both directions were empty. He eased the door open and slipped into the passageway, catching the door with his tail to gently shut it before he ventured forth.

Kurt stepped lightly, walking on the balls of his unusual feet, making his way silently down the hall. There. The therapy room. The vagrant had said he had seen an 'ice man' there. That 'they' had him. Who 'they' were was still open to debate.