Summary: Former student Samantha Kane returns to the X-Mansion after a rough patch in life. Upon arrival she encounters some unsettling changes including a very youthful Charles Xavier. Meanwhile, trouble stirs as the government reconvenes in the wake of the disaster on Alcatraz Island. Plans for mutant hunting machines emerge and the Cure soon begins to wane with alarming side effects.

Author's Note: This story is a mixture of X2, The Last Stand, and X-Men: First Class. I saw X-Men: First Class the other day and fell in love with James Mcavoy as a young Charles Xavier. I'll be incorporating his image in the role of the resurrected Charles making this story a romance with my original character. Other character cameos from other films are sure to arise. I have other X-Men fanfics I need to update, and I'm working on them as quickly as possible. But this story has been rolling in my head since I saw the film and I had to get it down on paper.

Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men. I wish I did then I'd be rich and content. I own Samantha Kane's character. At least I think I do.

Rating: T

X-Men: Divided We Fall

Samantha,

It is my sincere hope you will accept my offer, and consider a position here at Westchester Academy. Circumstances, as you may already know, have deprived us of two of our most esteemed colleagues, and dearest companions. I understand the nature of my request and how the very thought of returning to the mansion may fill you with great reservation. Our relationship wasn't always congenial, unpleasant at best, yet I should like to put the unhappy past behind us and press forward to a far more amiable future.

In retrospect, I have followed your legal career rather closely, and I'm impressed by the enthusiasm and wit you've shown in the courts, especially where mutant rights are concerned. The students here could gain insight into the legal and political whirlwinds that shape their day to day lives. As mutants, I feel it could one day assist them in whatever trouble they may find themselves in the not too distant future. Such is the trials we face.

I look forward to receiving an answer from you, which I presume will not take entirely too long due to the current state of your affairs. An introductory salary of $65,000 with an added yearly bonus plus comfortable living arrangements in the faculty wing is included. This proposition, however, will not be extended for too long so I expect to hear from you within the week.

Sincerely, Charles Francis Xavier

() () () ()

At first Samantha Kane was led to believe the letter was a forgery. It couldn't be Charles. It was impossible. He was dead. Vaporized or so she'd heard. Doubt mingled with an ardent suspicion drove her to seek out a forensic analyst—in truth a former professional forger—an old client by the name of Connie Baskin. She confirmed. His signature was a spot on match. Hardly convinced she took a cab back to her house—a white two story Neo-colonial residing in a prominent gated community—now in foreclosure and heading to the auction block.

She felt no sense of homecoming as she entered a spacious, but vacant foyer. Her face scrunched in disappointment as she noted the lack of furnishings that once decorated the large home. The men had worked quickly, collecting items buyers had purchased during a public sale at her displeasure. All that remained were her clothes, gathered and stuffed in suitcases and $900 in her bank account. The battle to fight for her house had severely drained her finances.

There'd been no hope. She realized that the moment her secret was revealed. Mutant. Everything—her life—had all gone south.

Quickly taking to the floor, she cradled the single sheet of paper on her lap, staring for what seemed like hours at the signature till she'd memorize every curve and stroke of each character from the alphabet. Once again, she compared it to a Christmas card she received every year without fail from the old man. Crumpling the paper, she opened her Coach purse and dug out her planner, and started to flick through the pages to seek out a number.

Her pride stung as she eventually located a number scribbled in the back and in the upper right hand corner. She swore she wouldn't go back and bit her bottom lip as she took out her IPhone dialed the number. No service. She gawked at her IPhone and remembered it had been disconnected. She'd not paid the bill.

"Shit," she screamed, tossing the device in all fury, watching as it sailed through the air and hit the wall in a loud crack. Clawing her fingers through her raven hair, she snatched her purse and left the house. It was a long walk to shopping district. Low on cash, she certainly could not hail for another cab and without a phone—she snorted in aggravation. Glimpsing to the right, she frowned deeply as she stared at the empty driveway. Repo men had taken away her Mercedes CL yesterday.

The busy downtown area in Washington D.C roared with life. The afternoon sun blazed in the sky like golden orb. Beads of sweat dripped down her forehead when she finally arrived at the local library; the last and only place in the whole city that appeared to carry a pay phone.

Running up the steps, she bumped shoulders with an unsuspecting man coming down the stairs in haste. The physical contact lit up her brain like a television screen as his life story poured in her mind. A vision emerged. Painful. A woman bearing bruises on her face crying in the apparition.

The distraction led her to almost slip as she took a faulty step on the stairs. Gritting her teeth, she straightened, fighting off the offensive vision that was now burning in her mind. Inside the library was cool and quiet with people moving silently about the massive building. Finding a shaded, secluded corner by the payphone, she took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut.

A minute passed before she was able to fashion rational thought and picked up the phone. She wiped the ear and mouth piece on her blue blazer and fed quarters in the meter before dialing. As her hand curled about the receiver, images bombarded, filling her mind yet again with the day to day workings of previous folks who'd used the payphone. She centered her thoughts and caught her breath. Her brow crinkled as she strived to pull her sanity together.

It was getting harder for her to clear her head. Harder to purge her brain of the mental images that invaded her mind. It used to be easy…now every contact was chore. What was happening to her? Perhaps it was wise to return to the one place where she could master her powers. To allow the Professor liberties, and let him help her hone her mutation. Nevertheless, she was anxious. Her heart began to beat fast as the line tolled. She hoped the Professor wouldn't answer. It would be far too eerie to hear his voice…shocking at best.

"Westchester Academy, this is Ororo Monroe."

Samantha let out a small chuckle, her lip curling, relief coming over her. Why wasn't she surprise to hear her voice on the other end? "Storm?"

"Who is this?" Ororo replied, an edge of distrust in her tone.

"It's me, Samantha…Samantha Kane."

"Sam? God…it's been….been…"

Samantha released a long, drawn moan, combing hair that had fallen in her face back. "I know...years."

"Why are calling?" Ororo's tone sounded like an accusation. "You swore you'd never come back or call."

"I know," she said lowering her head, resting it against the privacy wall. "I've said a lot of things."

() () () ()

Home, 1407 Graymalkin Lane, Salem Center, or so it appeared. The exterior surroundings were precisely the same. An opulent manor house built on a thousand square acres of land on the northeast corner of Westchester County. The Scots Baronial style architecture was still impressive to behold; tickling her memory of the first time she arrived at the mansion.

A young girl of twelve, confused and reeling from the abandonment of her parents; she came at the Professor's bidding without any real faith or prospect of stopping the visions that poured into her mind at the onset of her mutation. Now, she was here for monetary reason. Broke. She had less than $25 in her pocket after a bus ticket and cab fare had dwindled her finances.

"No turning back now," she said to herself and gathering her belongings, she marched through the black, iron gate and down the lane to front steps. The placed had not changed in sixteen years as she marked the old fountain bubbling with an endless flow of water and caught the faint whiff of jasmine in the air. Massive oak and elm trees swayed as though to bid her welcome.

Setting her burdens down on the steps, she pushed the doorbell. It resounded like a host of church bells. She leaned in the doorway and took off her shoe. Her feet were killing her and her body ached. Lack of sleep on the bus and sorry food left her pinning for a good meal and a nice warm bath. Sluggish, she leaned in the doorway.

Movement speared her to life. Tugging on her shoe, she straightened as she marked a shadowy figure making their way to the front door. Samantha made all efforts to make herself look presentable, but knew she'd look like a woman whose life had completely fallen apart.

The door opened.

He was cute. That was her first impression. He was too old to be a student, but young enough to be one of the teachers at the institute. He stared at her with dreamy blue eyes, an air of recognition arising in the cerulean pupils. His nose and cheeks were ever so lightly dusted with brown freckles; difficult to see in the muted light to where he stood, but in this close proximity they were quite defined.

He was short for a man, but a least two inches taller than her, putting him about 5'9. He had a wealth of wavy brown hair and an endearing bow shape mouth. His nose was straight with a slight raise at bridge but overall he was one attractive package.

"H-Hello," Samantha cleared her throat, embarrassed that she might've been staring and had made no attempt to introduce herself. "I'm Samantha, Samantha Kane. I-uh, I'm here in regards to a l-letter—um—"

"Yes, I know, come in—please." He stepped out of her path and that was when she noted he walked with a cane and a slight limp. "May I help you?"

"No!" She blushed, discomforted. She hadn't meant to reply so loudly. "No," she dipped and picked up her luggage. "You—I-I don't want to overwhelm you."

He smiled cutely. "It's nothing," he reached down to take one of the bags. Samantha wanted to stop him but he was obviously determined to lend her a hand. "My legs grow weary when I walk and stand for too long that's all." He closed the door and moved to guide her through the house.

Samantha took in the interior. The place was exactly the same. Rich, dark wood paneling, hardwood floors and antique furnishings decorated the spacious interior. She inhaled, breathing in the strong scent of pine, and knew someone had recently polished the wood with a cleaner. They climbed the steps to the second and then third floor and turned down a long hallway. It was unusually quiet, and then she remembered that it was the middle of summer. Students with a home to return to had long departed while others (like herself once) lingered behind.

"Nothing's changed," she said softly.

"Were you expecting something different?"

She titled her head to right, gazing at him as he glanced behind his shoulder in her direction from time to time. "Your accent…it's Scottish…isn't it."

"Yes."

She grinned. "What's a Scotsman doing all the way here?"

"It's a long story."

"Well—I'm not going anywhere."

"So I see," He gestured with his chin to her load of bags. "I was surprised you answered the letter. I had a little doubt."

Samantha narrowed her eyes, wondering what stories the others had told him about her. "Why would you? D-do you work closely with the Professor?" she asked, her eyes darting in every direction, wondering when the dead would arise to make its presence.

He chuckled, "In a way."

She was hardly amused. The last thing she wanted was her image to be tainted, especially where strangers were involved. True, she was never the model student, but that didn't give the old man the right too belittle her whenever the opportunity arose.

"Be at ease, Samantha. I would never project you in a negative light." He said, stopping just before a closed door to look her in the face.

"W-Why? What's he said about me?"

He looked away momentarily, before staring deeply into her eyes. Samantha, it's me Charles.

Horrorstricken, she let out a startled cry and took a step back. There was no denying the powerful, iconic voice that echoed in her mind. "N-No," she stammered, stumbling all over her luggage, and falling to the floor in a un-lady like manner.

"Samantha, it's alright," Charles shifted the cane to another hand, extending out the left to help her up.

She knocked it away, "No! Y-You're young!"

"You have to understand—"

"U-Understand! You're—you're young! How the fuck did you—!"

The Professor frowned, dropping his hand to his side. "Please mind you're language, there are still children present."

"Don't tell me what to—"

Her head snapped to left when someone kicked open the door and bellowed, "You wanna keep down out there! Some of us are trying to sleep!" Samantha heard faint murmurings of condemnation before a beautiful African woman with vibrant white hair came out, tucking her arms into the sleeve a of pullover grey sweater.

"Professor?" she asked a question in her eyes, "what's going on?"

"S-so it's true!" Samantha cried out.

"Sam?" Ororo gazed at the woman on the floor. "You're early."

"Storm, y-you know about this? You know about what he's done?"

Ororo's face took on a soft appeal. "Yes I do. It's complicated, but you have to understand—"

"Why does everyone keep saying that?"

The black woman came over to assist Samantha. "Let's get you settled in then we can discuss this when you've calm down."

"I don't plan to get comfortable," Samantha jerked her arm away, pulling herself to a stand, she glared at Ororo. "I don't think I will be staying after all."

"Where will you go?" Charles asked, both hands on his cane, standing casually to one side.

"That's not you're concern." She bent to collect her bags and headed towards the main stairwell.

"I hardly believe you'd go far with only $25 in your purse. And with all your credit cards maxed out, I doubt you'll be able to get a room at a hotel."

Samantha swerved on her heels, bringing a rush of pain to her already bruised feet. "You read my thoughts without my permission." She darkened. "You are Charles Xavier."

Charles came forward, his intense blue eyes boring into her, leaving her alarmingly unsettled. "Sam, I'm not your enemy, nor do I desire to be. However awkward this situation appears to be I did it with the best intentions."

"I bet," she replied snidely and turned her eyes to the door. "Is this my room?"

"Yes," he answered.

"Good." Scraping up her belongings, she charged to the door, straining under the weight of the bags.

"We'll talk later Sam," he said right before the door slammed shut and was bolted from the inside.

"Are sure it was wise to bring her back here?" Ororo questioned after a while. "She's loyal to no one. She thinks only of herself."

"Everyone deserves the right to a second chance Storm. You know that better than anyone," Charles said.

"She won't be too happy when she discovers the real reason she's here."

"All in due time. Now, how are things going on in the lower levels?" He asked his mind linking to a being residing in sub-chambers beneath the school.

Ororo's countenance grew somber. "The same. There's been no change in her condition. Do really think this is going to work? Do you really think Samantha can help?"

Charles released a sigh. "I hope so."