text: They drove all night, taking turns and stopping just once in Spokane, for gas and a change of cars. By four that morning, they were well into Montana.
  
  "No speed limit. I love this state." Logan sat in the passenger seat as Rogue drove. He glanced over his shoulder; the others were dozing. Uncomfortable as hell, probably, but they were too tired to care where and how they got shut-eye, just as long as they did. Logan could relate. This body of his just wasn't used to long hauls.
  
  "How are you doing?" he asked Rogue.
  
  "You asked me that ten minutes ago, sugah. Maybe you should get some rest."
  
  "I've been telling myself the same thing. I just can't seem to fall asleep."
  
  "I thought you were the kind who conked out pretty fast."
  
  "I am, but maybe that's a body-specific thing."
  
  "Maybe. How do you like being a woman? Any deep thoughts?"
  
  "Darlin', if you're expecting deep thoughts, you're talking to the wrong man."
  
  Rogue laughed, but there was a tightness to her eyes that made Logan squint against the shadows. It irritated him to no end that his eyesight was no longer good enough to see in the dark.
  
  "What is it?" he asked softly. "What's troubling you, darlin'?"
  
  "Nothing," she said. "What makes you ask?"
  
  "Instinct," he said. "And I know you too well. Come on, Rogue. It's a long drive and with those sleeping beauties back there, it's just you and me. Spill."
  
  She hesitated. He had some idea of what she would say and he was not far wrong.
  
  "It's that man I killed," she told him. "I can't stop thinking about him."
  
  "Yeah?" he said. "Nothing wrong with that."
  
  "Everything is wrong," she argued. "He's dead."
  
  "We already discussed this, darlin'. You were trying to stop him from killing someone. It was in self-defense."
  
  "It's more than that. It was arrogance, Logan. My arrogance. I thought this body," and she stopped, gesturing at herself as though she were something distasteful, "wouldn't be strong enough to kill. I didn't hold back."
  
  Logan sighed. Rogue was one of the finest women he knew, but she could hold on to guilt like it was a second superpower. It did not make sense to him to feel bad about things you could not change. Better to learn from mistakes and just move on. Of course, he was a different kind of animal from Rogue. She was more civilized than he.
  
  "Let it go," he said, trying to make her understand. Her lips tightened into a thin line and he shook his head, exasperated. "Forget it, then. I give up, Rogue. I don't know how you do it. How you manage to be the oldest woman I've ever known while living in such a young body."
  
  "You can stop now."
  
  "Fine." He leaned away from her and stared out the window, watching shadows pass along the freeway. A moment later he felt a warm hand touch him, fingers curling around his fingers.
  
  "Thank you," she said softly. "I do appreciate it."
  
  Logan squeezed her hand. "Anytime, darlin'. Anytime you need to talk. I'll always be there for you."
  
  Rogue pulled over at the next rest stop and everyone clambered out to stretch their legs and use the restroom. The parking lot was full with semitrucks, red and yellow edge lights twinkling like it was Christmas. It was still early enough for the sky to be dark, though the birdsong had changed.
  
  The building itself was almost empty. Logan thought he glimpsed some tall figure in an alcove looking at maps. It was almost four in the morning; most everyone, especially the truckers, were tucked snug in their cabs and cars, fast asleep. Logan began to follow Kurt into the men's bathroom and was saved by a loose arm draped over his shoulders. Rogue, steering him into the woman's bathroom. Personally, he did not see how it really mattered where he went.
  
  "Remember your place," she whispered, her breath tickling his ear. She glanced at Scott, who was just now emerging from the bathroom. He had been the first to jump out of the car, charging into the rest stop like there was some Sentinel inside needing its tin metal butt kicked. Scott said nothing, but Logan thought he looked infinitely more comfortable.
  
  The bathroom smelled and the toilets had seen better I days—better ends of a bleach bottle, too. He really misled standing up.
  
  "You okay over there?" Rogue called over the stall, her voice monstrously loud. "I'm not hearing any tinkle-tinkle."
  
  "Ain't none of your business what I'm doing in here," he said, still standing up. He had already done this multiple times, but it never got easier. It felt so wrong.
  
  "Sure thing," Rogue said, clearly proud of her own wondrous ability to relieve herself. Her toilet flushed and then she was out, washing her hands. He heard her slap water on her face.
  
  "You going to be okay if I head back to the car? Logan?"
  
  "Sure," he said, gritting his teeth as he finally went through the motions. "Just get away from me. I'm concentrating."
  
  She chuckled, and he heard the door swing open. Less than a minute later someone else entered. He wondered if it was Rogue, but kept his mouth shut. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to some stranger. He finished, flushed, and left the stall. Stopped. A man stood in front of him. Tall, with a narrow face and hollow cheeks. He wore a tight T-shirt and jeans. Logan thought he looked familiar, and placed him as the map-reader.
  
  "You're not supposed to be in here," Logan said, already planning his moves, the classics: throat, nose, groin. He shifted to the balls of his feet, hands loose and ready at his sides. Great. Didn't seem to matter what he looked like; he always attracted the weirdos.
  
  The man smiled. His teeth were very sharp. Too sharp.
  
  Logan thought, Oh, crap, and then he had to dart sideways because the mutant attacked. Logan slammed his fist into the soft part of his throat, following up with another blow to the nose. The combined impact did not slow his assailant in the slightest. His fingers lengthened, scraping Logan's shoulders, searching for a hold. Logan batted away those hands. He got in another punch and then one more, and he watched the man smile, so wicked, confident and smug, and he realized those blows meant nothing to him, weren't even tickling his skin. Jerk was a mutant and he needed a mutant to fight him. That, or Logan was going to require something stronger than two small fists of fury.
  
  He was not fast enough, not in this body. Impossibly long fingers wrapped around his ankles and he hit the ground hard, slamming the back of his head into the tile. Stunned, dazed, he still tried to kick, to scoot backward. The man fell on top of him, fingers uncurling from ankles and snaking upward to wrap tight like rope around Logan's soft arms. Logan snarled, trying to buck him off. Nothing worked. Enhanced mutant strength. For one moment, Logan understood why humans hated his kind.
  
  "Get off me," Logan growled. The door to the bathroom rattled. Logan head Rogue's voice, asking if he was all right. He shouted out to her and got head-butted for his trouble.
  
  "Shhh," hissed the man, speaking for the first time. "Be still."
  
  "You idiot," Logan said, struggling. 'You must be the worst rapist ever."
  
  The man smiled. His mouth was close and hot and wet Soft, he whispered, "Who said anything about rape?"
  
  Logan watched those lips peel back, those teeth glint white and sharp. He thought he saw meaty bits plugging the gaps between them.
  
  The door rattled again. Logan shouted as that scraping mouth touched his cheek.
  
  And then a boom rattled the air, a concussive blast that knocked something out of the door, and Jean and Scott burst into the bathroom. Jean held a gun—that gun she had taken off the pimp—and she aimed it at the mutant holding down Logan and said, "Get off him right now or I will shoot you in the face."
  
  He hesitated. Jean said, "Now."
  
  And then behind them another figure entered, a man—
  
  —a gun went off. The mutant's head exploded and Logan got a mouthful of blood that had him spitting. He heard Scott say, "No," and Jean added, "I didn't do it."
  
  Logan was blind with blood in his eyes and could not move his arms to wipe it away. His ears were fine, though, and he heard a low voice, the voice of a stranger, and the man said, "Hope you don't mind, sir, but I always wanted to kill me a mutant."
  
  And Logan was fine with that. Really.
  
  His name was Duke, or at least, that was what he called himself. Logan did not imagine his mother had given him that name. Duke drove a semi for a furniture company. He always carried a gun, and he did not like most mutants. Some were okay, but the rest could just go hang themselves because they were too dangerous to live, and if he couldn't even trust his sheriff not to be corrupt, or his wife to be faithful, or the local politicians to keep things on the up and up, well, he didn't put much stock in the ability of mutants with superpowers to keep from abusing the little guys. It was just a fact of life, according to Duke. Power made people corrupt. Why, look at that Magneto fellow, or the Brotherhood of Whatsit. Even those X-Men probably had some fishy deal up their sleeves.
  
  "Probably," Logan said, shaking his hand. "Thanks, Duke. You sure you'll be okay?"
  
  "Yeah," he said. "Like I told you, the sheriff around these parts doesn't like mutants too much, and I got a dozen witnesses here says you were being attacked. Or at least, he was on top of you when I shot him. I'll just say you got scared and ran away. Nothing's going to happen to me, sweetheart. Won't even make the papers."
  
  Which was disturbing, and under any other circumstances, worthy of an in-depth investigation. Except, Duke and the men backing him up—all of them truckers who had heard the ruckus and come running—were trying to be good people. Had been, too. They just had a different perspective on things, and Logan really couldn't blame them. Hell, psycho cannibal mutants like that corpse in the women's bathroom did not do much for making a good impression.
  
  Scott, thankfully, kept his mouth shut. Logan could tell he was itching to say something, to speak up for the goodness of all mutant kind, but this was not the time or the place.
  
  Duke said, "You take care, Patty. I hope you and your friends make it home safe, without the law on your tails."
  
  Because none of the X-Men wanted to risk encounters with the police, and Duke seemed like the kind of man who understood why it wasn't always good for some people to have face time with the cops.
  
  They got into the car and drove away, fast. Scott was at the wheel, jean in the front seat beside him. Crammed in the back with the others, Logan felt like a little kid about to get a lecture from his mommy and daddy.
  
  "What happened back there?" Scott asked, the moment they were back on the freeway and gunning it at ninety.
  
  "Someone took a look at me, thought victim—or maybe just Happy Meal—and decided to go for it. Might have taken a chunk or two if Rogue hadn't come back to see how I was doing."
  
  "I didn't think anyone, even you, couldn't possibly take that long " she said, squeezed up tight against him. Logan felt grateful for her good Southern common sense. He glanced at Jean, noting the lines of her pensive face.
  
  The gun was in the glove compartment. Logan wondered if she really would have shot that mutant, and decided yes, if push came to shove.
  
  "He didn't even get a chance, though," Scott said. "That man, Duke, didn't ask any questions. He just shot that mutant, and was happy for it."
  
  Logan stared at the back of his head. "Did you miss the part where I was going to be eaten alive?"
  
  "All right, so the situation merited some defensive measures. My point"—here Logan could barely hear him over the low shocked laughter from the rest of the car—"is that it could have been something completely different. That mutant—and yes, I know this wasn't the case, but let's be hypothetical—could just have been trying to help you. Maybe the situation merely looked bad. You can't justify a 'shoot first, ask questions later' policy, just because it involves mutants. And then the way they were going to sweep it under the rug—"
  
  The soapbox was coming, and Logan did not feel in the mood to hear Scott rant about injustice.
  
  "Scott," he interrupted. "If it makes you feel better, I would have killed him myself if I'd had the chance. In cold blood. You don't let psychos like that run loose. All they do is cause pain."
  
  "Is that your professional opinion?" Scott asked, his voice cold. "You think the same hasn't been said about you?"
  
  Kurt made a soft sound of protest. Logan said, "I know it has. Doesn't bother me, because they're partly right I am a dangerous man. And one day, if someone puts me down for being dangerous, I'll know they probably had a good reason. Thing is, Cyke, there are the kind who are dangerous just because, and the kind who are dangerous because they get off on it. Those are the ones you should be worried about. Those are the ones you shouldn't feel sorry for. That was the kind of man who had me pinned down on the floor of that bathroom, and who was going to take a bite out of my face. You can bet I'm not the only one he's cleaned his teeth on. So don't you dare ask me to sympathize, and don't you make me apologize for being alive."
  
  "We're not vigilantes," Scott said. "We can't take justice in our own hands. No one should be able to do that."
  
  Logan said nothing. He and Scott had never seen eye-to-eye on certain issues, this being one of them. Logan was the kind of man who did what had to be done, no questions asked. Scott was the same, except he asked the questions. Which, when he thought about it, was probably the reason why he was team leader, and why Logan respected him for it. Scott could be a pain, but he usually knew what he was talking about.
  
  Except for now.
  
  "You're thinking too much in black-and-white," Logan said. "Those guys back there are good people."
  
  "If you're not a mutant."
  
  "Maybe so, but imagine the kinds of experiences they've had with mutants. Tonight might be the closest any of them has come to one, and what do they see? A murderer, a cannibal. What do you expect them to do, hold hands and sing the praises of forgiveness? I don't think so, bub."
  
  "So it's okay? They've got carte blanche to discriminate and kill anyone who they think might be a threat?"
  
  "Don't you twist my words, Cyke. You know that's not what I'm saying."
  
  Scott remained silent, stewing. He was good at that. Logan wondered if he ever tried to pull that shit with Jean and decided he wouldn't dare. At the moment, she watched him sternly, and if Logan had not been certain she was no longer telepathic, he could almost swear she was giving him some kind of mental lecture.
  
  She probably is. He just ain't hearing it.
  
  "So," Rogue said, breaking into the silence with a wry smile for Logan. "How long until we get there?"
  
  "You're only allowed to ask that question once a day," Logan said. "We're about twenty-four hundred miles from home. That's, what, almost thirty-five hours of road time. If we don't stop much, we'll be home the day after tomorrow."
  
  "We'll probably run out of money before then," Scott said. He seemed calmer, more in control. Logan gave all the credit to Jean's nontelepathic vibrations.
  
  "Too bad we can't sell this car," Rogue muttered.
  
  "And then steal another?" Logan gave her an amused look. "Have I created a monster?"
  
  "The monster was always there," Rogue said, and there was a slight edge beneath the humor, enough to give him pause. He did not push her for more, though. Logan was not a big fan of dredging up issues. If people wanted to talk, they did. Simple as that.
  
  The sun came up, illuminating rock and tree, mountains bright. Logan rolled down his window, inhaling the scent. Homesickness swelled inside his heart—not for New York, but for this, this precious solitude—and if the situation had not been so dire, if he had been whole and healthy inside his body, he would have forced Scott to stop the car and let him out. Let him go, deep into the wild to disappear for a day or a year.
  
  They pulled over at a truck stop in a little town outside Bozeman. It was midmorning and the tank was banging on empty. They had only ten dollars left and all of that went to the gas.
  
  "What's our food look like?" Scott asked, leaning on the car. His black hair looked a little on the greasy side, but his skin was clear and his dark almond eyes had that glint in them that was pure Fearless Leader.
  
  Kurt peered into the plastic bag. "We still have some bread and peanut butter left, but the doughnuts are gone and we're almost out of water."
  
  "We could always fill up inside a bathroom faucet," Logan said. "Food is another matter. We might just have to go hungry until we get home."
  
  Jean pulled her dreadlocks back, twisting and knotting them into a bun. "There are some pay phones over there. I'm going to call the Mansion."
  
  "Okay, but if one of us answers, hang up. The less we talk to them, the better. No need to give our counterparts an excuse to start looking for us, or tracking our location."
  
  "I'm going to the bar," Logan said. Everyone stared at him.
  
  "Bar?" Rogue asked. "There's a bar?"
  
  "Sure," Logan said, amazed they hadn't noticed it. "Look over there by the gas station."
  
  Rogue squinted. "That's a shack, sugah. I've seen tool sheds in better condition."
  
  "Yes, but this one has beer. They've got it advertised with a nice little neon sign."
  
  "It's ten in the morning."
  
  "And there are cars parked outside."
  
  "You're broke."
  
  "Who says I'm going to buy?" Logan hefted the water botde. "I'll be back."
  
  Scott frowned. "I better go with you."
  
  "Oh, Lord." Rogue looked at the sky, while Kurt crossed himself. "Save us now."
  
  "Laugh it up," Logan said, and marched off toward the little bar which did resemble some rough toolshed, but no doubt carried the scents of cigarettes, liquor, and cheap women: parfum d'Logan.
  
  It was all of those things when he went in, minus the cheap women. Just a bunch of men sitting at a tiny counter that barely had room for a bottle of vodka, let alone glasses and elbows. The rest of the bar's floor space was taken up by an emerald holy grail, illuminated by perfectly placed track lighting that seemed to light that gleaming surface from within.
  
  "That's some pool table," Scott said, peering over Logan's shoulder.
  
  "Sure is," he said. Men stood around, holding their cues like spears, weapons of war. They looked at Logan and Scott, looked with the eyes of men unaccustomed to having their inner sanctum invaded by outsiders, and Logan suddenly had a brilliant idea. He glanced at Scott, and smiled.
  
  "Oh, no," he said. "Logan—"
  
  "Hello boys," Logan said. "Nice sticks you've got there."
  
  They had to leave the bar for several minutes in order to tell the others where to park. Logan also used it as an opportunity to give Scott some instructions.
  
  "Unbutton your shirt," he said.
  
  "Excuse me?"
  
  "You don't have much cleavage, but if you unbutton your shirt a little more that won't matter. See? Look at me."
  
  "I cannot believe I'm doing this."
  
  "Think of yourself as breadwinner. Like some boxer from the thirties, throwing himself into the ring to bring money home for the wife and hungry kids."
  
  "It's a little different," Scott said. "You want me to sell my body."
  
  "I don't want you to sell your body. I want you to sell an image. When they buy that image, then kick their butts."
  
  "What are you doing to my husband?" Jean asked, meeting them as they walked to the car.
  
  "He's trying to make me sexy," Scott said. "Is it working?"
  
  Jean closed her eyes. "I don't want to know. Really, I don't."
  
  "Did you get through to the Mansion?" Logan asked.
  
  "Busy signal. I must have called twenty times, using different room extensions, and it was always busy. I think they've cut off the school."
  
  "Makes sense, if they were worried one of us would get through. Crap. I hope the others are okay."
  
  "Who's there right now? Ororo?"
  
  "Gambit," Jean said. "Jubilee."
  
  "Jubilee," Logan said, clenching his fists. "She's going to figure it out."
  
  "Why would that matter?"
  
  "Kid's going to spend one minute with my alter ego and know that something's wrong. And then she's going to start making some noise."
  
  "If we're lucky, all of them will figure it out and start taking action."
  
  "And the busy phone lines? That's not the kind of action I was hoping for, Cyke."
  
  Rogue and Kurt waited for them outside the car. Logan looked for cops. He didn't see any, but it made him nervous, the car sitting out in the open for any length of time. Driving felt different, but this was like being a sitting duck.
  
  "We're paid and ready to go," Rogue said, and then, "Scott, honey, your shirt is undone."
  
  "Yes," he said. "You need to park the car over by the bar. Logan and I have... business in there. It may take a while."
  
  "Business," Jean said, raising an eyebrow.
  
  "Oh, no." Rogue covered her mouth. "We're not that desperate."
  
  Scott shook his head. "Just...move the car."
  
  "I want to know what this is about," Jean said.
  
  "Earning some easy cash," Logan said. "They got a pool table."
  
  "Oh," she said, and then, "Oh."
  
  "Exactly."
  
  Jean looked at her husband and mussed his hair a little more. She tweaked his shirt, pulling the tail from his jeans and tying it in a knot around his thin waist.
  
  "Go get 'em," Jean told her husband with a crooked smile.
  
  The men in the bar certainly appreciated the new look. Whistles accompanied Scott and Logan's entrance. Jean waited outside with Kurt and Rogue. Having male friends join them at the pool table would ruin the illusion of sweet innocents just wanting to pass the time, to try their hand. They had no money to add to the betting pool, but that did not matter. No one expected them to win, anyway. Taking their money in a bet would have been... ungentlemanly.
  
  But that did not mean Scott and Logan couldn't collect.
  
  Logan played only two games, losing both. Scott went up next, and Logan let the bartender buy him a beer as he sat back and watched the show.
  
  One of the lesser-known facts about Scott Summers was that the man played pool like a god. Even Logan knew better than to compete with him. It had something to do with his powers, his ability to know exactly how objects would move, rebound, deflect. A side effect, perhaps; Logan had seen him hit mission targets that were out of sight, simply by calculating the best angle at which to release his energy beams. Bing, bang, bong.
  
  A couple of balls and a cue were child's play.
  
  Following Logan's example, Scott lost the first two games, fumbling miserably as his opponents smiled, enjoying the spectacle of having a beautiful girl at their table, trying so hard to be as good as them. Oh, how cute. Oh, don't worry, you'll get better. Oh, Harry, cut the girl some slack.
  
  And then the wager hit one hundred dollars—not a lot of money, but enough to get them home—and Scott stopped losing.
  
  He did it subtly, no grandiose gestures that screamed "hustler." Just a ball here, a ball there. In retrospect, Logan wondered if that was the key mistake, the one thing they did wrong. They did not leap about and cheer every time a ball went into the hole. They did not cry out for support. They did things quiet, because that was their nature, and neither of them, for all their big talk of looking sexy, could change that one aspect of themselves. Logan knew plenty of women who were exactly the same, but those were professionals, not young things who supposedly didn't know much of anything about playing pool. It was all about perceptions and expectations.
  
  The game was an easy finish. Scott, doing a decent job of acting surprised, smiled tentatively at the men and reached for the money.
  
  "I think we should play again," said his opponent, Fred, moving just enough to block his hand, "Double or nothing."
  
  "I would love to," Scott said, "but we need to get back on the road. Besides, this was a lucky finish. I don't think I could win a second time."
  
  "That so?" said the other man, a local lumberman named Daniel. He stroked his pool cue, thoughtful. "I'm not sure I believe in luck."
  
  "Now, now," said the bartender, as Logan got off his stool. "There's no need to be sore losers."
  
  "What, exactly, is the problem here?" Logan asked.
  
  "The problem is that I think you cheated."
  
  "Cheated?" Logan gazed around the room. "You telling me there's a way to cheat at pool?"
  
  "There is if you've played before and now you're lying about it."
  
  "And what makes you think we're lying?"
  
  The bar's door opened; light flooded in from the outside, blinding them all. Logan blinked, recognizing the outline of a body that stood in the doorway, the silhouette of dreadlocks reminding him of old Greek tales about Medusa.
  
  Scott, again, reached for the money. Fred tried to grab it first, but Scott was faster. He snatched the cash and then he and Logan started moving to the door, ignoring the protests that erupted behind them. Logan had anticipated this part, though usually it didn't happen unless the wins were bigger. One of the men he had been sitting beside at the bar stood up and tried to block the door. Logan said, "You better move," and when the man just smiled and reached out his hands, Logan did not mess around, but slammed his fist into that jaw, rocking the drinker back on his heels so that he stumbled and hit the wall.
  
  His hand hurt but he didn't dare rub it. He turned in a slow circle, meeting hard gazes that flickered and then broke away. It was like playing a game of chicken with his fists. After pulling that first bluff, no one wanted to play for keeps, especially if it required hitting a woman. Fine by him.
  
  Outside, Scott said, "You always make things sound so easy. And then people start hitting us."
  
  "You should be used to that by now." Logan turned to Jean. "You could have helped. They accused us of cheating.
  
  "Big surprise. Now come on. I was coming to get you. We have to get out of here."
  
  "Police?"
  
  "Worse," she said. "Cerebro."