text: Ororo Monroe, though she might never admit it, was a suspicious woman, and so when she entered the Worm Way nursery on Fifth and Tucker, and discovered that her special order of rare Gemini roses had mysteriously died during transit from South Carolina, she took it as a very bad sign. Roses never simply died. They had to be killed off. And in this case, she thought the murderer might just be Fate.
  
  The reason was simple enough. As of this morning, every single rose in her carefully tended garden was dead or dying. Which, probably, had less to do with Fate than some irresponsible teenager who was going to end up paying for the death of her garden with some comparable sacrifice—like some hard unprotected labor on a bed of thorns.
  
  Still, it stretched even her belief that someone she knew would go so for as to kill off a shipment of roses—because really, when people disliked her they went for the larger gestures, like kidnapping, torture, fights to the death.
  
  And that brought her back, again, to signs and portents. Some mysterious message that could not be good.
  
  As a result, she was extra careful driving home, rolling like a woman three times her age, hunched over the wheel, watching the road for the unexpected—and getting honked at and passed for all her trouble. She felt quite foolish by the time she pulled up the long drive to the Mansion—and accordingly, summoned up her dignity so that when she stepped from the car she was once again all Goddess, confident and shining and bright with power. She tried to ignore the brittle roses by the front door.
  
  The Mansion smelled good; someone had been baking that morning, muffins or cookies, and the sweet scent curled around her, accompanied by the loud noise of a television, laughter, the poofs and puffs of some mutant power being engaged. She saw the tip of a tail disappear around the corner at the end of the hall, and knew there were others close by, no doubt hiding from her.
  
  "Children!" she called out, clapping her hands. "There are groceries in the car and I need help carrying them in."
  
  It took several more announcements like that one— including a brief foray into the recreation room—before she received an appropriate response, but she soon had a nice little army of young people at her disposal, carrying bags from her car into the kitchen and unloading their contents into the correct locations.
  
  Ororo was in the middle of supervising the placement—and protection—of the ice cream when Annie Potensky entered the kitchen. Fifteen and gawky, she was one of Ororo's best students, and a fine little telekinetic.
  
  "Someone called while you were gone," she said, breathless. "A woman named Mindy. She said she was a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Summers, and that they were in trouble."
  
  Everyone in the kitchen stopped. Ororo said, "Keep working," and then to Annie, "Follow me."
  
  When they were out of the kitchen and carefully ensconced in one of the private study rooms, Ororo made Annie tell her everything, which wasn't much.
  
  "I spoke with Scott last night," Ororo said, recalling their brief and somewhat stilted conversation. "He did not mention any trouble."
  
  On the contrary: Scott reported that the mutant issue in Seattle had been blown completely out of proportion, and that their trip was a total waste of time. The team was due to return later that afternoon and Ororo was glad of it. Gambit was around, but he was worse than the children. It was difficult being the sole responsible adult in the Mansion—even if it was summer and the students had the next two weeks off to relax.
  
  "She called this morning, Ms. Monroe. I tracked the number and it was from a Seattle residence."
  
  "Was there a name attached to that home?"
  
  "Maguire," Annie said. "Jonas Maguire."
  
  Ororo frowned. "That is not familiar to me, but thank you, Annie. You did a very good job."
  
  Annie's shy smile gave way to worry. "Do you think they're all right, Ms. Monroe? Mr. and Mrs. Summers, I mean. I didn't... I didn't know they called last night."
  
  Ororo tried not to show her amusement at the girl's concern. Jean and Scott were favorites among the students, who looked upon them with varying degrees of affection. Surrogate parents, teachers, and—occasionally—objects of teen lust, the married couple was the anchor of the school in ways that not even Xavier could compete with. Age probably had something to do with it. Ororo knew quite well that the students thought Charles was older than dirt.
  
  "Everything is fine, Annie," Ororo reassured her. "Go and enjoy yourself."
  
  Go and relax, go and think about better things than your teachers being in trouble. Leave that to me.
  
  Not that Ororo thought Scott and his team needed help, but she still had roses on her mind, and doubt was a prickly thing. She left the study after Annie, but veered left to the secure elevators, where it was only a quick descent to the basement and the automated security center. High-tech monitors lined the wall, revealing snapshots of all the public areas in the school.
  
  She patched a call to the Blackbird. Jean answered. Her voice sounded a little lower than usual, much like she had a cold.
  
  "Hello there," Ororo said. "Is everyone all right?"
  
  "Of course," Jean said. "And you?"
  
  "Fine," she said. "I was just wondering what time you will return today."
  
  "By lunch," Jean said, and then went silent. Ororo frowned. Jean was usually more talkative than this. Or at least, more engaged. Her words sounded a little too careful, rather clipped and shuttered.
  
  "Well," Ororo said, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt. "I know all the students will be happy to see you and the others."
  
  "That's good," Jean said.
  
  "Yes," she said, and then after a moment's hesitation, "Someone called this morning. About you and Scott. Her name was Mindy, and she said she was a friend."
  
  Jean did not respond. Ororo said, "Hello?"
  
  This time it was Scott who answered. "She's no friend of ours. Mindy is one of the patients at the mental hospital we visited. She... latched on to us."
  
  "She must have latched on quite tightly to have uncovered our phone number," Ororo said.
  
  "She's a telepath," Scott said. "She must have picked the number out of our heads."
  
  Which did not make sense to Ororo, considering that both Jean and Charles had spent a long time helping each and every one of the X-Men develop their personal mental shields.
  
  "If this Mindy truly plucked something as specific as a phone number from your heads, then she is quite powerful indeed. Are you certain she was not unfairly hospitalized? Perhaps there is something we could do for her."
  
  "I really don't think so," Scott said. "She's beyond help."
  
  "She must be, for you to give up so easily!" Ororo's voice had more bite than she intended; her cheeks warmed. She wondered what was wrong with her, that she should be so judgmental.
  
  'You weren't there," Scott said.
  
  "Of course," Ororo said, though her temper still felt sour. She thought of her roses and took a deep breath.
  
  You are a suspicious foolish woman. Do not take your insignificant troubles out on your friends.
  
  "Were there any other mutants at the hospital?" she asked, and then, when he remained silent: "Scott?"
  
  "No," he said, and his voice seemed deeper, not like the man she knew at all. "But we have to go now, Ororo."
  
  The comm link clicked off. Ororo sat back, stunned. Scott had just hung up on her. Scott, who was one of the most compulsively polite men she knew. The man was too anal for anything less. She remembered something else then. According to Annie, Mindy had called the mansion from a residence, not a hospital.
  
  Which meant that someone was lying to her. She did not, however, want to make any accusations before looking her friends in the eyes to see for herself if there was anything to be truly concerned over. She would get her answers, though. The truth was not something she played games with.
  
  Ororo sat in her chair, staring at the monitors, one in particular: a shot of the garden and the withered blooms, looking as if a blight had come upon them in the night and sucked everything from them but the thorns.
  
  Bad signs, she thought. Or maybe something bad is already here.
  
  On any normal day, with any normal driver, the trip from New York City to Salem Center should have taken at least an hour. For Remy LeBeau, it took only thirty minutes—and that was because he was being careful. He had a passenger.
  
  "You're driving too slow," Jubilee said, peering at him over the lenses of her sunglasses. Her leather jacket was a shocking shade of yellow, but at least she had developed enough fashion sense to coordinate her favorite color with hues other than hot pink and stonewashed blue. She had, instead, moved on to red and black, which Remy found almost as hideous, but which Jubilee felt was more.
  
  "Petite, I'm goin' more than ninety miles an hour, an' this is a country road."
  
  "Whatever. I've seen old ladies drive faster."
  
  "Mebbe if they were running from you," Remy muttered.
  
  "Oh, the pain," Jubilee said, placing a hand over her heart. "You have struck a blow to my heart that will never heal."
  
  "Good," he said. "It's what I owe you for last night."
  
  "Puh-leese." Jubilee smirked, settling back in the Porsche's leather seat. "I saved your ass."
  
  "You saved nuthin'. I knew exactly what I was doing."
  
  "Dude, that chick had her hand so far up your thigh—"
  
  "Don't finish that," Remy said. "The way you talk already gives me nightmares."
  
  "Where do you think I learned all this?"
  
  Logan. The X-Men. Oh, they were horrible role models. Either that, or Jubilee was just really good at talking her way into places where a fifteen year old had no right to be.
  
  Like last night, helping him on a stake out. Real simple, too. Just a favor for an old friend who thought his girlfriend was cheating on him. Take a few pictures, jot down some addresses, and voila! He hadn't even planned on taking anyone with him, but Jubilee seemed to have a nose for the good stuff and she wanted out of the Mansion bad. Without Logan to entertain her—and man dieu, that man deserved a medal for patience—Jubilee was going stir-crazy and bringing everyone along with her. Very funny to watch, right up until the moment she zeroed in on you.
  
  Which she had done, and under which he had caved like some goosey thin-skinned swamp rat fresh from the Bayou.
  
  But the stakeout, supposed to be so easy, had gone horribly wrong. After being followed around half the night by the two intrepid spies, the girlfriend had come home at three in the morning alone (which was good, although maddening because it meant Remy had wasted an entire evening), only to be jumped by a group of men who had more on their minds than a simple conversation.
  
  Remy did not like rapists. Neither did Jubilee. They made a good team.
  
  And the girlfriend, after they took her to the hospital and waited as she filed a report with the police, was very grateful. Not that Remy was the kind who complained about the gratitude of beautiful women, but first, she was already taken, and second, he had a witness. A poor combination.
  
  "Let's not talk about this anymore," he said to Jubilee. "It was a long night, an' I'm tired."
  
  "I bet," she said, running fingers through her short black hair. "It's hard fighting off all those beautiful chicks who throw themselves at you."
  
  "It's a gift, ma petite."
  
  "Right Did you know there's a betting pool going on amongst the students, with the odds totally in favor of your mutant power being irresistible to women?"
  
  Remy choked on his own spit, jubilee laughed and turned on the radio. The Foo Fighters slammed the air and kept on playing loud and hard until they arrived home and Remy turned off the engine. The silence was broken only by the occasional tick of his cooling Porsche. Neither of them moved.
  
  "What are you going to say when they ask?" Remy was rather worried. He had, after all, kept Jubilee out all night, and someone was bound to be displeased about that.
  
  Jubilee grinned and Remy shook his head. He was, to use the colloquial, totally screwed.
  
  His luck did not improve when they entered the Mansion. Ororo stood in the hall, arms folded over her chest She looked displeased.
  
  "Um," he said, forgetting how to be suave. He stifled the urge to throw Jubilee in front of him, and place the blame he was about to receive solely on her narrow shoulders.
  
  "I have been trying to reach you for the last hour," Ororo said.
  
  "My phone never rang." He reached inside his trench coat.
  
  "Here." Jubilee pulled his cell out of her jacket. She tossed it to him. "I pinched it off you last night when we were at the hospital. No cell phones allowed, remember?"
  
  Ororo's frown deepened. Remy said, "It's not what you think. No one was hurt."
  
  "At least not us," Jubilee added. "And the other guys will be fine in a month or so. No comas this time."
  
  Remy gave her a dirty look. She pretended not to notice.
  
  Ororo covered her eyes. Her white hair was mussed, her flowing silk wraps slightly askew. Remy thought it odd; even when upset, she was usually impeccable in her appearance.
  
  "'Ro," he said.
  
  "Scott and the others will be returning soon," she said, which produced a squeal from Jubilee. Ororo did not appear as pleased. She looked Remy straight in the eyes and he saw, as he sometimes did, the memory of how he had first known her: a little stubborn girl with white hair and a face older than her years; a farseeing gaze that was always calm, always strong. Ororo was one of the reasons he had stayed with the X-Men, and they had been friends for a very long time. He knew her moods. He knew when there was trouble in her heart.
  
  "What's wrong?" he asked, and Jubilee's smile faded.
  
  "Nothing," Ororo said, but her voice was distant, thoughtful. "Just little things, adding up all wrong."
  
  "Little things that have to do with Scott and that mission to Seattle?"
  
  "Is Wolvie okay?" Jubilee asked.
  
  "Yes, of course." Ororo reached out and smoothed back Jubilee's hair. "I am sorry for upsetting you. It is nothing, really. I have simply had an... odd day."
  
  Remy did not particularly like the sound of that. Ororo never had "odd" days. A faint rumble passed over the Mansion.
  
  "They're back," she said, gazing up at the ceiling, and then, softer, "This will be interesting."
  
  Jubilee gave her a hard look. "You can stop with the riddles now."
  
  "Yes, I can," she said. "Come, let us go and greet our friends."
  
  Remy glanced at jubilee and found her looking back at him in confusion. He sympathized completely. Something had happened while they were gone, and for some reason Ororo was reluctant to talk about it.
  
  He hoped Rogue was all right. Their relationship continued to confuse him, but what he did know—the only thing he could be certain of—was that she was a friend. Quite possibly more than a friend, and if anything happened to her it would make a hole in his heart that he was not certain would ever fill up.
  
  Better to keep her safe. Remy did not care for heartbreak.
  
  He followed Ororo to the hangar, Jubilee close at his side. He did not bother telling her to go away, that this— whatever it was that had Ororo concerned—was for adults only. Jubilee was fifteen going on thirty, and Remy knew of few adults who had seen or done as much as she had in her short life. Besides, he knew quite well she would rather cough up her right lung than miss greeting Wolverine.
  
  He was already off the jet when they arrived at the hangar, jubilee raced across the concrete floor and flung herself in his arms for a giant hug.
  
  "Hey!" she said, shameless. "You kick some butt?"
  
  "Sure," Logan said, smiling. Remy was not entirely certain he liked that smile. It seemed... different, somehow. Brittle. Jubilee did not appear to notice.
  
  Scott and Jean walked off the jet together, as did Kurt and Rogue. Remy called out a greeting to her, but she did not respond. At least, not in the way she usually did. She met his gaze only briefly, and then ducked her head with a shy smile and stared at the ground. Kurt nudged her—once, twice—until she lifted her chin. It looked like a struggle, though, as if all Rogue's great confidence had been stolen from her heart.
  
  "Ma cherie," he said, drawing near. "What happened?"
  
  Rogue swallowed hard. Kurt said, "She touched someone at the mental hospital. It... affected her. She's been like this ever since."
  
  "You should have called," Remy told him. "What were you thinking?"
  
  "She's not hurt," Kurt said. "She'll come out of it."
  
  Remy did not like his tone. It was far too flippant, given the seriousness of the situation. Rogue had corne in contact with the worst that humanity had to offer. If some patient in a mental hospital could hurt her this badly— make her retreat from the world inside her mind—he did not want to imagine how she had suffered in that initial touch of skin to skin.
  
  "Why?" he asked Kurt. "Why was she touching anyone?"
  
  "I don't know," Kurt said. "We split up."
  
  It was a lie. Remy could taste the untruth; see it in the unsteady flicker of Kurt's golden gaze. He reached for Rogue's gloved hand and she did not pull away as was her habit She let him tug her close. She stood very stiff in his arms, but he expected nothing less and rubbed her back. Rogue's auburn hair gleamed under the hangar floodlights, the white streak especially bright.
  
  "Shhh, now," he whispered. "It will be all right, chere. We'll get you feeling better in no time."
  
  Get her feeling better—and in the process find out just what the hell had happened in Seattle. He felt sick, thinking about it Anything that would turn Kurt into a liar—
  
  Remy found him staring. "What is it?"
  
  Kurt blinked, breaking eye contact His blue tail curled tight around his leg. "Nothing," he said, and Remy realized for the first time that his accent seemed less pronounced.
  
  Movement caught his eye; Scott shaking his head. Jean stood beside him. She looked different, somehow. Harder. The Jean he knew, the one who baked cookies on Saturday nights or warmed milk for the students, was not the same woman he saw now. This Jean, with her mouth set in a flat line and her eyes narrow and dull, did not look as though she would care for children at all.
  
  "Please, Scott?" Ororo asked.
  
  "No," Remy heard Scott say. "Jean and I would like to rest awhile before we give you our report."
  
  Ororo did not look pleased. "I have some concerns," she said, but Jean had already begun walking to the door, and Scott followed close behind.
  
  "Later," he said. "I promise."
  
  "No," Remy called out. "What happened to Rogue? Who did she touch to make her this way?"
  
  No one answered him. Rogue pulled away from his embrace. Giving him a shy smile, she left him standing by the jet. He did not chase her, but instead watched as she and Kurt—tail uncurling long enough to lash the air-followed Scott and Jean from the hangar. Wolverine, after patting Jubilee on the head, followed them with an odd slow swagger in his hips. It seemed to him that Wolverine—though always taciturn—was especially silent.
  
  "Did Wolvie just... pet me like a dog?" Jubilee asked, when the five X-Men were gone and the door had shut behind them.
  
  "Something's wrong," Remy said, unable to shake the feel of Rogue in his arms, that look on her face: so shy, so fragile, not the woman he knew at all. Kurt, too, with his shifting eyes.
  
  Ororo said nothing. She stared at the door, mouth pressed into a hard line. Remy felt the gentle brush of some impossible breeze, scented rain within the confines of concrete and steel. Jubilee shivered, and stepped closer to him.
  
  "Do not worry," Ororo said quietly. "We will have the truth. One way, or another."