text: For several days, storm spent most of her time in Professor Xavier's office. The psychic dampeners gave her a sense of security she could not find elsewhere in the Mansion, and while Remy's portable dampeners were another comfort, the large airy room continued to be the only place she felt safe. She blamed it on the lingering presence of the professor, that sense she always had around him that everything would be fine, that the answer to all life's difficulties was always close, part of every person.
  
  She told herself those same things whenever Scott and Jean or the other three X-Men came to see her and inquired about certain things going on the school. Like why hadn't Storm cleared the field trip before allowing the children to run willy-nilly through the city, and why was she in this room all the time—it must be stifling, come out, come out, and play.
  
  Ororo did not feel like playing, and there was something in the way Jean looked when she asked the question that gave her the unsettling sensation that she meant another kind of play entirely. One that would be inappropriate and utterly unappreciated by her husband.
  
  And her roses continued to die.
  
  Of course, it also occurred to her that she was completely overexaggerating and that all these differences she sensed—subtle, inexplicable—were simply figments of her imagination. Figments, too, of Gambit and Jubilee's minds. After all, the three of them did have similar backgrounds, having grown up on the streets, victim to the various humiliations and desperations associated with such hard living. Maybe they suffered from a shared psychosis, some paranoid delusion as a result of that experience.
  
  Or maybe their friends really weren't the same people.
  
  "They're not the same people," Jubilee said, during one of their brief meetings inside Xavier's office. The girl was painting her nails and popping gum, although there was a darkness in her eyes that bothered Ororo— a heaviness of spirit that she had never thought to see in Jubilee.
  
  "You still think they have been... body-snatched?"
  
  Jubilee looked up from her nails. Her eyes were hard. "Yes, Ororo. I do." And then she relaxed, the darkness melted away, and Ororo no longer knew if it was a mask or the real girl when she said, "Dude. I know you're still on that trauma kick, but have you even asked Jean or Kurt if anything bad happened?"
  
  "Yes. They... didn't give me any details."
  
  "Then there wasn't any trauma. Those two can't keep their mouths shut around you. It's like, you show up and they start going a mile a minute. Blah, blah, blah."
  
  Ororo narrowed her eyes. "Must I remind you, Jubilee, that you are speaking to an elder? You should be a little more polite."
  
  Again, Jubilee stopped painting her nails and gave her a look that was far too old. Remy said, "If anyone acts traumatized, it's Rogue. She hasn't talked once since her return."
  
  "Body-snatched," Jubilee said. "She has a nefarious purpose."
  
  "I think she is genuine. The others?" He waved his hand. "Je ne sais pas."
  
  "Could they be shape-shifters, then?" Ororo wondered out loud. "Are our friends being held captive somewhere else?"
  
  "If they are shape-shifters, they're really bad at the whole impersonation thing," Jubilee said. "Do you know what I saw this morning? Wolvie in the gym, standing in front of the mirror, ogling his body. Do you have any idea how disturbing that was?"
  
  "Non," Remy said, dry. "What don' you tell us, ma petite"
  
  "But before you do," Ororo said, cutting her off, "I want to know if you two have learned anything about Seatde."
  
  "Nada. Scott—" Jubilee stopped, swallowing hard. "Scott made some dinky little voice records a day or two before coming back. Something about how they still hadn't found what they were looking for, but they were going to the hospital that night to look around."
  
  "Which hospital?"
  
  "Belmont, Belvue-"
  
  "Belldonne," Remy said. "We called. They said no one fittin' their descriptions had stopped to ask questions, or been seen. They weren't really talkative, though. Seems they lost some of their patients recently. Police are out lookin' for them."
  
  "No relation to our people?"
  
  "Don' see how."
  
  "Unless Wolvie and the others were transferred into their bodies and they've made their break."
  
  Ororo looked at her. "Do Scott and the others act mentally unwell?"
  
  Jubilee shared a quick glance with Remy.
  
  "Mentally unwell?" she said. "How about Scott accusing Remy of having sex with me just because he saw us together?"
  
  "Talking," Remy clarified. "Together talking. And he didn't exactly accuse us of sex."
  
  Jubilee gave him a look. "He was a total pervert, Remy."
  
  Ororo covered her mouth. "How could he? Scott knows better."
  
  "Exactly," Jubilee said.
  
  Ororo sat back, stunned. Remy said, "You should know, 'Ro. None of those who came back refueled the jet."
  
  "What?"
  
  "Don' worry," he said. "I did it. But I did check the levels and matched them to those lil' numbers Scott likes to keep about how much fuel we burn, dependin' on the distance. There wasn't enough gas in that tank, cherie. Not by a long shot."
  
  "What are you trying to say, Remy? They went somewhere else first?"
  
  He shrugged. "Seems that way to me. Unless someone on that plane dumped some fuel or started getting a taste for it in their drinks."
  
  "What kind of diversion from the flight schedule are we discussing?"
  
  "At least a hundred miles. Not far in the Blackbird, but it burns the gas all the same."
  
  Ororo slumped back in her chair. This was looking quite bad.
  
  "Yo," Jubilee said. "We still have another problem. Bobby and the others aren't answering their cell phones. I've been trying to reach them and all I get is a busy signal. Now, Bobby is a big talker, but still. You were having the same issue with the Professor, right?"
  
  "I have been in the control room, but I can find nothing wrong."
  
  "I also looked for the problem," Remy said. "Dug deep, too. There's nothing wrong wit' the system, which means it's an outside source causin' the problem. I think they're using one of our scramblers."
  
  "Scramblers" were a useful tool that Hank McCoy had invented for those missions when the team wanted to be sure that no one could call out from a particular location. It supposedly scrambled all communication devices, though Ororo had never actually seen it used.
  
  "I checked the lab," Remy said. "I don't know exactly how many Hank kept around, but there's an empty spot on the shelf. Worse yet, they must have found a way to patch into our private cell-phone network, because I tried makin' calls from town, at a pay phone, and still got nothin' but busy."
  
  Troublesome, because all the scattered X-Men still on active duty relied totally on those cell phones to keep in touch with the school. Not that anyone would be making the effort, or even notice that something was wrong. A little busy signal, if you yourself were not having an emergency, was just an annoyance.
  
  "Dude," Jubilee murmured, for the first time looking afraid. "They must think we're totally stupid not to notice something's going on. That, or they think they can take us."
  
  "I do not know," Ororo said, deeply disturbed. "They have been keeping their own distance from us, except on those rare occasions when Scott thinks I have done something out of the ordinary and comes to check on me."
  
  "I think Scott did that with me and Remy," Jubilee said.
  
  Ororo stood and began pacing. To sit any longer felt claustrophobic, as though the desk in front of her already pinned her legs and the walls, those walls of her life, were settling down upon her shoulders, suffocating her.
  
  "All right," she said. "So something is wrong with our teammates. They might, or might not, have been... taken over. Whoever this entity is, has done a good enough job insuring that they know enough to pass, at least superficially."
  
  "Mebbe they know more than that," Remy said, solemn. "If they could fly the Blackbird and find—and rig—one of Hank's scramblers, then we got security issues. Files, contacts.... Cerebro."
  
  "Cerebro's cool," Jubilee said, screwing the cap back on her polish. Both adults stared at her, waiting. She blew on her nails.
  
  Remy coughed. "Ma petite?"
  
  "Yeah? Oh, I mean, I took care of it. First thing. 'Cause, you know, body snatchers and long-range psychic enhancers aren't a good combination."
  
  Ororo had trouble speaking. "You... took care of it?"
  
  'Yes. You guys think I never learned anything when I was hanging out with Hank? Last time he tuned up Cerebro, he blabbed for like an hour on all the different weak spots in the wiring and casing and how it was going to take him at least a month to fix them." She grinned. "Heh. It's gonna take him longer now."
  
  Remy planted a hard kiss on top of Jubilee's head. She batted him away. Ororo covered her mouth.
  
  "Very good," she said. "Though I sincerely hope we are able to salvage whatever wreckage you left behind."
  
  "Looks the same on the outside, and the inside is just missing some guts. If these jokers don't know enough to imitate Wolvie to the letter, they're not going to be able to fix Cerebro."
  
  "If they wished to use it. Their purpose may be quite different."
  
  "Sure, whatever. I just want to get the real deals back."
  
  "Maybe they are already there, and simply cannot act. They can listen, but nothing more. Utterly suppressed."
  
  Which was the preferred possibility, because anything else meant that their friends might be lost forever. Minds, after all, could not stay adrift in the wind and remain whole. At least, she did not think so. The X-Men, on occasion, defied logic in their ability to survive extraordinary circumstances.
  
  "So, what? We try to break through to them?"
  
  "Non," Remy said firmly. "Petite, I want you to stay away from Wolverine for a while. At least until we figure this out."
  
  "Remy-"
  
  "I'm serious." He glanced at Ororo. "Isn't there some event we're supposed to attend tomorrow?"
  
  "A mutant-rights march in New York. I do not think we will be going."
  
  "And Scott and the others?"
  
  "I cannot say for certain, but they haven't left the Mansion since they returned. I would assume they will not leave tomorrow."
  
  "Which means that what they want is here."
  
  "So are we going to take them out?" Jubilee asked.
  
  Ororo hesitated. "I would like to know more before we make any efforts to control them. It is possible there is no need for violence, that this is something that can be resolved through negotiation. Whatever 'this' is. I still feel quite confused by the situation."
  
  "There's not much to be confused with," Remy said. "We have a problem. Mebbe we can't define the problem, but it's there, an' it looks exactly like five of the most powerful mutants on this planet."
  
  "You think we're next?" Jubilee asked. "I mean, not that they'd go after me, 'cause I'm just a kid or whatever. But... I don't want to lose myself."
  
  Ororo could not answer that. Remy, very gently, said, "I think they would've done that by now if they could, ma petite. An' I know I'm still me. Got every confidence in both of you, too."
  
  For now, Ororo thought.
  
  There was nothing more to discuss. Remy and jubilee left the office, presumably to continue investigating on the sly. She was sorry to see them go; she worried for their safety. Hers, too. It was maddening, being unable to pinpoint anything concrete, a specific action that she could see with her own eyes that was wrong. Yes, the Blackbird had not been refueled, yes, the phones were down—all their phones—and yes, the behavior of their friends was... off. Ororo could not deceive herself. She was wearing a psychic dampener, after all, and had silently applauded Jubilee's foresight in breaking Cerebro. She avoided Scott and the others as much as they seemed to be avoiding her. All of them, dancing on eggshells, hoping the other side did not notice how much they really knew.
  
  Which, when Ororo thought about all the wicked men and women they had dealt with in the past, did not seem very professional at all. Possession was a subtle art, but once employed, either continued to be subtle, flawless, or went to the other extreme: utterly radical behavior that screamed "wrong." None of that was present in this situation. If the X-Men had been possessed or replaced, they were dealing with an amateur, one who knew just enough to be dangerous, but not in any way perfect.
  
  For a moment, she thought about their students, if any one of them could be abusing his or her powers. The children were safely away in New York on a field trip to end all field trips, but they had still been present when the five team members left for Seattle—the assumption being that whatever had transpired to alter them had taken place during that trip.
  
  Ororo squeezed shut her eyes. Her head ached. Air-fresh air—that was what she needed. Perhaps a walk would make her feel better, clear her head for inspiration.
  
  She turned on the psychic dampener, a sticky little device that Remy had planted behind her ear. She was going to talk to him one of these days about where he found such things. The dampener—along with the rest of his toys—was far too advanced to belong to any place but the military or some highly specialized research lab... and no doubt actual mutants had been used to test the thing. Not that she was going to tear it off in protest.
  
  Without the children around, the Mansion felt eerily quiet. It had been like this once before, in the years when the school had admitted only a select few, when it was less of a school than a front for clandestine activities. Sometimes Ororo missed those days, but she could not deny the joy she took in raising the next generation to be strong and educated and unafraid in the use of their abilities. Everyone had the potential for greatness. It was merely her job to make sure that the young people in her care took advantage of that, in the best ways possible.
  
  So she walked the lonely halls, unable to shake the sensation of being watched, and left the house for bright sunshine, green grass, the buzz of bees and the thrush of hummingbirds, zipping through the garden. She passed the vegetable plots first—a school project, to teach the children the value of the food they ate. Ororo, having grown up hungry and in a country where famines were common, thought it important that no one take for granted the bounty set before them.
  
  Of course, she herself had never been forced to grow her supper. What she needed, she stole. Which was easier and much more fun. Not very ethical, though, and she was trying to set a good example.
  
  Past the vegetables, she entered a wild labyrinth of stone paths and overgrown flowers, bursting with fragrant blooms. Every now and then, Ororo stopped to pull moisture from the air, generating localized rain and mist to aid those plants whose leaves drooped, or curled up, brittle with thirst. She was quite intent on this—as well as the pleasure of being distracted—when she noticed movement from the corner of her eye.
  
  Red hair shining in the sunlight. Ororo waved her hand and the rain cloud hanging above the petunias disappeared. She followed Jean.
  
  She did not have to go far. She stopped on the edge of the garden and watched as Jean sat on a stone bench. Ororo's roses grew nearby; her Geminis and Red Rubies, the Blue Teas, Moonlight Maidens, the Bonny Bonnets and Isle Stars; formerly lovely and now drooping, petals shucking into the grass, stems flaccid like string.
  
  Suspicious, suspicious—all her trouble had begun with the roses. Ororo was half convinced that if they had not begun dying, none of this, her problems with the other members of the team, would have taken place. The students would still be here, Jubilee would be getting into trouble of an entirely different sort, and the house would feel safe and normal.
  
  Jean did not appear to notice Ororo's presence. She had a book in her hands, but sat too far away for a clear view of the title. She seemed, for the most part, to be enjoying the sun, the quiet solitude. Ororo wondered, once again, if she was overreacting. Surely this was not the action of someone possessed, or plotting harm?
  
  And then, so slow she almost missed seeing it, she noticed her dying roses droop even more. All her roses, that shriveled decaying line of them, moving as one like a descending curtain, blossoms and stems sinking even lower, leaves curling up with a brittleness second only to shriveled mummy lips.
  
  And there, in the center of that silent death, sat Jean with her book, and a very small smile on her face.
  
  Long ago, while they were still alive, Jubilee's parents told her that every person in the world had three things they were good at. Three things all their own, however small, that no one could do better than them. Jubilee's mother, for example, could cook dumplings like no other, play mah-jongg like a gambling queen, and chew out her father like nobody's business. Jubilee missed her mom.
  
  Jubilee, on the other hand, had a rotating list of her best three things—rotating because, heck, she was only fifteen and learning new stuff everyday. And besides, three was such a limiting number.
  
  At the moment, number one was stealth. She could do stealth like the Invisible Woman—all whoa, that chick is gone. Number two on her list was sheer crazy stubbornness. When she wanted something, there wasn't a force on earth that could change her mind—except maybe Wolvie—which brought her to number three: She was the only person in the world who could reach that man when he went all "Grrr" and acted like an animal. Berserker rage? Not a problem. Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse? Easy.
  
  Which meant that Remy, as much as she liked him, did not know anything about her and Wolverine, and there was no way, nohow, she was going to stay away from him if there was any possibility he was still in there, fighting for a way out.
  
  She could do it. She could reach him. She tried not to think about Scott. Her powers of conviction, however strong and unearthly, were limited only to Wolvie, and until she got him back, she could not risk his impersonator—or controller—knowing that she was on to him. All she could do was be present, a focal point, and let her friend do the rest.
  
  As long as he was in there, of course. Jubilee preferred the idea that he was. She did not want to think about the alternative. The alternative... hurt too much.
  
  She found him in the gym, which seemed to be his new hangout of choice.
  
  "Hey," Jubilee said, watching him watch himself as he did a set of biceps curls in front of the mirror.
  
  "Hey," he said, not even sparing her a glance. She wandered over to the weight rack and picked out a twenty-pound barbell. Sat down beside Wolvie and began curling. She got tired after the first three, and had to lift the weight with both hands. That got his attention.
  
  "You're puny," he said, and his voice seemed lighter than usual. No gruff growls, no deep-throated rumbles.
  
  And he was calling her puny? Her?
  
  Body-snatched, she reminded herself, taking a deep breath.
  
  She smiled and said, "I guess I need to work out more. I'm more of a gymnast, anyway."
  
  He looked her over. 'Yeah, I can see that. You're skinny enough for it, I guess. Thought those kinds of girls were tough as steel, though. Twenty pounds shouldn't be any problem."
  
  "We use a different kind of strength," she said, unlocking her jaw so she didn't grind her teeth right out of her gums.
  
  "Whatever," he said. "You want to show me some moves?"
  
  Anything to keep him interested. She took off her jacket and moved to the wide mat. Took a deep breath and then executed a series of jumps and somersaults that had the world spinning, her body feeling like it could fly.
  
  "Interesting," he said, wandering over. "You look fast."
  
  This entire conversation was wrong. If Jubilee had not been convinced before that something was off with Logan, then the last few minutes had finally cemented it in her head. Even during those first days of their acquaintance, hiding out from the Reavers at that base in the Australian outback, he had never patronized her. Not like this.
  
  For one brief moment she felt afraid, but she pushed it away, unwilling to let herself entertain the possibility that even the body of this man could be used to hurt her. If Wolvie—her Wolvie—was really in there, he would stop it. He would stop his possessor, his impersonator, from hurting her. Because that was the kind of man he was. Logan moved heaven and earth to help his friends when they needed him.
  
  And maybe, just maybe, that was what he needed. Some motivation.
  
  "I'm really fast," Jubilee said. "Faster than you."
  
  "Really." Logan smirked. "I doubt that."
  
  "Yeah?" Jubilee bounced on her toes. "You wanna bet? I say, if we spar right now, I'll kick your butt. Big time."
  
  The smirk faded. "I don't think so, kid."
  
  "Chicken? Afraid you'll lose to someone so... puny?"
  
  His expression changed, and suddenly, Jubilee was quite certain this was a bad idea. As in, the I'm-gonna-die kind of bad. She wasn't going to back down, though. Not when Wolvie needed her.
  
  And if he's not in there?
  
  That was just a chance she would have to take. If the situation was reversed, she knew he would do the same for her.
  
  There was no warning except that look in Logan's eyes, and it was good she paid attention because when he leapt at her, his claws out, it took every bit of speed and agility in her body to keep from getting stabbed. Shocking, that killing stroke. A part of her never expected it.
  
  Jubilee blasted him in the face with a series of plasma bursts, but he shrugged off the fireworks and kept coming, There was nothing coordinated about his movements—Logan, when they sparred, was all about playing dirty to teach her the best defenses—but this, this was worse because it was driven solely by some crazy rage and she could not predict his movements. Even when Logan went berserk, there was always a pattern to the way he fought, some indefinable brutal grace. Not now. Now he was a rabid caveman, with swords sticking out of his knuckles.
  
  "Wolvie!" she cried out, ducking under his wildly swinging arm. She threw fireworks in his face, plasma blasts that ignited and burned his skin, but it was nothing, nothing at all, and he screamed at her and the voice was different, higher, the accent like a woman—which was wrong, really wrong—and he came at her again fast and she stumbled, distracted, because she was still thinking about that voice and he scratched her with his claws, cutting right through her shirt so that she felt blood well past the pain and then he was on her again and she rolled but he caught her, flipped her up, and straddled her stomach.
  
  She blasted him in the face but not with everything she had, because this was still Wolvie and even though she was categorically terrified, she could not bring herself to burn his face off no matter how much he currently deserved it. He shrugged off her blast, parts of him leaking blood and other fluids, and sheathed his claws to catch her wrists. He pinned her down on the ground.
  
  "There are some things I've been wanting to try with this body," he whispered, flecking her face with his spit. "Maybe I'll start with you."
  
  "Wolvie?" she whispered, staring into those hateful eyes, seeking some sign of the man who was like a father to her, the one person in the world she trusted with her life. She looked and looked, and for the first time, allowed herself to believe that he might not be there.
  
  His fist slammed down into her face.