text: They walked quickly, keeping to alleys and side streets as they crossed from residential neighborhoods into industrial parks. Night in the dead zone between Tacoma and Seattle was quiet, filled only with the occasional rumble of a car engine or the shout of some drunk making friends with a bottle.
  
  "It's a good ten miles between here and downtown Seattle," Logan said. It was difficult for Jean to listen to him when he sounded like a woman. Or maybe a better word was "eerie." If she did not look at him, if she pretended hard enough, she could almost convince herself that Logan was still a man and that his voice, with its same gruff growl, was the product of some terrible helium accident.
  
  With Scott it was different. She could not yet pretend with him.
  
  "That will take us all night," Kurt said. Rogue walked close beside him; Jean thought it was in case his leg gave out. He was trying not to limp, but she remembered that blow to his knee, his high cry.
  
  "Yeah," Logan said, and Jean knew there would be no discussion about whether Kurt could handle the distance.
  
  They had to keep moving; first, to locate Jonas Maguire, and if that proved unfruitful, then somehow to find a way home, and fast.
  
  Scott brushed up against her side. She glanced down at him—and oh, that was strange, being taller than her husband—and said, "Hey."
  
  "Hey," Scott said softly. "How are you feeling?"
  
  "Okay," she said, sensing his discomfort. Her voice sounded loud in the quiet of night, and she slowed her pace, creating some distance between themselves and the others. "How about you?"
  
  He smiled, grim, and ran his fingers through his hair. A familiar gesture, one that made her heart jump, her stomach twist. She reached out and touched his face. Just a slip of her fingers against his cheek. Her hand was large and dark against his pale skin, but it was becoming her hand, her body, and though startling, she could breathe now when she looked at herself. She could accept her new form, even if she desperately wanted her old one back.
  
  Scott's breath caught. Jean said, "Close your eyes," and he did. She brushed her fingers against his lips, running them across his throat, and he swallowed hard.
  
  "It's still me," she whispered, aware they were falling even farther behind the others. She did not care. She had to make sure he understood, that whatever else happened, he could live with the changes between them. She hoped it was not permanent, but if it was... oh, God, if...
  
  Scott opened his eyes. Brown eyes, rich dark eyes. Not his eyes, though. Jean wished they were. He grabbed her hand, held it against his face, and said, "I know."
  
  Do you, really? Jean wondered, aching for her powers, that sweet comfort of knowing his thoughts. A burden, too, but now that she was without the ability, she knew better than to take it for granted. She was appalled, too, at how vulnerable she felt without her gifts. Surely, she was stronger than this. She had to be.
  
  A smile flickered across Scott's mouth. Jean said, "What?"
  
  He shrugged, and tucked her much larger arm against his side. "It's... funny. There's no way in the world anyone could mistake you for my wife—"
  
  "Oh, really," Jean drawled.
  
  "—but there is something of you in this man you're wearing. I can see it. I can see it so clearly when you look at me."
  
  Jean smiled, and this time it was genuine: a first, since waking up in her new body. Scott gazed up at her and quietly said, "There. There it is. My Jean."
  
  She did not know how much she needed to hear diose words; she took a deep breath, savoring the unexpected looseness in her chest, her gut, and held on to the look in his eyes, trying to memorize the moment so it would always stay fresh inside her heart.
  
  "Scott," she said. "What if I stay like this? What if we're both... stuck?"
  
  He did not look away. "Do you know who I am, Jean?"
  
  She smiled. "Is that a trick question?"
  
  Scott stopped walking. He reached up and touched her cheek, brushing his thumb over her lips. Jean wanted to close her eyes, to pretend he wore a different face, but that would be a disservice, and Scott's eyes were open. He was not pretending.
  
  He drew close, and this time it was Scott who fit into her body, Scott who was small and lithe and feminine, and his small hand touched the back of her neck. They both hesitated, staring at each other: those strange faces housing familiar hearts.
  
  "You don't have to," Jean finally said, when the silence stretched too long.
  
  "I know," he said, "but I want to. You're still my wife, Jean."
  
  He stood on his toes, and Jean bent down and closed her eyes. He kissed her, soft, on the lips. His mouth felt odd, but the passion was still there, and after a moment she gave herself over to the comfort of being touched by the person she loved.
  
  It did not last. She heard footsteps, a low sigh.
  
  "We don't have time for this," Logan muttered.
  
  "Shut up," Scott said. "We're having a moment here."
  
  "You can take a whole year for all I care, but not until we're someplace safe. Come on, Cyke. Don't make me be the voice of reason in this outfit. We're already screwed up enough."
  
  "He's got a point," Jean said. "Cyke."
  
  Scott gave her a dirty look. Logan, showing a remarkable degree of restraint, said nothing at all. He turned and walked back to Kurt and Rogue, who waited quietly beneath a scraggly tree, one of many that lined the broken sidewalk; no doubt part of an old project meant to greenify a section of the city that was, even at night, extraordinarily dour. Kurt leaned against the narrow tree trunk, rubbing his leg. He stopped when the others got close.
  
  "How are you doing?" Scott asked him.
  
  Kurt straightened, throwing Rogue a wry smile. "We were just discussing that, mein freund. I will be fine."
  
  "Right," Rogue muttered. "His knee is popping every time he straightens his leg."
  
  Scott frowned. "You've made it this far. Can you keep going?"
  
  "I must," Kurt said, and then waved his hands in the air. "Ach, don't look so concerned. I am not crippled. It could be worse."
  
  Could be, and probably would be, after this night. They had no money, no transportation other than what their feet could provide them. Jean said nothing, though. She did not imagine hitchhiking was an option, not in this part of town and not at night.
  
  "Screw it," Logan muttered, and stalked off down the street.
  
  "Logan?" Jean said. She ran after him. "Logan, what are you doing?"
  
  "What I should have done earlier," he said. "But I was trying to be decent. Forget that."
  
  He stopped beside an old Chevy van parked at the side of the street and began looking at the ground, which was littered with debris.
  
  "Go get the others, Jeannie," he said, picking up a rock.
  
  No need. Everyone was already close behind, looking puzzled but not terribly surprised by Logan's outburst.
  
  "Logan," Scott said slowly, looking at the rock in his hand. Logan flashed them a quick grin and then in one smooth motion smashed the rock through the drivers-side window of the van. The glass shattered.
  
  "So much for being subtle." Scott watched the street around them, jean listened, but heard no one stirring inside the nearby buildings. She doubted that would last.
  
  "Don't get your panties in a twist." Logan reached through the broken window to unlock the door. He climbed in and leaned over to open the passenger side. "Everyone, move it."
  
  "You know," Scott said, remaining still, "hot-wiring cars only works in the movies."
  
  "Then you must be really bad at it." Logan grabbed a large piece of broken glass and used it to pry off the old plastic dash beside the wheel. Jean grabbed Scott's arm and steered him to the other side of the van, where Rogue and Kurt were already buckling into the large backseat. Scott grabbed the front; Jean joined the others, sliding the door shut behind her. The interior smelled like beer and cigarettes.
  
  Logan found two wires and stripped them with a sharp edge of glass. Scott rummaged through the glove compartment. Jean, too, cast around the back of the van, looking for anything useful. All she found were some worn Playboys and a pair of very dirty underwear. Jean nudged the soiled boxers with her foot. Rogue shook her head.
  
  She heard popping sounds accompanied by colorful language. The van's engine roared to life and Logan shifted gears, pulling away from the curb. He blew on his fingers.
  
  "I feel so guilty," Kurt said. "What if stealing this car ruins some man's life?" He glanced out the back window. Jean looked, too. The street was dark and empty.
  
  "Say some prayers for him," Logan replied. The wind rushing through the broken window whipped blond hair across his chubby face. He brushed it away impatiently. A hard-nosed little brat, Jean thought fondly. Logan looked like the kind of girl who could nurse a kitten back to health and then rip the face off a trucker, all in one breath. Which was entirely accurate, considering what Jean knew of the man inside that woman's body.
  
  "Where does jonas Maguire live?" Jean asked.
  
  "Old Victoria Hill," Scott said.
  
  "Like I said, I know the area," Logan said. "It's on the north end of downtown. Real ritzy. We're gonna stand out, looking like we do."
  
  "This is Seattle," Jean said. "Besides, we don't look that bad."
  
  Logan said nothing, though she sensed he disagreed. He pulled onto the freeway. Jean saw the first flicker of downtown lights, the edge of the ocean pushing up against the city shore. Boats, headlights shining, trawled slowly through the waters. The air rushing into the van suddenly felt colder; it smelled like salt, the chemicals of hard industry.
  
  "I still don't get how this Doc Maguire could have had anything to do with our situation." Rogue drummed her fingers against the faux-leather seat. "What kind of beef would some psychologist in a mental hospital have with the X-Men?"
  
  "The better question is why some psychologist who's rich enough to be living in Old Victoria would be working at a dump like Belldonne."
  
  "A good conscience?" Kurt suggested.
  
  Logan grunted. "A good conscience doesn't pay the mortgage, Elf. Not in this town, anyway."
  
  "He was there for at least a year," Scott said. "Working full-time, with a concentrated focus on the most troublesome patients in the ward. Namely, us. Our bodies. Based on what I overheard, the doctor practically made us well. That's why not many of the nurses took him seriously when he told them to restrain us."
  
  Rogue shook her head. "He obviously didn't do so great by me, or did I imagine all those stories?"
  
  "What stories?" Logan asked.
  
  "The previous occupant of Rogue's body became very creative with the use of her undergarments," Kurt said, dodging Rogue's fist. "Particularly with me."
  
  "Right," Logan said.
  
  They drove in silence until Logan pulled off the freeway, and then followed the road into a quiet business district shadowed by the tall towers of downtown Seattle. Jean guessed it must be near four in the morning; the sidewalks were empty except for a few lumpy bodies curled on cardboard flats. Jean imagined herself as one of those people, forced to sleep on the street, and swallowed hard.
  
  "That looks like Japanese," Scott said, pointing out a large sign plastered against an old brick building. Jean looked closer and noticed quite a few billboards written in Asian languages; there were restaurants, too, neon signs spicing up windows with names like HONEY COURT PALACE and DRAGON PEARL, Jean's stomach growled. Rogue glanced at her, and the two women shared a knowing look. Their snacking at the house had not gone far, but until they had money, it would be longer yet until they saw food.
  
  "We're in Chinatown," Logan said. "Or the International District, however politically correct you want to get."
  
  "Why are we here?" Scott asked.
  
  "Gotta change cars, Cyke. At least our plates, but a car would be better. Something a little nicer for when we go into Old Victoria."
  
  "It's four in the morning," Jean protested. "Surely no one will pay attention."
  
  "The cops will, and excuse me for saying so, darlin', but none of us have ID, and the car we're driving screams 'poor.' I don't care how progressive this city is supposed to be, we go marching up like that, in one big group, and someone is going to ask questions. If nothing else, they'll look twice, and we don't want that."
  
  Jean blew out her breath. "You're paranoid, Logan."
  
  "No, I'm realistic. I've been in the gutter and I've been on top, and let me tell you, Jeannie, it ain't no picnic being on the bottom. When you got nothing, some people feel like they can treat you like nothing. We've got too much at stake to take a risk on something like that."
  
  "Ach," Kurt said softly. "Just leave us behind, then. If we are such a burden, then let us off in some safe place and we will wait for you to go check out this Jonas Maguire's home. That would be easier, ja? But no more stealing cars, Logan. Even that has risk."
  
  For a moment, Jean thought Logan looked sorry. Scott, glancing at him, said, "I don't like the idea of us being separated. We have no way of communicating with each other—"
  
  Rogue jumped in. "And all we have right now is each other."
  
  "But," Scott continued, as Jean knew he would, "Logan has a point. As a group, we attract attention."
  
  "And I sure as hell don't want to break into a man's home with a crowd," Logan added.
  
  "So, what? You leave us behind in some back alley, twiddling our thumbs while you run out and save the day? Logan—"
  
  "This is not about Logan, and this is not about saving the day," Scott interrupted. "This is about survival, Rogue. We are in deep trouble, and this Dr. Maguire may know why. Anything that improves our odds of getting in and out of his house without detection, and anything that gets us home in one piece we will do, no matter how much it hurts our pride."
  
  "Scott," Jean said. He ignored her, turning around in his seat to look out the window. A breathless silence filled the van, a waiting silence, and if Jean still had her powers, Scott's head would be full of words instead of this speechless isolation.
  
  But that was the problem. Jean wondered if she and her husband even knew how to communicate with the spoken word; for so long they had relied on her telepathy to know every nuance of the other's soul, and now—now—
  
  It hurt and she could not make it better, because now was not the time for fighting, nor would she ever fight in public with Scott. Not when they were on a mission and the others needed to have confidence in his decisions. Her anger never trumped her loyalty.
  
  "Logan," Scott said quietly. "Find a safe place to park the van."
  
  "Yeah," he said, glancing over his shoulder at Jean, "I got that."
  
  Logan drove through narrow side streets that emptied into the heart of downtown; a landscape of artful steel and glass, towering over elegant facades of stone and brick, all of which pushed upward along impossibly steep hills that had their stolen van gasping for breath. Jean feared she would have to jump out and push.
  
  "Gotta love these old engines," Logan said, patting the dashboard. "Come on, baby."
  
  He drove them out of downtown, passing through quiet neighborhoods; gently rolling streets lined with small comfortable homes and tiny yards, all of which ended abruptly on the edge of a large thoroughfare that took them on a winding path past the Seattle Space Needle, the park, and up yet more hills, up and up, until Logan pulled off the road into a small empty U-Park located beside some local shops, and stopped the car in the darkest corner farthest from the street.
  
  Jean saw two people huddled together in the nearby bushes. They lay on top of a blanket. She could not clearly see their faces, but she thought they watched the van.
  
  Logan unbuckled his seat belt. "We're in lower Old Victoria. Maguire's house is on Highland Avenue, which is about a mile from here at the top of the hill."
  
  "I can't imagine what you were doing on your last visit to know all these things," Rogue said. "I think you've got this entire city memorized."
  
  Logan shrugged. "I did some jobs. This and that. Point is, if I leave now, I should be back before it gets too light out."
  
  "I'm going with you," Scott said. "No arguments."
  
  "Fine." He did not look happy; Jean was surprised he did not put up more of a fight. Rogue, given the look on her face, was equally shocked.
  
  "So it's all right to bring him along?"
  
  Logan shrugged. "We're both chicks, Rogue. The only trouble we're going to attract is a drunk or a pervert. We look too innocent for anything else."
  
  "Oh, God help us all," Jean said.
  
  Rogue narrowed her eyes. "You're a sexist pig, Logan."
  
  "Oink." He climbed out of the car, but leaned back in before shutting the door. "You kids be good. No fighting."
  
  Scott turned and gave Jean such a grave look, she opened the back door and jumped out after him as he slid from the car. He had a tiny figure, his slender legs dangling over the pavement as he dropped from his seat to the ground. Jean towered over him.
  
  "What is it now?" she asked.
  
  Scott frowned and drew her away from the van. "There are a lot of unknowns about all this," he said in a low voice. "Our plan is solid, but you know how it is, Jean. Nothing is safe. If we're not back by midmoming— earlier, even—get out of here. Don't take the van. Clean it for prints, then walk away. Find a pay phone and keep calling the school until you get someone to listen to you."
  
  "I love it when you patronize me."
  
  "It's such a turn-on, right?"
  
  "Only for you," Jean said. "I don't like this."
  
  "Neither do I," Scott said, "but what do you want me to do? I won't risk all of us on something so chancy as breaking and entering. If anything goes wrong, the worst that happens is that Logan and I will be sent to jail or returned to the hospital. If you three are free, though, at least we still have a fighting chance of finding someone — Xavier, this Maguire—who can fix us."
  
  Jean sighed. Scott touched her hand, her cheek.
  
  "Come on, sweetheart. You know I'm right."
  
  "I don't know anything," Jean said, "but I'm too tired to argue with you. Go on, then. Go with Logan and be a cowboy for the night."
  
  "Cowgirl," Logan said, appearing beside them. It did not matter he no longer had his body or his mutant powers; he still moved silent as a ghost.
  
  "I keep forgetting that part," Scott said.
  
  "I can't imagine how," Jean said, shifting uncomfortably. Logan grinned, but Scott grabbed his arm and steered him away before he said anything inappropriate. Scott looked back over his shoulder and Jean tried to see her husband in that small feminine face, those large dark eyes.
  
  "Bye," he said. Jean did not respond. She turned around and climbed into the passenger seat of the van.
  
  "I hate this," Rogue said, but so quietly, so forlorn, that Jean could not bring herself to be irritated at her friend. "I don't like being left behind. I want to help."
  
  'Yes," Jean said, tapping her feet on the floor. "Logan made a good point, though. All of us together would draw attention. Two young women, though?" She shrugged. "Less threatening."
  
  "Really. Seems like a bunch of lousy stereotypes to me." Rogue pursed her lips; a familiar expression, much like the way she cracked her knuckles and then rubbed her arms, like she had something unpleasant under her skin. "I think Logan just likes playing it alone, but he's taking Scott along for the ride because he knows our fearless leader won't take no for an answer. We, on the other hand, are like a bunch of puppy dogs, sittin' pretty. Nice and obedient."
  
  Kurt stared. "You are truly angered by this. That...surprises me."
  
  "I don't know why," Rogue said. "Seems to me I got a right to be a little miffed. Some... jerk... steals our bodies, takes our lives, and I can't participate in bringing him down? Not even a little bit?"
  
  "No one is holding you here," Jean said, too tired to talk reason to her, especially when she agreed with everything Rogue said. "You can still catch up with them, if that's what you really want."
  
  Silence. Rogue shifted in her seat and lay back her head, staring at the van ceiling. Kurt patted her hand, saying nothing, but adding to the atmosphere a quiet sympathy that was gentle and comforting. Kurt had that way about him, no matter what he looked like.
  
  Jean thought about her own appearance, staring down at her hands as she leaned against the cold hard window. Dark brown skin covered large fingers and sinewy wrists, thickly muscled forearms that felt strong, and no doubt were; she felt her face, the bristles and thick jaw, the masculine features that were so utterly foreign. How strange, to know she was a woman, to feel like a woman, and yet be trapped in a man's body. She envied Rogue, and wondered just how Scott and Logan were handling their own displacement. Neither one had truly complained—not that they would—but it had to be just as strange and frightening.
  
  Jean listened to the sound of her borrowed heart, beating slow and sure inside the chest she wore. Like a costume made of flesh, one that she could never take off.
  
  Put inside this body because someone has a purpose for your face, your identity, and they cannot risk there being two of you.
  
  None of them talked. They sat and waited, lost in thought, until Jean noticed that the sky was beginning to lighten and that traffic on the street behind them had increased. Worry spiked her gut. She lifted her feet off the dashboard and got ready to leave the van. Maybe walk up the street just a ways, and see if she heard anything unusual. Police sirens, rushing to pick up her husband and his crazy companion.
  
  "Someone is coming," Kurt whispered. Rogue and Jean looked at him and he held up his hand. "Listen. There is a scuffing noise on the concrete."
  
  Jean listened, and after a moment, heard that light brush of footfall, even and unhurried. Only one, though.
  
  Logan would be silent, she told herself, but she did not open the door. A shadow appeared on the other side of her window. A man peered in. He had a nice suit jacket on, and his face was hard and thin.
  
  "Hello," he said.
  
  "Hello," Jean replied, wary of the look in his eye. He smiled, but it was cold, full of teeth. She could not see his hands.
  
  "I've been watching you for a while. There a reason you're parked here this time of morning?" he asked.
  
  "Is there a law that says I can't park here?"
  
  "Maybe. Depends on the why, and those girls you're waiting on."
  
  "Girls?"
  
  The man rubbed his chin. "I got a little something going on down the street. This is a high-class neighborhood, you know? Takes a certain kind of girl, a certain kind of connection and know-how. You're doing it all wrong; the car, the clothes your girls are wearing. Keep this up and you'll bring the cops down on us all."
  
  "We're not here on business," Jean said, finally understanding. "Those... girls... simply went to visit a friend."
  
  "Friend." The man laughed, low. "Right. We ail got friends we have to visit early in the morning, don't we? Thing is, I'm not the kind who likes to share my... friends. My girls don't, either. Which is why, right now, I'm gonna ask you real polite to move this ghetto-ass car of yours, and get the hell out of my neighborhood."
  
  "I can't do that," Jean said, not bothering to make any more denials. "I have to wait for my girls to come back. I'm sure you understand. I'll leave when they arrive."
  
  "Not good enough."
  
  "It will have to be." Jean felt Rogue and Kurt shift quietly behind her. She wondered how anyone, even in this, altered state, could mistake her for a pimp. She wished she could read this stranger's mind, or take over his body with nothing but a thought. Make him crawl back to the hole he lived in.
  
  Again, that cold smile. The man stepped away from the van and finally Jean could see his hands. He held a gun.
  
  "Oh, darn," she said.