The figure was forced to watch their step as they walked down the long stretching hallway, the hardwood floor plastered with overturned tables and lamps, shattered vases, and fallen books amidst other signs of mass chaos. The walls, originally made of a fine wood and paint mix were now covered in dents, scratches and what even looked like bullet holes; age old portraits and paintings, their frames splintered and shattered, dangled off the wall, threatening to fall at any moment. Empty and lifeless candle holders hung from the ceiling, lazily teetering on occasion, like poltergeists.

The figure was particularly alarmed by the sudden resounding crack of thunder from outside, the hallway illuminated for a brief moment by the cascading blue flash of lightning that darted across the dark night sky like long, thin tendrils.

Disturbed but resolute, the figure continued on, holding a flashlight out in front of them as the night provided little in the way of luminosity aside from the dull glow of the moon that beamed through the windowpanes.

Silence accompanied the figure, abated only by the shaky, but determined rag of their breathing, the sound of their footsteps against the creaking and groaning of the old wood floor, and the occasional rustling in the darker depths of the hallway the figure was sure came from mice.

Approaching the far end of the hallway, the figure came across a single door, somehow immaculately preserved from the destruction that befell the rest of the mansion.

On the door was a bronze placard that read: Prof. Xavier, Headmaster. The figure, unable to help but grin at the discovery, twisted the doorknob and slowly pushed it open, a long, drawn-out creak accompanying the motion, causing the figure to tense up until the door had opened up wide enough to step through.

Inside was an office, practically destroyed like all the others. Perhaps at one point it could have been considered beautiful, with the walls, floor, and ceiling an expensive rosewood, detailed with decorative carvings. Fine leather chairs were overturned halfway across the room, covered in long gashes. A lamp, its cover riddled with holes lay shattered on the now-stained and blackened floor. Yet, the beauteous stone fireplace on one side of the room still crackled and popped with a freshly-renewed flame, casting the room in a refulgent, warm glow that somewhat negated its disorganized state.

At the far back, in front of a series of tall, cracked windows was a desk, perhaps the only furnishing in the room left in a useable condition; and even then it was in a state worse for wear.

Sitting in a leather-seated oak chair behind the desk was an older man, bald-headed and dressed in a fine three-piece suit. Holding a certain dignified air about him, the man showed the typical signs of aging, but maintained a certain vitality and youthfulness to him, a spark of life and energy.

The older man's chair was turned round, facing towards the windows behind the desk. For whatever reason, the man appeared to be preoccupied with something, though nothing appeared out of the ordinary from outside aside from the bright glow of the moon...

As if just now noticing someone else was in the room, the older man turned his chair around slowly until he was facing the doorway, a small smile, sad though welcoming crossed over his slightly-wrinkled features.

"Why, hello. It's not often I get visitors." The older man spoke up, breaking the heavy silence that had settled on the room. Though his words were, perhaps intended to convey a sense of surprise, his tone and diction implied he had known this meeting was to occur for some time.

"Professor Xavier..." The figure said in reply, a certain air of veneration and awe in their tone.

"Please, call me Charles. I doubt I've much reason to be called a professor anymore." Xavier replied in a composed manner, but a small glint in his eyes spoke more than his words did. Sadness, pain...regret.

The figure carefully approached the desk, being sure to avoid tripping on any of the fallen pieces of furniture, the sound of shattered glass crunching beneath their feet.

"Then you know why I've come here...?" The figure replied, unsure whether to state their response as an inquiry or as a declaration.

"I've known for quite some time. I suppose you'd like to start from the beginning, yes? Please, try and make yourself comfortable...as best as you can, for that matter. Now: it all started many years ago......."

There was something thick in the air that early October morning that had nothing to do with New York's early-fall humidity. Amber lights illuminated the darkened morning sky, reflecting back off of the heavy overcast of clouds that would have otherwise gone unnoticed save for the lack of moonlight and twinkling stars and yet, the coverage seemed fitting, given the situation. The siren had been cut off nearly an hour ago after the area had been taped off to the general public, three cop cars fueling the flashing lights parked horizontally on the sandy beach to keep some sort of barrier to keep the general public unaware, but that didn't keep the late-night/early-morning onlookers from trying to find out what it was that had happened.

There was one onlooker, however, that was different from all the rest. Even being kept a fair distance away from the scene of the crime, Logan Howlette could see, hear, and even smell everything that was going on amidst the huddled group of officers who didn't seem to know what it was that they were supposed to do.

"I've got 911, an ambulance is on it's way!"

"Ambulance? You better hope they have a body bag in there, there ain't no way she's comin out of that."

"Hey, show a bit of respect here!"

"Will you three cut it out and give me a hand before forensics gets here?"

Shaking his head at their expense, Logan withdrew a cigar from the inside pocket of his brown leather jacket and perched it between his lips while his opposite hand fished for a lighter in his faded jean pants pocket. His eyes never stopped watching, however, as he brought the light to the cigar and lit it, putting the lighter back into his pocket with his other hand removing the cigar as he exhaled a thick plume of smoke.

"Little bastards got no clue what they're doing." Logan grumbled to himself, resting his shoulder against the trunk of a tree and crossed his thick arms over his chest. The smell of the salty sea air hid nothing from Logan's enhanced senses, able to pick up the putrid stench of a slowly decomposing body that lay twenty or so feet away from him and blood. Lots and lots of blood.

From his observations over the last twenty minutes, Logan had been able to surmise that the victim was a woman. A woman with blonde hair and an average build; blue eyes that stared up lifelessly at the sky and a pale complexion that had turned white. She must have been coming from or going to quite the party as she was wearing an elegant red cocktail dress with plenty of jewelry to flatter her features, and yet, the jewelry had gone untouched. This was no simple mugging-gone-wrong. No. Logan knew exactly what this was and unfortunately he had seen and smelt it before.

The body had a wide cut up her left side starting from her hip, over her ribs and stopping at her armpit, Logan didn't even need his enhanced ability of sight to be able to spot that. Perhaps where his abilities proved to be most useful was from the time or two the police moved her body for closer examination, hearing the quiet outbursts of the officers as they had discovered two crossing cuts etched across her back, deep enough that her spine had been severed where the two cuts met. This was the fourth body Logan had come into contact with in the past month that had shown up like this; washed up on the shore of the beach already dead and with the same exact cuts. One victim a week, it seemed.

Someone out there had an M.O. Someone out there was targeting people, taking no possessions of their victims, no connection between their lives when they had been living save for one thing... and the New York Police Department would never figure it out.

Someone out there was targeting mutants.

The quiet chatter amongst the police and spectators was subtly drowned out by the sound of the blaring ambulance that had finally arrived. Logan had seen enough, however. He pushed himself off of the tree, sticking the cigar back in his mouth and shoved his hands into his pockets, taking the short walk to the street where he had left his bike. The smell of blood, decomposition and the ever prominent X-gene were slowly fading as he put distance between himself and the crime scene, but it was a smell Logan knew he would never be able to forget.

Charles would want to hear about this.



Sheathing his claws back into his fist, Logan opened up the recently picked-unlocked front door to the old bar he had spent only a handful of time in over the last few months and shut it behind him. His boots echoed though the empty room, going by pure instinct to see where it was that he was going in the otherwise pitch-black area as even the windows had been drawn shut and boarded up to keep the outside appearance looking abandoned.

"Charles?" Logan called out, letting his low voice carry out naturally through the empty room and up the flight of stairs where Charles and Erik had been staying ever since they took over the bar for their cause. His eyes had adjusted to the dark quickly, feet still carrying him as he reached the small flight of wobbly stairs and headed up. Coming up on the landing, Logan continued forward, reaching one of the two doors of the upstairs and raised his hand to wrap on the wooden surface of the door, but his knuckles never got a chance to make contact.

"Come in, Logan!" The voice of Charles beckoned from the other side of the door, the crackly sound of Oldies music playing from the inside. From outside, Logan could hear the sound of Charles standing, followed by the trademark heavy tapping of his cane, proceeded by the phonograph coming to a somewhat groaning halt.

Shaking his head a bit, unsure why Charles had caught him off guard for a moment, Logan opened up the door and stepped inside, shutting it behind him in case Erik was still sleeping... and then there was that red-head that was sleeping downstairs... somewhere...There was no sense in allowing unwanted ears in on what Logan had to say.

"There was another one this morning." Logan stated simply, jumping right to the point. By habit, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his back against the door, still not feeling particularly comfortable in invading Charles' personal space despite the bedroom looking more like an office with a lounge chair tucked into the corner for convenience sake. He had only been in Charles' office once before and under eerily similar terms. Perhaps it was just the subject matter then that had the hairs raising on the back of his neck; association.

"I see." Charles responded gravely, moving back towards his desk chair and sitting down. "A part of me hoped your visit would have been on more pleasant circumstances... but I cannot say I'm surprised. Was there anything different with this one?" he asked, a solemn look in his eyes.

Logan stared down Charles, meeting his eyes with a rather placid expression on his face, as though the question insulted him slightly.

"You know there wasn't." he replied, almost bitterly and adjusted his arms on his chest a bit, eyes narrowing a fraction looking slightly accusatory.

"I apologize, I did not intend to come across as patronizing. I much prefer speaking to you face-to-face as opposed to scanning your thoughts." Charles responded sincerely.

"Same here, bub." Logan was quick to reply, though his expression went unchanged.

"I fear if these murders are becoming more and more prevalent that it will not be long before the students become potential victims. Even your appearance slightly caught me off guard. I did not expect you to arrive until ten-o'-clock with the students." Charles added on, raising his eyebrow slightly.

"Are we even sure this is a good idea anymore?" Logan asked, dropping the defensive stance as he pushed himself from leaning against the door and took a few steps into the room, resting the palms of his hands on the back of a leather chair that faced Charles' desk, keeping his eyes on the man. "You and Erik... the two of you started with this..." Logan lifted up one hand to gesture around the room with it. "...this idea a long time ago and it probably didn't seem so stupid then, but now..." Logan brought his hand back to rest on the chair's back again. "...now I just feel like we're gathering sheep for the wolves. What if this is what they- or he- whoever's doing this... what if this is what they want?"

Charles merely smiled in reply for a few moments before finally speaking, "Logan, Erik and I established this School as a safe haven for mutants, both young and old. My use of the word 'safety' does not simply denote protection from verbal or physical abuse from society, but also protection from any other, more serious threats about. That's why I was so intent on finding you, Logan. This School needs a protector like you: stoic, clear-headed, and most of all... loyal."

"No. You got a killer." Logan butted in, taking on his usual assertive tone but the sadness and regret he felt for the meaning behind his words wasn't exactly hidden either. The traits in which Charles had chosen to describe him... well... there would be a long line of people that would be willing to say otherwise, and Logan himself would be towards the front of that line. Perhaps Charles didn't know him as well as he had thought.

Charles let out a small sigh at the words before giving Logan an empathetic look, "I can't say I've known you for a long period of time, nor would I consider us very close people... but if there's one thing I know about you, Logan, it's that you're not a killer." Charles ignored Logan's scoff and continued. "Have you killed before? Most certainly; a veteran of your caliber would have had to. But that doesn't mean you garnered any sort of enjoyment or pleasure from it. This is a vile and cruel world, rife with butchers and animals, both human and mutant. I've read the thoughts of people that were violent enough to freeze the blood in my veins, and yet you, Logan... all I could ever read... was regret. You're not an animal, no matter how hard people have tried to convince you otherwise." Charles took a few moments to let the words sink in, watching as Logan could no longer meet his gaze, before moving back to the matter at hand.

"On the subject of animals... Victor Creed. Do you think he may have something to do with these killings?" Charles asked, clasping both hands together on his desk. He knew the subject of Logan and Sabretooth was a rather sensitive one, but it was not far-fetched to think that Logan's half-brother would be responsible for such killings. Brutal, animalistic... hungry.

Coming out of his sombre reverie from Charles' previous thoughts, Logan lifted his head to once more meet Charles' eyes, his own eyebrows furrowing but his eyes opening up a fraction more in an expression that read nothing more than hurt.

"If Victor was in New York..." Logan said slowly, hardly noticing the increase in his breathing at the mere mention of his brother. "I would know." he finished, holding his steely gaze on Charles, once more holding accusations on the notion that Charles might be trying to put the blame on him somehow. "And if he ever did... I would never allow him to do this!" He finished, his nostrils flaring as his voice picked up in volume a bit, on the brink of shouting.

"Logan, please." Charles said quietly, holding his hand out to try and calm the Wolverine down, though, in his experience it usually led to Logan stomping out the door and disappearing for a few weeks.

"I know you wouldn't allow him to commit such atrocities. But you know his scent better than anyone. I simply wished to make sure there was no possible way he was involved." Charles explained calmly before trying to switch topics and hopefully calm Logan down.

"I have a task I'd like you to do for me, two, in fact. There's a morgue not far from here, I'm more than certain you're aware of its location. One of the recent victims is currently being kept there until a proper burial can be organized. If you could manage to find a way in and see if you can't get a closer look at the body, I would be greatly appreciated. It may bring us one step closer to who could possibly be organizing these murders. Then, there's something else... I've picked up another mutant. Though her presence is currently weak, I can feel it slowly growing stronger. She'll be in New York shortly, should my perception be applicable." Charles explained before moving to rise once again, keeping a firm grip on his cane.

"You'll most likely be able to find her at Grand Central Station here within the next couple of hours. She can join the others when they finally arrive at the School." Charles elaborated further, slowly closing the distance between himself and Logan. "Will you do this for me?" he asked with a small smile, knowing inwardly there was almost no chance the larger man would decline but still feeling obligated to give the courtesy.

Charles idea of changing the subject had worked, as Logan had calmed his breathing back to a normal level by the time he was done speaking, all thoughts of Victor for the most part gone from his mind as new thoughts of breaking into a morgue first thing in the morning and then spending perhaps the early parts of his afternoon hanging around Grand Central Station came across. Well... he had had stranger mornings. Standing himself up straight as Charles neared, Logan crossed his arms over his chest again, standing at his full 6'2" height and looking down on Charles, quirking a bushy eyebrow.

"Another one? Jesus, Charles how many is that now?" Logan asked, now raising the other eyebrow. "You shoulda took over a farm instead... could raise 'em like pups and set 'em free." Lowering his head a bit, Logan sighed dejectedly, growing a bit more serious in nature. "How many do you think you can take on?"

Letting out a small laugh, Charles looked Logan directly in the eyes before replying, "As many as I can manage... and then a few more." With that, he once again moved towards the phonograph, affixing the needle back onto the record as Frank Sinatra's voice, somewhat tinny from the player's effects began to play again.

"Now then, you best be off. It won't be terribly long before everyone else arrives and I doubt it would be as exciting without you there to scare them a little bit." Charles added with a humorous smile. "Good luck, Logan! And stay safe." He put in lastly, nodding sharply.

Nodding slightly, shrugging his broad shoulders a bit as he relaxed his arms back down to his sides. Turning his back to Charles, Logan headed back the couple of steps back towards the door and without even so much as looking back at Charles, exited the room, shutting the door behind him.