Creed had given him twenty minutes, fifteen of which were left when Kurt reappeared in the community showers. Either he had gotten there before Creed or had just missed him; whichever way, he was alone when he stood in the spray of the steaming shower. After he had cleaned the rather eventful day off himself with scalding hot water, he teleported to his room and put on jeans and pullover before he made his way to the washing room where he knew there were spare clothes Creed could take. That, too, was empty.

Finally, he turned his steps to the room that Creed had occupied since he staid in the Institute and gently knocked on the door with the knuckles of his two thick fingers.

His thoughts were going in circles (and his tail likewise twisted itself into coils, something Kurt was unaware of), curiosity, mistrust and more faith than he perhaps should put in the mutant chasing each other like a cat after its tail. However, he had already decided that he'd let this go on for now, until Creed proved himself truly mad or dangerous to anyone in the house and... it would be a lie to say that he wasn't looking forward to what Creed had indicated.

However, the door stayed shut. After a few long moments, Kurt turned to go.

Loki slept for some time beside Thor's large form before he snapped awake, tense and silently snarling.  The pulsing heartbeat of Midgardian magic surrounded him, somehow comforting in its alien song and he felt himself relax slightly. Then he heard the familiar sound of Thor's breath beside him.  He glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping blonde, his eyes narrowing slightly.  The likeness between this man and the Thor of his memory was shocking, hauntingly so. He quickly shoved aside roiling resentments and anger, acutely reminded that the sins of the Thor he knew were not to be piled upon this relative stranger.  Vengeful and full of resentment he might be, but he was hardly one to cast judgement upon others. 

His body reminded him, not for the first time, that he required sustenance and he finally was in a position to take time to see to that need.  He managed to slide out of the bed, thankful that Thor slept heavily and that he was able to get out of the thunderer's grasp without disturbing his injuries.  Once free of the bed he leaned to where he'd lain his shirt, pulling it on with less difficulty than before.  It had only been a few hours yet his magic had done much to heal his battered ribs.  Once dressed he padded silently on bare feet down the hall.  He had no idea where he was going, but he was certain that if he wandered enough he'd either find someone that could tell him where food was stored or he'd find said area on his own.  He much preferred the latter situation to the former, but what choices had he?

All things considered, it was a miracle that things had gone relatively without incident for this long. Even now, no one was sliced up and bleeding, so that was positivce. As he had been leading a small group of superhuman teenagers into the Danger Room, he had overheard a couple of them talking about a frightening little incident last night, though. Not doubt there had been a bit of exaggeration going on for their classmates, judging just from the tone alone, but it had sounded like Sabretooth was on edge or bored (both equally worrying) or why else would he have concerned himself with a few kids out past curfew?

Kurt could probably have tracked Creed through the house, but, as he was still trying to figure out the Parental Control on the TV to make it unturnonable past ten pm (at least until some tech wizard mutant kid came along), Blink appeared in the common room.

Kurt had spent a bit of time with her after the LAMBDA situation. He was the only other teleporter by profession here and though she already bested him in how effective her teleports were, he had spent longer using them in combat and could teach her a trick or two. And then there was the simple fact that no one played a game of tennis quite like two teleporters. All pity and tolerance for those not fortunate enough to bamf their way through life aside, but it just wasn't a great match if the ball didn't at least cross a dimension or two on its way over the court.

"Fräulein Blink, how are you this fine evening?" Like a gargoyle, Kurt was perching, squatting bent-over with his toes holding onto the backrest of the couch, remote and TV manual in his hands. "You wouldn't have happened to have seen your father around, would you?"

Cole was glad to be alive, but who had ever wanted to be the last man standing?

He wasn’t, of course. Not the last human, thank fuck, though for a while even that outcome wouldn’t have been a big shock. No, just the last of Delta Squad. But there were others and that made it easier to keep going. Necessary. Nobody should say the Cole Train let his team down, right? Still, as he sifted through the rabble that their last explosive battle with the locust queen had left, he couldn’t bring himself to feel victorious.

They had started out looking for survivors, but all they found was corpses. Eventually, they resigned themselves to collecting dogtags, remains of armour, weapons, shit, just something to bury. Since E-Day, they hadn’t had the time for that. If someone fell, you were scrambling to replace, not honour them. That was no way to stay human, though.

Cole rubbed at the large cut from his cheekbone to his throat that Anya had sown shut for him. His own blood had leaked from various spots and he was pretty sure he was still wearing some of Bernie’s on his armour, too. He tried not to think about it or her chocked-off scream as the bullets pierced her head.

He was glad to have his back turned to Carmine and Anya, his massive body blocking any accidental gaze in his direction, when he leaned over a fallen column to see Sam, half her torso blown off. Not that the two hadn’t seen plenty of death, but your friend’s open chest cavity – that shit wasn’t going to give anyone peace at night, was it? Sam’s face looked calm. Yeah, better leave it at showing them that. Although... an uncharacterstically bitter smile tugged at his lips. Hell, but he wished he’d had as much for his squadmates. Dom’s death was confirmed, but Baird and Marcus, well, he wasn’t going to kid himself that they were still out there and leave it at that and still think about it at night.

Losing Baird had been a blow that even Cole couldn’t pretend to shake off. Maybe not many people understood what he saw in him as a friend – Baird was recognised to be a great tech guy, but not exactly someone to have at a dinner party –, but that really didn’t fucking matter, did it? Wasn’t them who had to stick it out with him. After fourteen years of friendship, he felt lost knowing he’d never hear Baird’s voice deliver remarks as sharp as his tools anymore, wouldn’t watch him ponder some piece of tech like others would a good book and wouldn’t ever glance over at him again, watching him roll his eyes in Cole’s direction about some samey big boss’s speech delivered to the troops. Cole hadn’t known Marcus and Dom that long, on the other hand, but after all the shit they’d been through together, who would start counting weeks? They’d been friends, brothers in arms, too, some of the bravest men he’d ever known. And they were all gone.

Still, dwelling on this didn’t help anybody. Carefully, he tugged off her tags and wrapped Sam up to the neck in the cushion cover of an overturned piece of furniture that laid close. Had a print with little roses on it, too. Damn, she’d have punched him for that. “Sorry about that,” he said, talking to ghosts now. He wiped his hands on the rest of rose-printed cover in his hands and let it drop, preparing to lift her corpse and hoping it wouldn’t break in the middle like an old doll.

Suddenly, he felt nauseous. The heat, maybe, or seeing a fellow fighter gutted like a fish. Should be used to both by now, though. However, the dizziness intensified with a noise like static in his earpiece and Cole found himself falling to one knee. He blinked back black butterflies at the edge of his vision for a second, but was enveloped by the darkness the next.

When he opened his eyes again, he smelled damp earth, grass and air that wasn’t filled with smoke, dust and decay. It was an immediate thought – strange, wrong. He cursed, grabbing for the lancer that was thankfully still strapped to his back and fought to sit up.

The sky over him was the friendly soft blue of a summer evening, coloured pink at the edges. Birds chirped in a nearby tree full of lush green leaves. The grass was studded with orange flowers. Cole stared and held the lancer like a shield for a moment. He didn’t think he’d been this terrified since a giant fucking locust worm had swallowed Delta Squad. Actually – that had been better. That, at least, he’d been able to explain to himself.

-

Kurt had been sitting in said lush tree as the unconscious Gear struggled to his feet. For a second, he watched him, perfectly blending into the shadows as he did, quiet as a mouse. Then, with a slight rustle, he disappeared to land in the tech guys’ workshop, where he knew there was always someone tinkering.

“Meine Herren, don’t call me cowardly, but I think I need some help for a meet and greet. There’s a guy on our lawn who’s around two metres tall and built like three fridges strapped together, caked in blood.” He raised a brow. “And I’m fairly sure his gun has a chainsaw strapped to it, but I couldn’t possibly have seen that right, ja?”

Fun party Bobby threw...wish I'd had the chance to talk to him more, and find out what his beef is with me. Or not-me. Whichever.

But the party is over, and now Scott's back in the office. Alone. With a never-ending mountain of paperwork.

Bills, mission reports, progress reports for the kids, requisition forms from the tech lab, grocery lists, more bills...How did the Professor manage to balance all this and keep himself from going completely insane?

His hand goes to his temple, feeling yet another migraine creep up on him. He could get rid of it easily...the pressure behind his eyes could be released with just a lift of his shades...he can feel the curve of his glasses' temple arms under his massaging fingers, all it would take is a simple lifting motion...

NO.

Scott forces his hand down to his desk drawer, pulling out a bottle of water and an over-the-counter painkiller. Downing the pills, he leans back and rubs the bridge of his nose.

What the hell was I thinking?! My self-control's better than that! I could have blown out the wall just now...and out of what? Stress?

What's wrong with me?!

Shoving himself angrily away from the desk, and its piles of forms and grades and papers, Scott goes to the bay window and practically throws it open, feeling the late-fall air wash over him.

Something has to give, or I'm going to snap, and then I won't be any good to the team at all.

Kurt shut the last drawer with a satisfied smile. Up to now, he had not had the time to check if everything in his room was in place. The furniture was the same, at least. Were a Pirates of the Carribean poster was supposed to be, there was one of Indiana Jones, but aside from that, the decoration over his desk was intact. Most of his possessions still existed, too, nothing really important missing, aside from a few soft-cover books he aquired on airports and two t-shirts, which were rather random objects to be gone I guess if every possible dimension exists, the differences can't always be as profund as they were in most other dimensions I visited.

Now came more relevant research. Kurt put his laptop on the pillow and sat down on his bed. The blanket was crumpled at his feet, and Kurt still had a bedhead, though his locks and fur were damp from showering. He was wearing a black turtleneck pullover and old jeans, and his tail was playing with an extra rosary he had found (the only other difference) as he logged into the X-Men database.
Like usually, he sat bend over, knees drawn to his chest like a gargoyle. His back was turned to the half-opened door as he searched for all available information on Sentinels. If the Sentinels weren't murderous weapons of mutant mass destruction, I'd feel a sense of comfort that, even though we're in a different dimension, we'll fight them just like every other Tuesday.

After the first twenty four hours in the home of people he'd sworn enmity to decades ago, Wyngarde had calmed enough that he no longer needed to be smoking at all times. A show and a solid night of sleep had certainly helped that, but he also respected the students' fragile lungs enough to move himself outside or back up to his room to smoke. Enjoying the brisk breeze as it swirled the ash from the Silk Cuts around his head, dusting the shoulders of his trench coat, he watched a few of the students play basketball on the court beside the school. He looked a little wistful, if anyone took the time to notice the emotion buried under the cool, collected exterior that his lean face offered.

He was still becoming accustomed to the fact that he was, for all appearances, in his early thirties, rather than late seventies that he'd been when he last was conscious of his own existence. For what it was worth, it appeared as though that was more than a decade ago, in some of the dimensions that his housemates had travelled from. To many of them, if they'd know him or a version of himself at all, he'd been dead for years.

Twisting a heavy ring around his right ring finger, he let his weight settle on the edge of a heavy concrete planter, stretching his long legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankle. He'd asked Mr. Wagner to meet him there at the teleporter's early convenience, in an effort not only to earn himself some modicum of trust with one of the few X-Men that he'd had little to no direct dealing with (and wasn't immediately affected by his more nefarious and infamous activities) but also to retrieve some of the money and belongings that he could only assume he (or a version of himself) had stashed in this dimension. Mr. Wagner was above and beyond the fastest way to do both of these things.

New York City would have to be the first stop, and only a short trip from Westchester, would be by far the easiest of his potential stashes.

Kurt put the pan with the scrambled eggs back on the stove and the fried sausages on a plate which he left on the kitchen counter. The healing speed in the zero gravity cell had left him hungry even after the big meal provided by Logan, as his metabolism wanted to make up for the excess calories burned.

It was a habit to prepare too much food when he was cooking (which, to be honest, didn’t happen too often), even if no one had asked him to. With so many X-Men around, he could be sure nothing would go to waste. Kurt carried his plate to the table and regarded his food – a small heap of eggs and bratwust. Enough to terrify any diet guru.

He folded his six fingers, leaning his chin on his knuckles. I hope Creed didn’t cause trouble, but I would have heard about it - or noticed the hole in the wall that Logan smashed him through. I wonder if Scott already discussed a strategy regarding Weapon X with him...
The teleporter lifted his head slightly and shook it, hoping to find peace for a moment in during this exciting day.

Saying grace all by himself might have seemed silly to other people, but Kurt found a certain calming quality in the well-known words, a children’s prayer he had known by heart for longer than he could remember and that he now said under his breath.

„Vater aller Gaben, alles, was wir haben, alle Frucht im weiten Land, ist Geschöpf in deiner Hand. Hilf, das nicht der Mund verzehret, ohne dass das Herz dich ehret, was uns deine Hand beschert. Amen.“*

(*“Father of all, everything we have, everything in the wide world, is in your hands. Help, that not the mouth eats without the heart praising you and what your hand gives us. Amen.”)

Kurt gazed upwards, then gave his body another push, waving his tail. The momentum he built up already made him rock back and forth and up and down in the zero gravity cell.

I feel like I'm three again, and discovered one of these bouncy castles for the first time. Except it's better.

What should have been a crippling wound forcing him to use crutches for at least half a year, probably rendering his ankle forever a little more stiff than it had been, was now almost fully healed.
And I've only been in here from morning to lunchtime. Hank is a genius, have I told him that recently?
Most of the time, Kurt had spent asleep, curled up like an embryo - a round back was just the most comfortable position for him. Since he had woken up, his inner child and adult coexisted peacefully, one making him jump about, the other making him think.

I hope Creed has not already gotten into trouble, but when we left him, he seemed ready to comply. He could have been faking it, but I don't think so. The 'little girl' he mentioned, something about her made him calm down. I wonder who she is...

Kurt turned around again, hanging upside-down. I hope I'll be done here, and they don't forget to get me out. If Creed hasn't presented his demands, I need to talk to Scott. And I really want to talk to Logan as soon as possible. I think he thought I was siding with Creed - I was siding with Creed, actually, against him. The look in Logan's eyes had been enough to tell Kurt an excuse was in order, or at least an explanation.

Morph had guessed it would take him longer to fall asleep after all that had happened. Dying, hours of torture and vivisection, coming back to life, stumbling upon the friends who left him for dead in a different world - this had been an interesting day to say the least. Yet, as soon as his cheek touched the pillow, his eyes closed, and he slipped into an uneasy dream.

He climbed into an uninhabited room of Xavier's through the window. His - her, technically - blonde hair hung in his face. He had shifted form to that of a teenage girl. Why? To play a prank, of course, and escape punishment. The answer came easy, instinctively, almost, in the way it often happened in dreams, no matter how senseless the situation.

The teenage girl Morph opened the door of the room, her room, as anyone watching the security tapes would hopefully deduct, and straightened her skirt. Quite convenient no one knows who's going to appear and live in this interdimensional bedlam. Morph had invented this little mutant girl, but who could prove it? Somewhere in the universes, she probably is alive. Wasn't there a theory how everything you imagine appears in some universe... ?

These and other unrelated thoughts crossed his mind. He was happy as always when he got to cause some trouble, but not worried enough to keep his thoughts completely together. In fact, he hadn't felt that calm in a long while - almost tranquilized. Freeing Creed seemed like a good idea. Exciting was the wildest word he could find for it. Just a little prank to keep everyone on their toes.
Morph descended the stairs to the basement. He knew the way well, and he and he also knew that it was easy to get into the basement through the ventilation shaft, especially for a skinny little thing like himself right now.

Inside the dark stuffy room, he went straight for the fuse box. He put all switches to off and put on the flashlight he had brought to disable the emergency light in case it decided to kick in, or was already supporting the more important processes, such as the zero-gravity cell.

That was all. Morph had no reason to destroy anything permanently, since the preferable result of this little prank - a free Sabertooth - would occur after just a few seconds of outage. He - a student on a stupid dare who didn't know what she was doing, in case anyone noticed her on any security tapes - climbed back out of the room and walked into a toilet. There, he changed into Storm. The security cameras were dead now, but he took no chances. In the library, he changed into Morph, then returned to his room.
Morph laid down on his bed.

And immediately opened his eyes again, waking up as a gust of wind blew rain into his face through the open window. Disgruntled, Morph got to his feet and slammed the window shut. Why had he even opened it in the first place, and when? While dreaming? He remembered he had been scaling the wall, turned off electricity for some inane non-reason... whatever. Alzheimer's setting in pretty early, dear Morph, he thought to himself, yawning. Or somnambulism. Ugh, my body feels like it's shifted into lead. If I'd really scrambled about any walls in my sleep, I'd have fallen and cracked my head.

When he went back to the bed, he almost slipped on something round on the ground, but couldn't be bothered to check. He felt more tired than before going to sleep. Eyes shut again, he failed to notice that the object he had stumbled over and kicked under the bed as revenge was a flashlight.

The mutant floated in permanent suspension inside of the null-gravity containment field. Every hideous wound, burn, and bruise on his body was cured from the healing properties of the alien technology that powered it. Symptoms of Victor’s concussion subsided, and consciousness rushed back to him, anxious to welcome the feral back into the world. Unbeknownst to Victor, he had been trapped in this space aged cage for almost two days.

Creed lifted his head and opened his eyes. He assessed his surroundings with a low, rumbling grunt. Excluding the dim, ambient, topaz colored hue emitted from the containment field, the entire brig was shrouded in total darkness. He sniffed the air instinctively, and gathered no other scent except his own musk and the filthy blend of blood types and dirt still latched onto his skin and long hair.

Victor recalled each of the events that led him into this dreadful circumstance. A clawed finger touched the strong steel still coiled around his neck, and he sighed with disappointment. With nothing else to do, he looked around the room a second time, hoping he missed a clue that would be the key to his escape. Futile desires of freedom led him to try and pull his collar off, and even search the empty pockets of his jeans for something – anything – that could aid him.

In a foolhardy gesture, Creed made the motion to run forward. Unfortunately, that thrust lifted his burly, but weightless form even higher off of the ground. The blonde toppled head over heels like a circus acrobat nearly twice before the force behind that momentum weakened. Again he grunted, and repositioned himself until he “stood” upright.

Despair poisoned Victor’s resolve. Dirty blonde locks draped over half of his face as he hung his head. He cursed himself in his mind for allowing the X-Men to capture him, especially after displaying a rare moment – to them - of genuine faithfulness to the cause of mutant life, liberty and prosperity.

For now, he regretted coming to the mansion in his darkest hour. And he passed the time plotting revenge on each one of the X-Men who put him in this predicament.

Of all the places in the world, Victor Creed never dared to seek refuge in Professor Xavier's Mansion. And yet, here he was, sneaking into an unoccupied dormitory room through the large bay windows. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall, alone and in the darkness. The light of the full moon was his only company, and it shined over his muscular, highly defined form. Dried blood and gory lacerations he sustained in battle highlighted his face, shirtless upper body, tattered jeans and muddy boots. Victor had once forgotten that his healing factor had limitations. After what he experienced, he wouldn't forget again...

--------------------

Just a week prior, the blonde feral allied himself with a mercenary gang of mutants. They were tasked to infiltrate a small underground compound located on the outskirts of the city near the forests' edge. Weapons that belonged to the Black Market were located there, according to the briefings they received. But in reality, this facility was manned and maintained by the United States government. At taxpayer's expense, coupled with illegal international funding, they planned to re-launch the Weapon X program, as well as engineer the construction of the horrible mechanical abominations, known as "Sentinels".

Creed and his team were shocked to learn of the Weapon X experimentations and upgrades to the Sentinels being built, and they attacked. However, the facility was much more fortified than they were led to believe. What was worse, was that their "mission" was a hoax! They were set up by mutant defectors siding with the prejudicial humans. They were lambs, sent directly to the slaughterhouse...

...and Victor was the only one on his team to survive the assault.

Guided by rage and hate towards the humans' audacity, he stayed inside the compound and butchered them for two days. Once more government reinforcements arrived, he emerged from the steel corridors of the underground complex, and brought the fight with him outside into the wilderness. Victor's motivation to rip the entire program to shreds - along with every human there - pushed his healing factor to the breaking point. For the remainder of the week, the feral lived off the land; he feasted on the animal wildlife that surrounded the compound, and never slept. Each time he saw a moment of vulnerability in the enemy's defenses, he struck, and struck hard!

Near the final days of his one man assault, extreme fatigue took its toll on Victor's body. The feral mutant's tactics became sloppy, and once the government soldiers and agents noticed this, they unleashed a unit of Sentinel droids to eliminate him. For every one that he destroyed, three more took it's place. While many of them were incomplete shells, the sheer number of these human sized droids became too much for Victor to withstand in his current state. No longer able to maintain the fight, the feral was left with no other choice: he fled for his life.

Fearing that the lecherous traitor - who sent him and his fellow mutants off to die - compromised the locations of the other mercenary safe-houses and strongholds, Victor did the unthinkable, and snuck into the great Xavier Mansion to seek shelter. No one would ever think to look for him "here". At least not the humans...

--------------------

Bloodshot amber eyes routinely glanced towards the locked dormitory door and the bed nearby. As much as he wanted to rest, Victor knew he could not stay here, much less get comfortable. Logan was somewhere within the mansion - he could smell his scent the moment he snuck past the first security camera outside - and Creed was certain that the short Canadian would be able to detect his own - or the stench of human blood looming in the air. It was only a matter of time...

Ever since he'd staggered out of his bedroom after that day with the Cajun, something in Logan had felt...different.

Memories...fantasies?...had been flooding his mind, wrecking his concentration.

Eyes...skin...lips...hands...it had all jumbled together in a blur, but he knew the faces.

The elf. The Russkie. The Popsicle. Blue. 'Ro. Betts. Jeannie. Gumbo. Lehnsherr. Hell, even Slim?!

Damn, how did I forget alla that? More importantly, who didn't I fuck around with back home?!

It's not so much that he was a slut, although that could be applied. No, it was just that when he felt a deep connection with someone back home, they usually felt it back...and things would progress from there. Over and over again...

With all these memories surging up inside him like a porn theater on auto-shuffle, Logan feels the need to vent somewhere. Which naturally leads him to the Danger Room.

"Computer, run Logan trainin' simulator 'Charley.' Like th' letter, not th'guy."

"ACKNOWLEDGED."

A small army of robotic drones appear, faceless automatons with plasma rifles. Nothin' with a face. Last thing I need is ta be fightin' Sabes or Deadpool an' picturin' thrustin' b'tween th'legs o'someone' from back home.Talk about a mind fuck.

So Logan slices and slashes and chops, each thrust of his claws burning more energy. He doesn't quite manage to dodge every shot...halfway through the session, he feels a cold draft at his back and watches scraps of unstable molecule fabric flutter to the ground.. 'Nother shirt bites th' dust. Ah well, it's just the costume. Never liked these things anyway.

Then the force-field-equipped melee fighters step in to protect their more fragile ranged compatriots, and Logan's dodging energy swords and plasma bolts...and having the time of his life.

Nothin' like a challenge ta take yer mind off yer dick.

Ever since Charles had been taken by Lilandra, Logan hadn't been cheerful. He wasn't exactly slicing stuff up everywhere, but he had been spending a little more time than usual at Harry's.

He swore to himself that last night was the last time. Think he had ta restock tha whole fuckin' bar. Thank fuck tha healin' factor takes away most o'tha hangover...

He shuddered at the thought that this was only a small amount of what his hangover otherwise would be.

He was lying atop an inflatable pink chair floating in the middle of the pool. His dark glasses were on, his hair looked more messy than usual and he was only wearing a pair of black swim trunks. In his right hand was a can of beer. Hair o'tha dog.

Manifestly, the original plan of swimming to get over the hangover didn't last.

*BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP...*

"Grrrrr..."

He'd been having a nice dream. It had involved Ororo and Remy...maybe something about steak sauce, he didn't really recall. Point was, it hadn't been a nightmare.

Fer a change.

*BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP...*

"Aww, shuddup."

Groggily, Logan reaches out a hand to punch the 'snooze' button.

SNIKT!

His claws slice through the clock, shutting its noise off...but also rending the machine into so many useless pieces of plastic.

"Dammit..."

He sits up in bed, holding his head woozily. Not usually a heavy sleeper, it feels like he has a hangover...except Logan never gets hangovers.

"What the hell happened ta me?"

Looking around, he blinks the sleep from his eyes. It looks like his room...smells right, feels right...but something's off.

Eh, figure it out later. Breakfast now...sure hope Summers didn't drink all the coffee again.

Throwing on his short kimono...which he uses in lieu of a bathrobe...he heads down to the kitchen for coffee and a salami sandwich. It is noon-ish, after all.