Playing with Fire

Just imagine a disclaimer here, okay? I don't think anyone's operating under the delusion that I actually own anything here but the OCs - and really, they're such assholes I don't want them much anyway.

Okay folks, here's chapter 23. Sorry for the ridiculously long wait - I've been busy and my muse has been on vacation. I'll try not to take so long in future...especially for such a relatively short chapter.

Thanks so much for all the reviews on the last chapter, you guys are wonderful. Knowing people are reading and enjoying is the biggest inspiration to keep writing this monster. (Kind of scary to think how long updates might take if I *wasn't* getting reviews, isn't it?) Also, many thanks to my wonderful beta, Sue Penkivech - and you should be grateful to her too, since she inceinced me to just stop here and post this as a chapter rather than moving right on to the next bit and possibly taking another 2-3 weeks to get it up. What can I say, I'm busy and slow...it's a bad combination.

One other thing, I'm posting a link here to one of my other fics, not simply as shameless self-promotion (though that works too), but because I think some things in this and future chapters will make a lot more e ife if you've read it. It was actually part of the inspiration for Playing with Fire in the first place and is a re-written version of my fic Winzeldorf. The original is at ffn, but I haven't posted the new version there and that's the one you need for background. So, if you're interested, go to: http://www.nutfiction.net/index.php?area=fic&ficid=43

Anyway, that's enough of that, on to the fic.


Ororo glanced up from the budget projections spread on the gleaming mahogany desk between them, and let her gaze shift to the scene outside the Professor's window. She smiled indulgently at the sight of the enthusiastic, and rather one-sided, soccer game taking place on the lawn. Young Mr. DaCosta seemed to be taking great pleasure in playing circles around both his opponents and his own team-mates.

"It was an excellent idea, Charles, giving the students this free time. It is good to see them behaving like children again - at least for a while."

She turned her attention to Charles just in time to catch an odd look as it flashed across his usually imperturbable features. It was gone almost before she had time to register it, though, and he smiled warmly as he too looked out to where the game had now been abandoned for the moment. Instead, most of the former players looked on with varying degrees of enthusiasm as Roberto chased a laughing Bobby Drake across the lawn, dodging ice patches and the occasional random snowball, all the while keeping up a fluent stream of abuse in both Portuguese and Spanish.

He shook his head slightly, an amused smile twitching at the corners of his lips, before turning his attention back to Ororo and the books between them. "Yes," he murmured as he flipped a page almost absently. "Yes, it is good to see them just play. Good for them to remember that they are still children and to act accordingly."

They worked quietly for some time longer - long enough for the game to resume outside the window, neither Bobby nor Roberto notably the worse for wear - and were just preparing to end their weekly budget session, when the shrill ringing of the Professor's private line interrupted their discussion of the final figures for the reconstruction of the Danger Room.

"Pardon me." His voice was smooth and controlled as usual, but the slight quirking of his eyebrows betrayed his surprise quite clearly to one who knew to look.

"Of course, Charles."

"Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters, Charles Xavier speaking." Cocking his head to one side, he listened attentively to the voice on the other end of the line.

Ororo fixed her eyes firmly on the invoices they had been discussing, but her attention was primarily focused on the Professor's voice. Very few people possessed this number to begin with, and those who did were extremely unlikely to call on a Saturday afternoon unless there were an emergency of some sort. The fact that he had not asked her to leave indicated to Ororo that Charles would likely want her opinionwhatwhatever was discussed after he hung up.

It was possible, though unlikely, that it was one of his political contacts, calling with advance warning of pending anti-mutant legislation. The only other possibility that came immediately to mind was that the children had managed to find or create some kind of trouble and were calling for a bail-out.

_Dear Goddess, can't they please just keep out of trouble for one full day? That doesn't seem so much to ask._

"No, not at all Lorraine." Ororo looked up at the unfamiliar name and caught the sudden tenseness in his shoulders. "How can I help you?"

He was silent for a moment and this time Ororo could vaguely make out a woman's smooth, cultured voice speaking very slowly and precisely. At least it wasn't the children calling, but the growing concern on his face made her wonder just what this strange woman *could* be calling about.

"They didn't arrive?" he finally asked. His voice held nothing more than polite concern, completely at odds with his facial expression and body language.

_Ororo, please use the main line to call Jean and Kurt's cell phones._ Years of familiarity prevented her from jumping in surprise at his voice in her mind. _They missed their 2:00 appointment and the dealer was unable to reach them._

He was speaking into the phone again, but she was no longer listening as her brain registered the import of his words. _Henry and Logan will be here momentarily_, he added, glancing significantly at the phone.

_Immediately Charles,_ she responded. Moving to the other end of the large desk she picked up the indicated receiver and dialed Jean's number from memory. She could not imagine any of the children failing him when he had entrusted them with this responsibility, but especially not Scott or Jean. Even if it had been more an excuse to provide them with an outing than anything else, she knew that those two would take it with the utmost seriousness.

She caught disjointed bits of his continuing conversation as she listened to Jean's phone roll immediately over to voice mail - turned off or the battery was dead. Henry and Logan came in while she was trying Kurt's number, which yielded the same result. By the time she'd left a demand on both teens' voice-mails that they call back the *second* they received her message, Charles had hun the the phone and was addressing Logan. Hank, meanwhile, was thumbing rapidly through the rolodex on the corner of the desk before placing a call of his own.


"None of the protesters at the gates have any memory of them beyond their departure this morning, Logan." The concern was gone from his face and voice, replaced by grim determination as he briefed the other man. "If anything *has* happened to them, then no one there appears to have been involved."

"No one *there* Chuck - don't mean that the fuckin' FOH ain't involved," the surly Canuck grunted in response.

"Logan, we currently have no evidence that *anything* has happened to them. It is possible that there is a harmless - though *not* necessarily reasonable - explanation for their failure to arrive for their appointment and for their failure to answer their phones." He glanced at Ororo and she knew that he was aware of the outcome of her calls. He didn't pause as L rai raised an eyebrow in clear disbelief.

"Nonetheless, I would like you to begin tracing their route. Once Henry has ascertained whether they made any of their other appointments I will contact you with the information."

Ororo cast a glance in Hank's direction, the phone like a toy in his enormous, paw-like hand, and listened briefly to the gentle murmur of his voice - so at odds with his appearance - before turning her attention back to Logan and Charles.

Logan opened his mouth as if to speak, but Charles cut him off smoothly. "I have already confirmed that none of them are in the immediate vicinity, nor can I find any sign of Jean in the New York Metropolitan area."

Logan closed his mouth with an audible click, question obviously answered, and made for the door without another w Or Ororo watched him go, noting the tense set of his shoulders and the almost reflexive clenching of his fists at his sides as he struggled to keep his volatile temper in check.

Charles had pulled his chair back from the desk as he spoke and now turned his attention back to her. "I will be scanning for them in Cerebro. They can't have gone very far in such a short amount of time." She glanced automatically at the ornate case-clock by the door at his words. Five twenty. Almost eight hours since they'd left. Over three hours since they'd missed their appointment. Why on earth had the antiques dealer taken so long to contact them?

She met his eyes steadily and, despite the confidence his voice projected, saw the same concern there that she harbored. The fact was that the world was not a friendly place for mutants and she could not imagine anything innocuous that could have caused the children to abandon their schedule, turn off their cell phones and disappear from the area without a word.

"Charles?" Henry's gentle voice was heavy with worry as it broke into her thoughts. "The children did not make any of their engagements today. They do not appear to have ever reached the city."

Logan had just reached the gate when Chuck contacted him with the news.

"SHIT!" he snarled as he gunned the engine on his Harley and sped past the small crowd of protesters, wishing he was going *through* the bastards instead. He slowed down as soon as he turned the first corner however. It wouldn’t help if he went so fast that he missed something important. If the kids had never made their first appointment, they could have disappeared at almost any point between the City and home, so he had no way to narrow the initial search area.

He cruised down the shady, tree-lined road at just below the speed limit, glad for the lack of traffic as he visually scoured the road itself as well as both shoulders, with no real idea of what, exactly, he might be looking for. Chuck had promised to get back to him immediately if they turned up any news.

Poindexter was in charge of calling all the hospitals anywhere in range of their planned route, and 'Ro was poring over all the local police reports - thank God for Kitty's little hacker heart. Logan\wn hwn heart constricted at the thought of the Half-Pint, or any of his kids, in trouble - and he had absolutely no doubt that they were, indeed, in trouble of the first magnitude.

He forced a steadying breath and refocused his attention on the road as he continued on. By now Chuck must be in Cerebro, using its power to extend his range as he scanned in an ever-widening circle for the quartets' mental signatures. No matter what had happened, it was only a matter of time before they found them, and when they did, Logan had every intention of thoroughly ventilating whoever was responsible for their disappearance. He tried very hard not to think of the most obvious explanation for the world's most powerful telepath's inability to locate them - a corpse doesn't have a mental signature.

Ororo pushed a hand irritably through her hair as she scrolled once more through the local police reports, determined to find any clues they might hold. There had been no incidents reported involving their car or individuals who bore any resemblance to them, but there had to be *some* clue somewhere, and she couldn't simply give up - not when this was currently the only way in which she could be of help.

After determining that none of their missing charges were in area hospitals, Hank had finally joined the other children for dinner and to supervise their evening activities. They wanted to maintain at least an illusion of nory foy for now. By tomorrow morning it would be impossible to conceal the quartet's absence, but for now there was no reason to panic the other children. There was every chance they would find Scott, Jean, Kurt and Kitty whole and unharmed before then - or at least that's what she had been teg heg herself off and on for the last four hours.

She returned her attention to the computer screen before her, preparing to scroll past the local traffic reports, when something caught her eye. A small thing...or perhaps not. Two traffic obstructions, about three miles apart, on Graymalkin. That alone was nothing extraordinary. However, they had occurred almost simultaneously and cleared within minutes of each other. That was...unusual...in and of itself, but the fact that they had occurred no moran fan fifteen minutes after the children had left this morning....

_Charles?_ She felt his attention shift immediately to her and opened her mind to him, offering her findings for his consideration. _A coincidence, do you think?_

_Unfortunately,_ he answered, his mental voice somber, _that seems highly unlikely under the circumstances. I will notify Logan immediately._

Logan stood in the middle of the road, right where it led into the first sharp curve afteavieaving the main gate, and stared intently at the lay ski skid marks. He traced their path across the center line and into the dust and gravel of the narrow shoulder – almost completely unmarked dust and gravel. He let his eyes follow the path of the most recent marks, the sound of his boots clicking quietly on the hard surface of the road one of the few sounds to disturb the pre-dawn stillness.

He stopped abruptly at the edge of the road, eyes fixed on the spot where the tracks simply…ended. The marks were fresh – fresh enough that he could still smell the acrid stink of scorched rubber as as as a faint whiff of the unique stench of over-taxed brake drums. Fresh enough that the loose gravel and dirt at the road’s edge should be gouged and scored from the car’s erratic progress as it skidded off the road.

He turned and looked once more at the marks. Hardly a month went by without someone managing to lose control and cross the line on this curve. He probably wouldn’t have given the skid-marks here a second look if ‘Ro’s information hadn’t prompted him to walk this particular three-mile stretch of road – hell, he *hadn’t* given them a second look when he rode through here on his way out last night.

He wouldn’t have noticed that the last set of skid marks were a perfect match for the tires he’d helped Scooter put on his little red car less than a month ago. Wouldn’t have seen that the skid hadn’t been caused by the driver simply going too fast and losing control on the curve - his eyes once more traced the vivid marks across the pavement, this time focusing on the distinctive ‘scallop’ track left by a blown out tire. An almost brand new tire that he had checked not an hour before the kids had left this morning…yesterday morning now.

He growled low and deep in his chest as he stepped off the road, onto the unnaturally pristine surface of the shoulder. His hands clenched reflexively as he stopped in the center of the small area and dropped into a crouch. Eyes closed and nostrils flaring, he searched for any hint of what had gone on here.

Concentrating hard, he filtered out the ‘normal’ scents of the area and stretched his senses, searching for…what? He didn’t really know.

It took a moment, time in which he began to wonder if he was wasting his time, squatting here at the side of the road and sniffing like some kind of bizarre bloodhound. He was about to give up when he caught iShifShifting slightly to his left he homed in on it. Scooter and the Elf hadn’t been on the ground long – barely long enough to leave a scent that could last through the treatment this place had been given. He growled in frustration and shifted again, low to the ground and eyes still closed, as he tried to place the faint, bitter chemical aroma that overlay everything in the vicinity.

With a snarl of frustration he surged to his feet and moved a few pacesy. y. His hands again flexed at his sides as he struggled against the urge to pop his claws and shred something…anything.

"Fuck!" Something bad had gone down here. Four of his kid were missing and not only had he been unable to prevent it, he had no fucking idea who had done it, where they’d been taken or, perhaps most importantly, why. "FUCK!" he snarled again, and this time he *did* pop his claws, letting the brief, familiar surge of pain as they sliced through the thin skin between his knuc gro ground him in the here and now.

His nostrils flared again, this time in anger and frustration, as he tried to imagine what had taken place here, why he caught no hint of Half-Pint or Red anywhere, why and how the area had been so thoroughly sanitized….

The light breeze that had been playing gently through the trees and teasing at his unruly hair shifted slightly and he froze, head snapping up and around as he caught the bitter, chemical aroma that had overlain the boys’ scent coming more strongly from some bushes at the shoulder’s edge. Three long strides had him standing above the source of the strange scent.

_Probably some kinda fuckin’ tranq,_ he speculated as he crouched down and commenced to search for the source of the smell – though it took nearly five minutes of methodically combing the area before he turned it up. Finally, he pushed a clump of weeds aside and looked down at a small, gleaming metal fragment. Slightly curved and apparently made of aluminum, he felt his stomach clench as it confirmed his suspicions. It was, he was certain, a fragment from a detonated gas canister. He had little doubt that if there was enough chemical residue clinging to the metal for Poindexter to analyze, he’d find it had contained some kind of high-powered sedative.

Whoever had done this hadn’t taken any chances – gas was a hell of a lot faster and more effective than darting a target. They, whoever ‘they’ were, hadn’t wanted to run the risk that their quarry would remain conscious long enough to use their powers in self-defense *or* to summon help.

_Shit Jeannie, what did they do to you?_

It was hard to imagine something that could take the redhead down fast enough to keep her from contacting Chuck. Had they resorted to something more immediate and more…permanent…in dealing with her? He shook his head sharply, banishing such thoughts and reminding himself that there was no smell of blood here. If they’d shed blood there wasn’t a damn thing they could have done to conceal the scent from him. She was all right, they all were…they had to be.

"Fuckin’ bastards!"

Who the hell were they and why had they wanted the kids? It couldn’t be the FOH. Those dickwads weren’t organized or creative enough for this. They were more likely to just off the kids and run than to go through all this elaborate shit just to get their hands on a few ‘mutie scum’ without anyone finding out about it.

This was more like something Weapon X might have pulled in its heyday, but Weapon X had been closed down over a decade ago; its operatives dispersed and its research abandoned…or so he’d been told.

Logan didn’t even realize that he’d popped his claws until he found them buried up to the knuckles in a convenient tree, a menacing growl echoing through his chest. With considerable effort, he forced them to retract, feeling them slide past muscle, tendon and bone as they settled back into their housings in his forearms. He didn’t even bother trying to suppress the snarl though, just let it merge and blend with the stream of invective he let loose as he stalked back to his bike, two and a half miles down the road.

By the time he pulled his Harley to a stop at the shoulder five minutes later, the initial heat of his anger had faded, replaced by a cold determination to find his kids – and fuck Chuck and ‘Ro for sucking him into this, for making him *care* about the little shits – and take full payment out of the miserable hides of the sick fucks responsible for their disappearance.

He extracted a small plastic baggie from one of his saddle bags and loped back to where he’d left the metal fragment untouched. Wouldn’t do to contaminate it any more than had already happened. Inverting the bag around his hand like a glove, he carefully lifted the small, innocuous-looking bit of aluminum and held it before his eyes, wondering what, if anything, Poindexter would be able to learn from it – and stopped, face twisting in consternation as he picked up a new, yet somehow familiar, scent on it. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, ignoring the irritating chemical burn of whatever the canister had held, and concentrated on the faint, musky/oily scent that lingered beneath it.

Where…when…had he smelled he man who’d last held this before? Who the fuck was it? He let his mind wander, skimming rapidly and randomly through associations, looking for a trigger that would let him identify the scent.

The sharp, crisp scents of fall in the woods…damp leaves and fresh pine…the acrid stench of a fire not long extinguished…Blood…Pain…Rage…Fear…. A pair of blue eyes, wide with terror and staring at him across a few short yards of woodland, before rolling back as their owner collapsed bonelessly in the leaf-litter of a German forest, the scent of bodily effluvia rising sharply in the air, almost gagging him.

His eyes snapped open at the memory, a savage snarl ripping through him as his right-hand claws snapped out again, driving into the same hapless tree.

_Chuck? You there?_ It was an effort to form words past the red rage pulsing through his veins, even mentally, but he forced himself to reach out with his mind, projecting in the way Chuck had drilled into all of them.

_I am here, Wolverine. What have you found?_ He could ‘feel’ the psychic wince at the other end of the link as Chuck was buffeted by the force of his emotions and made an effort to rein in his temper.

_Ya ain’t gonna like it, Chuck – I sure as shit don’t!_

_I don’t expect to ‘like’ *anything* to do with the current situation, old friend,_ came the response. His mental touch was light and unobtrusive, but Logan could still feel the resignation and pain in his ‘words’.

_Got a scent on one of the fuckheads that took the kids – someone we’ve ‘met’ before._ He looked back down at the metal fragment still clutched in his left hand as he ‘spoke’. _Remember Winzeldorf?_ With that he opened his mind to his friend and mentor and sent him the details of what he’d found…and what he thought it meant.

He felt a quick surge of shock and dismay travel down the link and then suddenly nothing. He knew Chuck must be clamping down on his shields, struggling for calm before continuing this ‘conversation.’

He was proven right a moment later when the familiar voice ‘spoke’ again – calm once more. _Then they were, indeed, after Kurt. I feared as much at the time…_ His mental voice trailed off into momentary silence and Logan could almost hear the wheels turning in the other man’s mind as he ran through the possibilities this presented – none of them good.

_Are you through there, Wolverine? Or are there other things you wish to explore?_

_I want to search the forest ‘round here before I come back. I think they might’ve had a sniper out here somewhere if Iif I can find his nest I might be able to find some other clues. Shouldn’t take more’n another hour or two._

_As you wish Wolverine. I will send Storm to collect the metal fragment then - I would like Henry to begin analyzing it as soon as possible. Let me know if you find anything else._

_Will do Chuck._ He paused, wondering if he really wanted the answer to this question before he continued. _How far…?_ but he was cut off before he even had a chance to finish.

_I have, thus far, searched the entire Eastern Seaboard, including across the border into Canada. There is no sign of them anywhere in that area._ The mental voice was tight now, with frustration and worry.

_They’re not dead Chuck. No one would’ve gone to this amount of trouble just to kill ‘em, and there’s no scent of blood in the area. Whatever’s happened, they’re alive and we’re gonna find ‘em,_ he asserted with more confidence and optimism than he felt. It wasn’t that he thought they might actually be dead, it was that he was beginning to fear that they might almost be better off if they were.


He let his head drop with a barely suppressed groan of exhaustion. He didn't need to check the numbers flashing on the digital display before him to know that it was closer to dawn than to midnight - dawn of the second dayce tce they'd disappeared.

Charles reached wearily up and removed the Cerebro helmet from his aching head, grimacing in distaste at the sweat-soaked slickness of its lining. Rubbing his temples, he let his bleary eyes drift up to the blank screen which seemed to mock his inability to find them. They were his responsibility - his *children* - and he had failed them...lost them.... They were gone and he didn't have any idea who had them or where they'd been taken.

_The most powerful telepath in the world and yet, when four of my students were abducted virtually beneath my nose I had no clue._

He screwed his eyes shut against the wave of self-recrimination that rose at the thought and, hand shaking, dragged an already sweat-damp handkerchief across his glistening forehead.

_No time for self-pity or self-flagellation. It accomplishes nothing._ Drawing a shuddering breath, he finally checked the clock's blinking digital display - 4:53a.m., Monday morning. A scarce three hours before he would have to call the school and relay a carefully constructed lie justifying the absence of all of his students for the foreseeable future. Under the circumstances, it had been decided that it was best to keep all of the children confined to the grounds. He was not about to risk any of the others when he had just lost four of his charges to a nameless and faceless adversary.

It was scant consolation to believe that, whatever had happened, they were still alive. An enemy that had, according to the limited evidence available, been observing them for months, obviously had much more elaborate plans in mind than mere murder - and his blood ran cold at the thought. Logan's rising fear that a re-constituted Weapon X might be involved in some way was chilling.

Hands somewhat steadier for a few minutes of rest, Charles replaced the Cerebro helmet and prepared to resume his search. He knew he should probably heed his own advice and rest as Henry and Ororo were doing. However, he couldn't seem to escape the conviction that 'just a few more minutes' of searching would finally yield results - even though it had now been almost thirty-four hours since his search began. Thirty-four hours filled with endless repetitions of that phrase - 'just a few more minutes.' Thirty-four hours during which he had slept not at all and eaten only when food had been placed before him. During which he had only left the Cerebro chamber to hear Logan's report and to confer with the others on their plf acf action...as well as to deal with 'necessities.'

Perhaps he would finally be able to rest when he knew the search was being carried on by others...perhaps... Horrifying as the implications were, it had been decided late last night that Henry and Logan might have uniquely useful connections to aid in their search. First thing this morning, Henry would begin contacting his many friends and acquaintances in the scientific community, both professional and academic. He would be looking for information on any individuals with an extreme or...unhealthy...interest in mutants or mutant genetics. Logan, on the other hand, planned to use his contacts with S.H.I.E.L.D. - specifically its Director, Nick Fury - to explore the possibility that some incarnation of the Weapon X program might be in operation again. The possibilities raised by either line of inquiry were...difficult to contemplate.

Pushing the memory of failure away, Charles stretched out his awareness. Across the vast emptiness of the Atlantic, until he came to the mental din of the British Isles and, beyond them, Europe. He had exhausted the possibilities in North America and, as they had apparently encountered at least one member of this phantom organization less than a year ago in Germany, Europe seemed the next logical step.

Two more hours...just two more hours...and then he'd rest.

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Sorry for the distinct lack of Kurt-ness here, he'll be back in the next chapter...kind of. The angst will certainly be back anyway, and then some. Also, if you made it this far *please* review - and feel free to be as critical as you want. I'm a big girl, I can take it.