Summary: The stage is set...

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

Back in Nevada, the city that sins, continues much the way it always has. Visitors drink and gamble in the smokey gauze that slips like mist throughout the casino floor. Trees less inclined to spend their time gambling, take to clubs, and dance floors, swaying and gyrating like it was their last days alive. In the darker, less traveled parts of the city, crime goes on, unhindered. Mobs take what they believe is theirs, while Trees pray for mercy. Mercy is not a thing that exists in the city known for its sin. Retribution is swift, but it is not painless – a warning, for any others. Do not cross, do not forget, the world is not meant for you, that's what these punishments signify.

But even there, in the darkest alleys, where the light seems unable to penetrate, there is hope. A squat Canadian pine retracts his adamantium needles with a SNNKT, and another Tree, lithe and limber falls to the ground, sap oozing down his trunk. There are three stark gashes, one to his face, the others his torso. Lips turn blue under the pale moon's watch, and the beauty of Las Vegas's skyline, is lost to him forever.

Behind a dumpster, a third tree shakes. Her canopy is tousled, her branches shook. She breathes heavy, puffs of mist condensing around her mouth as her breaths mix with Vegas's humidity. She clutches a vine purse close to her heartswood, her eyes bigger than the moon that watches from above as more and more sap pools around the fallen tree. It nears her roots, and with a yelp she recoils, receding further into the darkness. She does not know if the Tree that has helped her is friend or foe; she doesn't want to find out. And so, with a rattle of her branches, she jolts to her roots, turns, and sprints down the alley. Not once does she bother to look back.

She'd heard tales. Of them. The mutated. The cursed. The freaks. Trees with inexplicable powers; capable of manipulating ones mind. Another able to call upon the elements and bend them to her will. She's heard rumors of cannibalism, and terrible acts of violence. Some of her family believe the state propaganda; the X-Trees are terrorists.

But now, as she makes her way onto the strip, the vast neon lights splashing down on her like pools of the rainbow, she's not sure how to feel. On on branch, she was saved, certainly; on the other, could the X-tree have been plotting a fate worse than that? Was he not satisfied with the sap that dripped down his claws? Would he have thirsted for hers as well?

A shudder crawls up her trunk, and she slips into the first bar that has its doors open. Drunken patrons spill onto the sidewalk, and she pushes past them brusquely, eager to quell her nerves, to calm her mind, to drink and forget about what had happened, and what could have happened.

The X-Trees, she's certain, are not all bad, but neither are they all good.

*

Log-an looks annoyingly at the corpse at his roots. One more to add to the growing list. How many had that made? In all his agonizingly long years, was this his hundredth kill? Or thousandth? He blows out, and the itch, that insatiable urge for a cigar, makes his stomach clench. His branch-fingers go rigid. Who he's killed, and how many, don't matter. He was just doing what he was made to do; and being damn good at it.

Charles knew it; Charles wanted it. No matter how he didn't want to admit it, Charles wanted a killer, ruthless, merciless, someone to die and fight and die again for their cause if need be.

Log-an snickers, a cigar seemingly materializing out of nowhere from beneath his spiked canopy. He places it deftly in his mouth, never minding the sap stuck to his fingers. In a matter of seconds, flames as bright and red as the neon lights outside of the Venetian Theater, dance across the tip. The first inhale is heaven, or, at least, the closest thing Log-an believes himself capable of getting. He will never be allowed in Heaven; it wasn't a place for murderers.

He would be given to the dirt and made to rot, over and over again, until he grew too mangled, too incapable of being put back together. Until his mutant powers no longer mattered. Until he was dust, blown away, scattered, and forgotten.

As it should be.

He takes another inhale, before dragging the body behind a dumpster for one of the cops to stumble upon come morning. Then he turns, and glances up at the marquee.

Dazzler tonight!

Ali-cat, he thinks, and his fingers curl in on themselves until his nails are digging into his palms. The wounds heal instantaneously.

She was about to take the stage, and enchant hundreds of thousands, and here he was lumbering in the shadows, a monster sent to make all the other monsters cower. He breathes out, takes a few heavy steps toward the main street, then hunches over to pick up a bouquet of flowers. White lilies.

Ali's favorite.

Their petals litter the alley, the stems squashed and oozing. He tosses the trampled bouquet into the dumpster, beside the corpse, and heads toward the Venetian.

He tried to be good. Tried to give Ororo and Ali what they wanted, what they saw in him. But he was so scarred and split, and all the healing in the world wasn't enough to make him whole.

He loved them, he truly did. But they belonged in the spotlight; and he the shadows.

His walk to the Venetian is laborious, and the few shots of whiskey he had after a brief stop at a nearby dive bar, are slowly fading. In front of him is Ali's room, a bright, gold star painted on the door. Roadies flitter past like annoying moths, lugging equipment to the stage. An hour to go, and there wouldn't be a corner of the world that didn't know Alison Blaire's name. She would stun them all; he knew it.

She'd certainly stunned him, all the good that did for her. Sometimes, he thinks he does more harm than good, though Ali would be the first to dismiss that kind of 'stupid' talk. But she hadn't known him for long, hadn't joined the X-trees until after Jean Redwood had—

Log-an stops pacing, his hands flexing into fists. Teeth grind down upon teeth and he can hear the sound, so loud, it echoes in his head.

Jean. He remembers her last moments alive. How the breathing apparatus rose slowly up and down, up and down, how it imbued the room with a low, haunting buzz – it reminded him of a dance he'd learned in Okinawa. And then, he remembers most vividly, how it all stopped. Suddenly, there was no up and down, no soft buzzing. Just a second of silence before the screaming and crying suffocated them all.

Having the ability to recall every moment of one's life, rendered in such relentless detail, and being cursed to live longer than most, was hell. That's why he was sure, none awaited him when he did die; it would be nothingness. That moment of silence when everything stops, stretched a thousand-fold, until it echoed inside him, it gnawed away at him, it begged him for everything he had left, and he only too eagerly acquiesced.

Because what did it matter if he fed the abyss? There'd be nothing left for him then.

"Dark thoughts again, Log-an?"

Ororo's voice is just as soothing as her presence. Log-an had sniffed her scent -- that of fresh rain on an early spring day in the air-- long before she glided toward him down the corridor, her bright white canopy swaying to a continual wind. Even though he'd known her for years; she never stopped being breathtaking. No wonder back in Africa she'd been worshipped as a goddess; they certainly would have been stupid otherwise.

Log-an shakes his head and grunts, "You developing Charles's mind-reading powers too?"

She gives him a slight smile, and then gives him one brief glance, and in the moment, he knows she has seen beneath his bark and glimpsed his ugliness. Her gaze had always been the most penetrative. "Dark thoughts cloud the expression."

She reaches out, and with a kind, slender branch-finger, strokes his arm. This simple act, this one touch, is enough to ignite his world. Her warmth reminds him he is not yet dead, that the cold and darkness that awaits him, has not yet descended.

He is alive, for the time being, though he does not know if he will ever be worthy of it.

Ororo's loving gaze flits over to Ali-cat's door. "She would love to see you before she goes on stage."

Log-an harrumphs, and with one shrug, he moves too far for Ororo's warmth to retake him. The distance is one that could easily be closed, but neither of them move to do so. Ororo was all-too aware of his boundaries, and never sought to push their limit. It was a kindness only she bestowed upon him, and one he would be grateful to until his last breath.

He shakes his head. Again, his fingers tremble. He needs to do something with them, and so, he shoves them in his pockets, picking at the lint, his mouth dry as he craves another cigar. "You know I wouldn't know what to say."

Ororo hugs her trunk. "Sentiment doesn't always have to be conveyed through words."

He smacks his tongue off the roof of his mouth, a hollow echo rings out. "I'd make it worse, Ororo. You know that. Always do."

Two roadies pass by. Amps sway in their large, branch arms. They're twice Log-an's size, arms thick with muscle. They smell of scotch, and for the briefest of seconds, Log-an thinks about chasing them down and asking for the bottle. As though Ororo knows what he is thinking, her gaze follows the roadies down the hall until they disappear behind the backstage door.

The scent of alcohol abates, though Log-an's desire for it only grows.

"It'd make her feel better just seeing you." Ororo turns, and when she does, her smile, while still kind, is imploring.

A low, guttural chuckle falls from his mouth. His hands strangle invisible enemies with such force his knuckles crack. Lines skitter across his bark, only to mend in mere milliseconds. The sap clots before it has time to run. Residue from his earlier run-on stains his branch-fingers. "I bought her lilies."

Ororo's smile widens. "Her favorite."

"They got trampled after I took pursuit of a purse thief." Her smile stiffened as Log-an continued, his gaze, newly affixed on the backstage door. "He was gonna do something bad, Ororo."

A delicately carved eyebrow arches over those all-knowing, and sometimes damning eyes. "Steal another purse?"

"Somethin' worse. I smelled it on him. Alcohol and rage and rot. It stunk like the shit at the bottom of the sewers. I cornered him in an alley. Had a little Tree on the ground. They were crying, his fingers were twitching and I—" His gaze drifted down to his hands, and the three nubs of each of them were his needles retracted and extended from. He ground his teeth, jaw tense. "I did the only thing I'm good for."

At this, Ororo took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them. Her smell was sweet, and Log-an was tired, he wanted to rest. Lay his head on her shoulder, let her fingers work their way through his canopy. But such peace was easier to dream of then make into reality.

"That," she says, a noticeable edge in her voice. She looks at him, and only him, the wind in her canopy stalling. She is tall and imposing, rigid. A true queen. "is not," thunder crackles in her voice, "the only thing you are good for." Her lips touch his, soft and supple.

This time, when he goes to pull away, she does not let him. "A hundred years," she continues, her voice a gentle breeze as it floats into his ears, "or a thousand. We all get a lifetime. And in that lifetime, we determine who we are, what we are, and how we will be remembered." Her hand reaches up, caresses his jaw, and turns him so he is facing her. "You might have a been a murderer once, but that is not who I see standing before me. An X-tree. A leader. The man I love. Unshackle yourself from this fear and live freely. Haven't you earned that at least?"

He chews his lip, his mouth as dry as sawdust from all the regret and frustration, but eventually the words form. "You weren't always beside me. You haven't seen—"

"I've seen enough," she cuts him off, leans down, and plants another kiss on his lips. The words melt on his tongue and fall back into his throat. She pulls away, and the smile she shows him is brighter than a hundred suns.

"Go to Alison. Wish her good luck." A swift nudge of her branches pushes him forward. "With or without the lilies, she'd love to see you."

With a grunt, Log-an trudges forward. He stands face to face with Ali's door. Taking a deep breath, he relaxes his hands, and gives it a knock.

He's met with that chipper, familiar giddy voice, it's warmth washing over him. He's not one step in the door, before Ali's branch-arms are encircling him in a hug. "Log-an!" Ali's canopy spirals around him in golden ringlets. "I'm so glad you're here." She nuzzles his neck. "I'll have to thank Ororo later."

A grin splits her lips when they pull away. The slightest flush colors Log-an's bark. "You knew?"

"She's the only one able to convince you to do something without leveraging smokes or booze."

He nods, and without looking at her says, "Good luck, Ali-cat."

She doesn't need the words. Because Ali-cat doesn't need luck.

But she smiles anyway, shimmering silver balls hovering around her shoulders and trunk. "Thank you." They burst into rainbows, raining color down around them, their existence brief, but glorious. A lifetime, no matter how short or long is all we're given to decide how we live, and how we're remembered. Tonight, Log-an would choose to remember the warmth and the colors, not the coldness and the dark. And certainly not the corpses.