Six weeks later

"I don't have any." Paul said. "I don't have any
money right now! I swear it."

Kirstoff hauled him close, twisting his hand in Paul's
collar until he choked. This close, he could feel
just how much Kristoff hated him. His contempt. Paul
closed his eyes and twisted his face aside, stomach
churning. God, don't let him puke on the man. He get
killed. "With that ass of yours, I find it hard to
believe. You been paying me fine all along. What's
wrong now? To much smack?"

"No. N-no, Kris." Paul tried to jerk away. "No.
I've - been sick. Couldn't work. You don't want me
puking all over the tricks, do you?"

"I don't give a shit what you do - I want my money!"
Kristoff shoved him back and Paul stumbled into the
grimy wall of the cheap apartment his pimp lived in.
He started sidling for the door. "You get it or you're
gonna pay out of your skin! Stupid whore! You're
fucking liver is worth more than you are!"

"I don't have it!" Paul cried. Kristoff punched him.
"No!"

Furious, Kristoff pounced on him, shoving Paul to the
floor and kicking him in the ribs. "Who the hell you
telling no, you bitch!"

Then his pimp was on him, punching him, kicking. The
man had a lot of weight behind his fists and he was
used to using it. Paul didn't fight back. He never
did, he'd learned better a long time ago. Paul curled
up on the floor, hiding his face in his hands. His
eye was already swelling from the first blow.
Kristoff was wrenching at his jeans, going through his
pockets. He threw the condoms aside with a curse.

"Where the fuck is the money, fucker?" Kristoff's
hands were shaking. He was desperate for his next
hit. Paul realized that he had been depending on him
to get the money for it.

"I don't have it! I don't have it! I'll get some - I
swear. God - Kris - don't hit me! Don't -"

Another kick and he was choking, gorge rising. Paul
crawled desperately away, hand over his mouth. He
really was sick. Had been puking every day for a week
and pretty much given up on eating. Kristoff chased
after him and caught his jeans, ripping the back
pocket off.

"You think you're gonna get away from me?" He yelled
in Paul's ear. "You think there's anywhere to go?
Where the hell you gonna go? Huh? No one wants you,
you devil-eyed freak! No one is gonna save you!"

Kristoff yanked Paul's pants down. Whimpering,
struggling not to vomit, Paul let the other man push
him to his knees. He was shoved face down onto the
filthy carpet, Kristoff straddled his hips. "Lift
that ass you stupid whore. You know how!"

Tears burning in his eyes, Paul did as he was told.
Kristoff rammed into him and he screamed. Kristoff
laughed, grinding deep and hard. Coughing, Paul
struggled weakly, hating the way he was feeling.
Feeling what Kristoff was feeling. Liking it because
Kristoff did. He began to cry when he started to get
hard. The pimp began to laugh.

"That's right, bitch. You know what you are - just
some cheap whore." He kept pounding into Paul's ass,
battering him, making him bleed. "You - get - my -
money. You - get - out - there - and - get - my -
money."

Paul wanted to die. He clawed at the carpet, dizzy
and being cruelly wrenched back and forth, he vomited.
Tried to push himself out of the mess, ears ringing
as Kristoff yelled in his ear.

"Goddamm you!" Kristoff slammed his fist on the back
of Paul's head. He stiffened and came then pulled
out. Kicked Paul as he lay there. "Puking on my
carpet. Stupid bitch - I'm gonna gut you!"

He meant it. Kristoff was half crazy, temper fried
under his need for his next hit and blaming it all on
Paul. He pulled a knife and Paul could feel how much
he wanted to use it. Multi-colored sparks danced
along the silver edge of the cheap blade. Paul
stared, pants around his knees, at the hypnotic
glitter.

"Stupid!" Kristoff yelled pulling Paul up by his
hair. He stabbed him in the side and Paul screamed.
"Stupid, stupid freak! To stupid to fight. To
fucking stupid to live! I'm gonna kill you. I'm
gonna cut you to pieces! My fucking dog is smarter
than you!"

Blood pouring down his side, Paul lashed out
convulsively, managing to push Kristoff away. Fought
his way to his feet despite the roaring in his ears
and the sick pain spreading through him. If he didn't
get away, Kristoff would kill him. Stumbled on his
jeans, hauled them up and staggered for the door.

"Don't you run away from me!" Kristoff chased after
him. He caught Paul's wrist, lashing out with his
knife. "You ain't gonna get away from me!"

"No! Help me! Somebody -" Paul yelled, knowing it
was useless. No one helped anyone. He threw up his
hand as the knife came down, yelled at the bright pain
and the spatter of blood across Kristoff's pricey Nike
workout suit. He managed to haul the door open and
weeping with pain and fear, kicked Kristoff in the
balls. He felt the pain nearly as intensely as
Kristoff did.

The man doubled over with a howl. Paul raced for the
stairs, arm wrapped around his ribs, feeling the blood
pour down his body. He was hurt. Hurt bad. He
didn't dare stop. Half falling, he made his way down
the stairs, hearing Kristoff gasping curses after him.
It was cold out and Paul nearly fell.

Leaning against the concrete balustrade, Paul looked
helplessly up and down the street. A late night
jogger saw him and made a large arc around him,
avoiding his eyes.

"Please - " Paul whispered. Shivering, he started
down the sidewalk, cringing as the winter wind bit
agonizingly into the open wound on his hand. He was
getting dizzy and desperately cold and - there was
blood everywhere. Sticky on his pants, dripping off
his numb fingers, a little pool along his forearm
where he was clutching himself.

He stumbled along, swaying, knowing that if he fell he
wouldn't be able to get up. He didn't know where to
go. Didn't know where the hospital was. Couldn't
find a cop to help him. He choked on a laugh - for
the first time in his life he wanted to see a cop.
The cold and weakness drove him, finally into the
shelter of a phone booth. Paul stared at the battered
phone for a long moment, then fumbled in his jacket.

**************************

"Hello?" Scott rubbed his eyes and resettled his
goggles on his face. He'd been sound asleep -
everyone had been. But Charles demanded that a live
voice always answer the school phone - it could be the
difference between a hang-up and a rescue - it had
been Scott who'd finally dragged himself out of bed to
quiet the ringing.

"Wanna t-talk to Remy." Someone whispered. "Remy - "

The thready drift of the unknown voice woke Scott
right up. "Sure - I can get Remy for you. Are you
okay there, who are you?"

Panting. "R-remy said - I could call. Who are you?"

"My name's Scott. I'm a friend of Remy's. Tell me
your name." He tried again.

"Paul. He said -" The voice drifted off completely
for a moment. "I want Remy."

"Paul. Okay, Paul." Scott kicked the edge of his bed
and Jean sat up. He jerked his head towards the door
and mouthed Remy's name. The possible emergent mutant
power Cerebro had detected recently. "Paul? Paul are
you still there? Hey - talk to me Paul. Where are
you?"

"Phone booth." Paul said shakily. "Un - he said I
could call."

"That's right, Paul." Scott said quickly. "Where are
you? What street? We can come get you - just tell us
where you are. I'm Remy's friend, I want to help you
too."

"Remy said -" Paul went silent and nothing Scott
yelled into the phone got him to talk again.

"Dammit!" Scott left the line open and contacted the
security room through the house comm. "Trace the
call! Trace it!"

"Already started." Logan's voice. Thank god he'd
been the one manning security tonight. "City
location, public phone - ah - seventy first and
Lincoln. That was the kid we met, Slim. His voice.
Didn't sound good."

"We'll get him, Logan. Wake Hank up, and send Bobby
to the garage, we'll take the new van. I want Remy
with us since Paul seemed to remember him."

"Got it."

Scott threw on his uniform and by the time he had the
van ready, Bobby was fitting the med-kit into the
back under Hank's watchful eye. Remy jogged in last,
dragging that coat, climbed in the passenger seat and
Scott gunned the engine and headed down to 71 and
Lincoln as fast as he dared.

"So w'ats the story?" Remy was already lighting up,
glanced as Scott and rolled down the window. There'd
already been a few lectures about that and unlike
Logan, Remy seemed willing to comply.

"Paul gave a us a call." Scott said while Bobby hung
over the back seat to listen. "He didn't sound good,
asked for you, then - stopped talking."

Remy shook his head. "De boy's on de street.
Anyt'ing could happen to him."

Scott sighed and flattened the accelerator. "We'll
get there."

"Why Bobby?"

"Hey -!" The teenager protested.

Remy was flicking his thumbnail on his cigarette
nervously, scattering ashes. "Jus - could be ugly,
Fearless."

"We'll see when we get there and Hank's been training
Bobby as a medic. He needs the experience." Scott
left unsaid the fact that this pick-up was likely to
be simple.

"I'm part of the team to, you know." Bobby grumbled.
"Not just a mascot."

"Der times, Ice cube, when bein' part o' de team ain't
all it's cracked up to be." Remy said.

Scott frowned at the dark streets, taking the corners
as fast as he dared. The new van had Hank's patented
high powered electric engine and was as silent and
responsive as a big black van could be. He missed the
instant, loving response of the Blackbird but - there
were times and places for a stealth jet and this
wasn't one of them.

"He probably just got hit by a car -" Bobby said into
the silence. "I mean - that's what Hank says is the
most common accident in a big city. Even more than
getting mugged."

"Less you're a mut'ant." Remy said gloomily.

"Then it's suicide." Bobby responded. "And he
wouldn't be calling after that."

Remy grunted and stared out the window, chain smoking.
The thief was fidgeting, nervous enough to show it.
Scott knew Wolverine and Gambit hadn't told them
everything when they'd given their report after
contacting the young mutant. It obviously hadn't gone
well but they'd assured the professor that no one had
gotten hurt - 'hadn't gotten into a smackdown' as
Logan put it.

"Is there something I should know?" Scott asked
quietly.

The thief's mouth quirked and he looked curiously at
the field leader. "Quoi?"

"About this young man Paul. Anything that you and
Logan might have - forgotten - to tell us the first
time?"

Remy smiled. "You're getting tact'ful. Hard for dis
swamp rat to believe. Non. Nothing you need to know,
Fearless."

Growing up with two telepaths had left Scott with
certain shortages in his personal skills. He couldn't
tell of Remy was lying to him or not. He gritted his
teeth and regretted sending Gambit and Wolverine as a
team. If they were lying, neither Jean nor Charles
had been able to tell. The two odd-balls, a former
thief and a former assassin, it was so hard to trust
them. And that, Scott knew, made it hard for them to
trust him. He sighed. It had to start somewhere.

"Alright." He said mildly and concentrated on his
driving.

71st and Lincoln was in the meat market. But this
late, even the red light district was pretty deserted
and Scott pulled to a cautious halt across the street
and just around the corner of the supposed phone
booth. His paranoia had kept the team alive for
years. Remy swung out, buttoning up his kevlar and
leather duster up to his neck. Two cards were tucked
between his fingers, just in case. Bobby scrambled
out, frost glittering on his hair.

"Stay with the van." Scott told him. He
sub-vocalized into the mike. "Wolverine we're a block
and a half from the source. Everything looks quiet."

He got a grunt in response, which didn't mean Logan
wasn't paying close attention. He shadowed Remy as
the thief slunk around the corner and they peered down
the street. A lone phone booth was at the far end of
the block, the street was deserted. Scott waited for
Remy's all clear as the thief scanned the rooftops and
alleyways. The Cajun's night vision was acute and
Scott's sucked. Scott brushed his finger over the
release on his visor, hoping he wouldn't need it.
Maybe this would be just a simple pick up for once.

"Bien." Remy murmured, voice echoing in both Scott's
radio and his ears. Approaching the phone booth,
Scott could see that the sidewalk around it was wet.
Scott squinted at it. Remy froze. "Moi Deiu -"

He broke into a run, sprinting down the block towards
the empty looking phone booth.

"What?" Scott chased after him. "What?"

"Das blood!" Remy yelled. "Iceman, you get dat kit
'ere now!"

It was a frightening amount of blood pooled on the
sidewalk and the booth wasn't empty after all. Remy
rattled the glass and aluminum door, the body huddled
on the floor kept it from opening. "Merde!"

"Move!" Scott snapped and took two quick shots at the
hinges. Remy caught the door and threw it aside with
a crash.

"Hurry up, Iceman." Scott said over the com. He
heard panting from Bobby's channel as he knelt next to
Remy.

"Is this Paul?" He asked.

"Oui - Paul!" Remy wiped a hank of greasy dark hair
back from the white face. The young man didn't stir.
"He still alive, Cyclops."

"Right. Let's keep it that way. You take the legs."

Scott eased his arms under the boy - quickly getting
his uniform covered in blood. The entire floor of the
phone booth was slick with it. They shifted the limp
body out of the cramped booth and laid him out on the
sidewalk. The boy was thin, lighter than he should be
and greenish white from blood loss. His head rolled
limply on Scott's arms. Remy opened his jean jacket
as Bobby came running up with the kit.

"Lord." Scott breathed. The kid's T-shirt was soaked
with blood. The thief peeled up the sticky cloth and
they found the narrow wound in his side, just below
the ribs.

"Dis a knife wound." He said. "Gone deep."

Scott was searching the body, looking for other
injuries. "Get the pressure bandages for the side,
Iceman."

"I know -!" Bobby slung the med-kit off and opened it
up. He handed over the bandages so Remy and Scott
could wrap the wound. "Beast?"

Scott couldn't hear the doctor's radio response but
Bobby nodded and began describing the scene and the
unconcouis form spread out on the sidewalk while
taking the kid's pulse and checking his breathing.
Then he paused and looked helplessly around.

"What?" Scott asked. They'd found the gash in the
boy's hand, bones were visible and he winced. He
started on that. "What's he want?"

"Says he needs an estimate of the blood loss." Bobby
looked at the drying blood on the sidewalk. "I - I
don't know, Hank. I didn't see him bleeding. We
didn't talk about this!"

"T'ree, mebee four pints." Remy said shortly.

Bobby relayed it and Scott filed away the thief's
response for later. "Let's get him into the van and
back home. I'm not finding any other wounds."

"Wait -!" Bobby reached down and explored the kid's
head. He peeled back his eyes to shine a little light
in them and sat back, dismayed. "His pupils don't
react at all. I couldn't find a head injury though -
Beast?"

Scott waited impatiently. He watched Remy reach out
and wipe the traces of vomit off the young mutant's
face. The thief's expression was absolutely blank but
his fingers very gentle as he tried to clean the boy
up.

Bobby nodded. "He says we should move him into the
van - um, as long as there's no neck or spine damage."

"Not that we can find. Let's get moving. I'm just
waiting for the cops to show. Eventually, they'll
even come here." Scott and Remy took the boy while
Bobby ran back to open the van and pull down the
medical bay.

The got the kid into the van, Scott joined Bobby in
back while Remy slid behind the wheel and started them
back home. Putting the monitors on him, Scott saw the
needle marks running up both arms and sighed. He just
hoped the boy hadn't od'ed on top of everything else.
Bobby relayed the information in a shaky voice. The
van swayed around a turn, equipment rattling in the
back.

"His blood pressure's way down - " Scott watched the
monitors for a moment. "But stable. This kid's going
to need blood."

Hank's voice crackled in his ear. "We can only hope I
have a supply he can tolerate. There is a pint of
hypo-allergenic plasma in the kit - Bobby, start him
on an IV. Let Scott find the vein, an addict's veins
are not a positive first field experience."

Scott finally managed a vein in the kids uninjured
right hand. Between the blood loss and the needle
marks, there hadn't' been much to work with.

"Why are his pants down?" Bobby asked, looking at
Scott like he knew the answer but was hoping someone
would tell him he was wrong.

"Help me turn him over." Scott said shortly. They
rolled the kid over, careful of the IV and Scott eased
the bloody jeans lower. He'd been raped and was still
bleeding. "Get me some jelly, Bobby."

"Why - ?" Bobby stared as Scott probed as gently as
he could.

"So I can make sure there's nothing - that his rapist
didn't leave an object in him." Scott couldn't feel
anything critical and the bleeding wasn't severe
enough to suggest serious injuries.

"Oh - " Bobby said, staring at the slow seep of blood
and Scott peeling the latex gloves off his hands
angrily. "Oh - excuse me -"

Scott scowled as he turned away, grabbed a plastic bag
vomited. "Why don't you go up front. He's stable for
now."

Bobby, nearly as green as their patient, shook his
head and swallowed hard. "No. No - I'm okay. I can
do this."

Remy drove like a maniac. Scott stayed in the back
where he couldn't see anything and trusted the thief's
abnormal reflexes and night vision. Anything to get
this kid into Hank's hands sooner. He watched the
shallow breathing and the blood pressure creep down.
The pressure bandage had slowed the external bleeding
but who knew about anything inside. The bare chest
was too thin, making it hard to judge age but he
looked easily under twenty. Far to young to die
nameless and alone in a phone booth.

Bobby fidgeted, pressing the kid's fingernails to
watch the too slow return of color. "Isnt' there
anything else we -?"

"No."

The gurney was portable and when they reached the
mansion, Jean floated it quickly to the med-lab.
Under the bright flourecents, the young man looked
worse.

"My goodness - my goodness gracious." Hank sounded
flustered but his hands were sure as they transferred
the limp form onto a treatment bed and he cut away the
sodden clothes. Ororo was already prepping a surgical
package and Jean had scrubbed up. Scott nodded
briefly at her and felt her attention in his mind
before she turned back to the patient.

Hank checked the kid's pupils first, concerned about
Bobby's report. Scott watched him frown and check
again. "Jean, my dear, would you please assist me?"

Being field leader, Scott got to indulge his curiosity
now and then. He peered over Ororo's shoulder. The
kid's eyes were brown, and fixed, blank as a dead
man's. Then Jean carefully reached down and pressed a
fingertip to his eyeball.

"Jean -!" Scott said, wincing. She lifted her finger
away and a small cup of brown and white came with it.

"My sweet stars."

"Um - right." Scott stared down at the very familiar
red and black eye that had been hidden underneath the
contact lens. "Right."

Hank shook his massive head as Jean removed the other
lens and put them both in a cup with a little saline
solution. "That's for later, shoo - shoo now."

"Come on, Bobby." Scott shook his head in wonder and
picked up the torn clothes to take to the incinerator.
There wasn't anything else to do besides wait for
news - and find Remy. Bobby followed, scrubbing at
the blood on his hands. It was silent in the
elevator, with Bobby clutching a towel and staring at
the floor.

"It's really bad." He asked. "Isn't it?"

Bobby looked so terribly young. Scott reached out and
squeezed his shoulders. "You did really well. If he
lives it will be because of you."

"If he lives - " Bobby said softly, bitterly. "That
guy is younger than me! I mean my Dad hates that I'm
a mutant - he won't let anyone mention it - but he
never put me out on the street to die!"

You were lucky, Scott thought, but didn't say it. You
were very lucky.

"That's why were doing what we're doing, Bobby.
Because most people aren't as brave as your father."
He said instead.

TBC