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A single glass of water. That's all it was. Just a small cup, full of water. Nothing more. Then why was it so hard to take my eyes off of it?

I knew the answer. And the more I thought about it, the more I wanted the water.

It had been four days since they had let me drink anything. The last substance they filled my cup with was vinegar, which I refused after tasting it. I now regretted that decision, as my throat itched and screamed for anything to drink. My skin was excruciatingly dry - I wanted to feel the cup in my hands, the condensation on the glass satisfying my parched skin cells, the first choking gulp of the water quenching my thirst. I could almost feel the ice-cold droplets against my lips, moisturizing them and cleaning them from the sweat that fell from my face...

I was driving myself insane. I wished the water was gone from my sight; it would at least put me at ease to know there was no water within my reach.

Well, if I can't drink it, I need to get rid of it.

Ignoring the guards on either side of the room, I began walking to the table with the cup. My feet moved with purpose, my hands clenched into fists as I neared my target. My throat burned with each step I took; My body was begging me to chug down the water, while my mind was set on eliminating it from my sight.

The guards were quick to aim their guns at me, probably as they had never seen me so determined before. One of them called out my number, telling me to back away from the table and return to my position. I drowned them out - they couldn't torment me any more than the water could.

Without hesitation, I grabbed the cold glass and thrust it towards the ground.

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

My eyes broke open in a desperate need to escape the memories. A faint ringing echoed in my ears, but I barely noticed it. Air entered and exited my lungs at a painful rate as my heard pounded in my chest. My hands were gripping something soft, almost like a delicate fabric...

All I could see was wood. Dark, mahogany wood, several feet above me. A ceiling? I thought. I turned my head downwards, finding myself in a bedroom that looked to fit six people. Two windows let in an abundance of sunlight, bright enough to blur my vision of what was outside. I was in a twin sized bed with white sheets, grabbing them as if my were hanging on for dear life.

Finding the environment somewhat safe, I relaxed my muscles and let my head fall back into the pillow. Where am I?

Looking to the nightstand on my right, I saw several things: alcohol swabs, medical tape, a book, and a small glass of water. I cringed at it, trying to push back the memories of a parched throat and chapped lips. Instead I looked towards the book, labeled The Fantastic Mr. Fox. The cover showed a man smoking a pipe, reminding me of Sherlock Holmes.

I snapped back from my thoughts, focusing on finding out where I was. I need to get up...

I tried to position myself to sit up - a sharp, stinging pain shot through my right side, making me gasp and fall back onto the bed. I looked down and noticed my arm in a black, sturdy sling; around my shoulder was a blood-stained bandage, and I just noticed the pulsing ache coming from it. I brushed my fingers across it, feeling the difference between the rough gauze and the stained fabric. There were two strips of medical tape holding it down, though rather poorly.

"... the hell..." I whispered.

"Logan's waiting downstairs for you."

I jumped at the voice. In the opposite corner of the room, I noticed a figure on a bed. Their head was leaning against the wall, and from the long, black hair that fell from it, I assumed they were a girl. She was wrapped in a purple blanket, and her eyes were hidden by a small bandage. It blocked me from seeing any subtle emotion on her face.

"Where am I?" I asked, studying her form.

"Charles Xavier's School for Higher Learning." she answered me flatly. "Or, to be more specific, floor C, room 38, bunker 2. But that's not important to remember."

I faltered. "What?"

The girl sighed, directing her seemingly empty face towards me. "Charles Xavier's School for Higher Learning. Basically, a Mutant school."

"Alright... who are you?"

"Ruth Aldine; my Mutant name is Blindfold, but everyone just calls me Ruth."

I continued to stare at her, confused and a bit irritated. Nothing was making any sense. I was stuck in a room with a blindfolded girl who was possibly reading my mind, in some 'Mutant School.' My arm seemed to have nearly been torn from my shoulder. I couldn't remember anything from the day before, as my head ached uncomfortably from a bruise near my neck. So how did I get here? I thought.

Suddenly, I remembered; the President; the sirens; Agent Davis; the fight. It all rushed back into my mind, and forced my eyes wide with shock.

I turned back to Ruth. "What happened to Nixon?"

She laughed. "Don't know, don't care. He's probably stowed away after they broke Erik out."

Erik? I thought, puzzled. I looked at my aching shoulder, remembering the events of the security breach.

"Logan will give you new bandages." she continued to speak, almost reading my mind.

"Are you going to tell me who Logan is?" I said; the words came out harsher than I intended to be.

Ruth scoffed. "Go find out for yourself, unless you plan on staying in bed with those old bandages all day." She turned back to face the ceiling.

She was right; staying in a tight, boring room wouldn't help me figure anything out. I mentally reprimanded myself for lashing out, and decided to go find this 'Logan.'

As I slipped out from under the covers, I noticed that my attire had changed from what I last remembered: I was wearing a King Crimson shirt that had faded out, probably due to excessive use. I also had on a pair of black skinny jeans that bunched around my ankles, followed by a pair of mismatched socks. I felt small in them, and for the first time in a long time, I wanted back my pencil skirt and dress jacket.

I looked back at Ruth. "Are these your clothes?"

"No," she shook her head, "but the socks are. And I want them back when you find some of your own. Everything else is Peter's."

"Who's Peter?"

"The guy with the duct tape."

I narrowed my eyes in confusion. "Duct tape?"

"Never mind..." Ruth sighed "and hey - when you fight Logan, go easy on him; he doesn't know what you can do."

I continued to stare at her in awe, before letting her words roll off my shoulders. My feet touched the floor, igniting a strange feeling that should have been routine for everyone. I steadied myself as I stood and sighed as the blood flowed throughout my limbs - it was hard to guess how long I had been asleep, but I imagined at least two days. Beside my feet was a gray hoodie, folded neatly into a near-perfect square. On top was a note:

In case you get cold, they never shut the windows in this place.
~P

I read the note twice. P... for Peter? I leaned my head back and groaned in confusion. Who is this stupid Peter?!

  The anonymous note was pushed to the back of my head as I put on the hoodie, letting the right arm hang limp.

     I slowly walked to the doorway, giving one last curious glance at Ruth. She was still staring at the ceiling, if staring at all, her hands wrapping the shawl snugly over her shoulders. I wondered if she would still be there as I left the room.

Peering down the corridor, I looked both left and right for any other signs of life; however, everything was still, and invitingly tranquil. The walls and floors were made of a gold-stained wood that looked smoother than glass. On each wall were several mahogany doors, each labeled with numbers and names; Ben Hammil, Alisa Tager, Nori Ashida, and several others down the line that I couldn't see. At the ends of the hall, large windows projected the rays of a midday sun, and their large, white curtains swayed in the breeze. Several paintings hung on the walls, and few I recognized.

The truth was, I had never seen a more beautiful place.

I made my way down the flight of stairs, my eyes still wide in admiration. The stair rail was glossy enough to see my reflection, and the carpet was composed of an old Gül pattern that looked to be over thirty years old. Pictures of many different people lined the wall; some of them were old, possibly a family photo, and others were newer, as they showed a bunch of teenagers in a more modern style, either fighting, laughing, or participating in activities with each other.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, my eyes instantly locked on the figure across the room. It was a man, leaning against the wall, smoking a cigar and muttering to himself. He was wearing a brown leather jacket and dark blue jeans, with a pair of wing-tipped shoes. In my eyes, he looked menacing, like he didn't belong in the rich, well-furnished building.

When I took a step towards him, the floor beneath me creaked, startling me. He must have heard it too, because he looked in my direction and slowly pushed himself away from the wall. As he walked into the light, I noticed his features, and recognized them: the hair, the gruff face, and the eyes. They were filled with years of anger and pain, but also weathered lines of laughter and smiling.

I remembered him as the man from the prison break: The Wolverine, as they called him, though I never knew his real name.

He stared at me with a blank, but cautious, expression. "Hey, bub. How you feeling?

I grimaced in confusion, slightly annoyed. "Bub?"

He held his hands up in mocking surrender. "Alright, not bub. But no one knows your name, so..." he waited expectantly for me to answer him.

I thought for a moment. Does he mean my prison number? Or Tick Tock? No, I'm not letting him call me that...

"It doesn't matter," I answered, "I won't be here for long."

He sighed, and I noticed his hands were loosely clenched into fists. "Fine; but at least let me change the bandages, ok?"

I looked back to my arm, the bandages even bloodier than before. Was it safe to trust him, after he had just released one of the most wanted men in the country? Well, if I don't trust him, I thought, then I'll probably die from an infection. I slowly nodded my head at Logan before approaching him cautiously.

"Alright then." He pulled the cigar from his mouth and pressed it on his skin. I paused, shocked by the action as he disappeared into one of the doorways. Should I really trust this guy?!

I continued to walk into what looked like the kitchen, reminding myself that he was basically immortal. I noticed a First Aid kit lying on the Island, next to a pile of medical tape and gauze. Sitting behind the counter was a man, slightly confused at my entrance. His hair was a dirty blond that pointed towards the ceiling. He was currently drinking what looked like a soda, all the while eyeing me suspiciously.

"Hey Bobby." Logan said, oblivious to the uncomfortable silence in the air as I stared at the man, and he stared back.

"Hey..." Bobby said back.

Logan looked between the two of us. "Oh, sorry - This is Bobby. Bobby, this is... yeah, figure it out yourself." He carefully peeled the old bandages off of my shoulder, but it still made me seethe in pain. "Wait..." he continued, "was I supposed to use the alcohol before I did that?"

I ignored him, or at least tried to; his lack of knowledge in how to clean a wound was making me anxious.

"So," Bobby spoke, recapturing my attention, "do you have a name? I mean, everyone has one, even if it's your Mutant name."

"Not everyone." I objected. "I have a number, if that's easier."

Bobby laughed. "No, I don't need my number, I have a girlfriend- "

"Really?" I sighed. "That's not what I meant. I was talking about my prison number." I used my free hand to lift up the left side of my shirt, revealing a series of numbers and letters and a bar code tattooed on my abdomen.

"M102600," he read aloud. "That doesn't really help - are you a Mutant?"

I nodded.

"What can you do?"

"Slow time down - ow!!" I jerked myself away from Logan, who was now pressing fresh gauze into my shoulder.

"Sorry!" he said, frustrated. "I wouldn't be the one doing it if Hank were here. Just don't move your arm so much, it's in a sling for a reason."

I let him continue cleaning the wound, looking back at Bobby. The more I stared at his face, the more I were able to recognize something in him... I had seen him before, but where? Most of my days I was either with the president or Agent Davis. Unless I had seen him on television...

"You were there when the dam melted at Alkali Base?" I asked.

He nodded, somewhat confused. "Yeah, how did you know?"

"They put up security footage that had been streamed back to D.C. on all the news channels. For a while, all of you were wanted criminals, but the matter just vanished after a few years. How could you not know?"

"We knew that we were wanted," he said, "but no one ever said anything about the footage."

There was another long pause - I was surprised that I was able to carry the conversation this far. Usually, I was told not to speak until ordered, and I had grown accustomed to that. It almost felt as if I was being rude, or disobeying a higher voice. It made me think of the glass of water from my dream, bringing back memories of pain and anger.

"I heard you knew Nixon on a first name basis."

His words tore me back into reality. I wish he was that kind of a man, I thought.

"It was more of a nickname basis." I stated, trying to lighten the room. It worked as Bobby chuckled at my answer.

"How did you two end up being so close?" I could tell by his voice that he was amused, about what I couldn't think. I was only glad that the conversation was now lighthearted.

"I was his bodyguard." I said, smiling with a mock tone. "I'm actually closer to being his mother; I'm always the one that either keeps him out of danger, tells him 'everything will be ok,' or fights off the monsters for him. Sometimes, if we have to go to his safe house, he treats me as if I'm his teddy bear."

Bobby laughed again, this time heartily. I smiled. This wasn't as bad as I thought.

"By the way," he said, a smile still plastered on his face, "how did you get into Peter's clothes?"

I sighed. "Ok, who the Hell is Peter?"

"The guy with the duct tape." Logan answered, before Bobby could even open his mouth.

"I haven't seen anyone with duct tape! I only know you two, Ruth, and this guy that looks like Einstein."

"That's him!" Bobby said, laughing again. "I should have thought of that nickname..."

I chuckled to myself as Logan stuck a generous piece of tape over the gauze. My shoulder immediately looked clean, and I felt clean. I nodded a small thanks, and he returned it, washing his hands in the sink.

"Look who's woken up!"

I remembered that voice. I loathed it. Images of his smirking face and silver blur spun in my head, and I felt my cheeks grow hot.

I stormed out of the kitchen, Logan hot on my heels. "Just don't listen to what he says, he's only trying to make you mad- "

"I already am." I cut him off harshly, not caring what attitude I was expressing anymore.

He finally came into my view. That gray-haired, cocky teen I hoped to have never seen again. I was suddenly horrified that I was wearing the clothes of my enemy.

"Oh, hey, Logan! I see you've met M102600 already. I half expected it, though..."

I looked back at Logan with an accused look. How does he know I have that tattoo? I mouthed angrily.

He held up his hands: "I didn't tell him."

"Peter, she doesn't like to be called that." I heard Bobby as he was about to exit the kitchen. "Just leave her alone."

  Suddenly, the door slammed in front of him, followed by a silver flash darting away from it. I heard the handle jiggle as he struggled to open it, followed by a fist pounding on the door and muffled, angry words.

Peter was back in his former spot in an instant. "Who said he could talk to her? And he already knows her prison number too?"

"Oh, so let me get this straight." I put my free hand on my hip. "You, the person who tried to kill me, gets to know about my secret tattoos without my permission, but a polite man who does have my permission isn't allowed?"

Peter nodded, a goofy grin hanging from his lips. "Yeah, you pretty much said it."

I was just about to protest, when I saw it: The small, hourglass necklace hanging out of his jean pocket.

At first, I was confused. I grasped the area where it should have been hanging, from my neck. The shock was only increased when I found it missing. I looked again at the one dangling from his pocket - it was mine. It had to be.

Anger consumed me; I was infuriated with the fact that this punk had the nerves to steal from me, especially after he had nearly killed me. His smirking, teasing face only amplified my rage. That stupid, happy face. As if my necklace was a prize for defeating me!

"What's wrong?" he asked, furrowing his brow in mocked concern. "Oh, I see... you like my new necklace, don't you?"

I snapped. That's it.

Almost instantly after he said that, I started to run at him. I wanted to punch him straight in the face, knock him out for stealing my hourglass. As I advanced, he remained still; the only thing that moved was his smile, widening as I grew closer. Was he trying to get killed?

Suddenly, I felt a pair of hairy arms grab me by the waist. Angrily, I turned to see Logan struggling to hold me down as I continued to fight and kick.

"Whoa there, bub, just calm down a minute." he said calmly. It was clear that he was trying not to hurt me, but he had a good grip - enough to stop me attack on silver-head. He also helped to fuel my anger by putting pressure on my right shoulder, most likely soiling the fresh gauze he had just applied.

"Don't call me bub!" I snapped back at him.

Just as I was searching the room for him, he appeared directly in front of me, causing a breeze to pass by me. He took the necklace out of his pocket, twirling it in his fingers and staring admirably at it.

"I can see why you like it so much, it's really fashionable." He began to ramble on. "I bet you could wear it with anything, since you were rocking it in work clothes the last time I saw you. Kinda gives off that hipster vibe, like something you'd see hanging from the neck of a beatnik in a vegan cafe. Are you vegan?" he was now looking at me, obviously trying to prod my emotions. "You look like you could be. But you don't look like a beatnik."

Does this jerk ever shut up? I thought.

"Actually," he continued, having the guts to keep speaking, "you do kind of look like a beatnik."

"Alright, Peter, knock it off." I heard Logan's assertive voice, as he was still holding on to me. Looking around, I noticed several heads peering around the walls of the corridor and through doors (I swore there was one girl poking her head through a wall), eagerly wanting to see what the source of the shouting was. Logan noticed it as well, and sighed.

"C'mon guys!" he raised his voice to the whole room, "there's nothing to see, go back to school, or... whatever you were doing."

I took the chance; while he was distracted, I wrapped my leg around his and pulled, causing me both to be slammed to the ground, the only one taking the pain being Logan. I heard the breath being torn from his lungs from the impact, and were able to throw his arms off of me and get up.

As soon as he had fallen, the entire room erupted in shouts of laughter and surprise.

I ignored the sounds of amusement, turning once again to silver-head. He was still smiling at Logan, his eyes wide with the fact that I had just taken down an immortal man over twice my size. He joined in with the laughter of the others

"Ohh, I remember that one!" he exclaimed. "Hurts, doesn't it?"

Logan looked at him angrily, and still dazed. I could see his fists clenching in and out, as if he were about to spring his claws from his knuckles at any moment. He steadied himself back onto his feet, refusing help from one of the older kids in the room.

This is taking too long, I thought. An idea popped into my head; I was able to use my powers without the necklace, but not for very long. But if I moved quick enough, I might just be able to take back the necklace from Peter. Then I could run, or even walk, all the way back to D. C. before nightfall.

It's better than nothing, I said to my. Then, I closed my eyes

I concentrated, as hard as I could on every single thing in the room. The people, the walls, the colors of different objects reflecting the sunlight, even the small dust particles floating about. It was hard, as most of my mind was distracted by the noise and faces that belonged to so many people I didn't know. The anxiety of it all was pushing against my nerves, but I had to keep them calm if this was going to work. I continued to flush out my surroundings, until it was almost completely silent.

I opened my eyes. Everything had come to a near stop, just as I had hoped. Faces were still amused, eyes were still wide, but they moved slower than anything possibly could. It had worked; I was officially holding time all on my own.

But I felt unbearably fatigued. The force of using my powers all on my own made me struggle to keep standing. It was almost as if I were trying to hold back a train, moving at three hundred miles per hour. I could only control it for a minute, until it wore me out so much that I couldn't move, and I were forced to return time to it's normal pace. But at the moment, I had (the rather minuscule) upper hand, and I needed to use it while I could.

I assumed that silver-head knew what I was doing, because he quickly adjusted his pace in sync with mine.

"So you don't need the necklace." he said, looking at me accusingly.

I groaned, pulling myself across the floor and towards him. "Just give it back, Einstein." I said weakly.

Suddenly, he was kneeling by my side, making my hair sway around my face. "Hey, you alright?"

I ignored his concern, focusing on the necklace now back in his pocket. It swung back and forth, as if it were teasing me just as he was. I lunged my hand out, missing it by inches.

I herd him click his tongue in disapproval. "Just because I was concerned for you, doesn't mean that you can have this back." He was at my left in a blink.

I was infuriated. "And what gives you the right to take it?"

"Safekeeping."

His words only made me more angry - and that made me weaker. My shoulder was aching as I used it to crawl across the ground in no particular direction; just away. Away from the faces staring between me, Peter, and Logan. I felt claustrophobic. Suffocated. As if a thick, black cloth that hazed my vision was smothering me to the ground. Letting the pressure creep its way into my head, I fell against the wall beside me, letting time flow at its normal rate.

Before I knew it, my skin began to tighten as silver-head rushed around me. My body was forced against the wall, though there was plenty of space between both me and the gray blur. Every square inch of my visible skin was on fire; I tried to shove the blur away, but my arm wouldn't budge from the wall.

The blur faded away, and Peter stood in front of me, a proud smile tugging at his lips.

Glancing down, I saw that my entire body was hidden under thousands of strips of duct tape, holding me to the wall. My skin was still burning from the speed of the adhesive, and my body was confused at the sudden paralysis. I struggled against it; to no avail, since holding time without my necklace had used most of my strength.

I glared up at him. "What's your problem, Peter?"

Peter smiled, his face mockingly inquiring. "Oh, so now you decide to call me by my name. What took you so long?"

"Peter, stop!" I recognized Ruth's voice as she stood by the stairs. The bottom half of her face showed clear vexation.

"It isn't funny, you could hurt her."

"She'll be fine." he replied. "Besides, the duct tape will hold the wound."

I leaned my head against the wall and stared at the ceiling in frustration. Tears stung my eyes as they threatened to stream down. My shoulder, despite Peter's acclaim, began to hurt once more. What did I do to deserve this? I thought. I'm nothing more than a laughing stock, here. I have no purpose, no job - I'm practically useless right now. The further into my thoughts I walked, the angrier I became.

  I let a fat tear slide down my cheek. The tape was constricting my chest, making it an effort to breathe. My face was hot with rage, and I longed to run out of the building and all the way back to Washington.

Peter saw my tears, and his smile faded. He lowered himself down to sit in front of me, crossed legs, his arms dangling off of his knees. His face was suddenly sorrowful, as if he pitied me. I scoffed at him and turned my head to watch Logan and another adult clear the hallway from the peering eyes and attentive ears.

"I'm only doing this to help you."

I whipped my head back to face him, his words cutting my skin like a needle dipped in alcohol.

"You're wounded," he continued, his concerned eyes penetrating mine, "and I'm trying to make sure you don't hurt yourself anymore. I'm sorry if I seem cocky, but it's the truth - Professor X told me to hold your necklace until he can trust you to have it back. I'm really sorry."

I stared back at him with pure anger and agony. He was teasing me. He wasn't fighting fairly, as he held the key to my mutation in his pocket. Another tear streamed down my face and dripped off of my chin.

"I hate you, Peter."