Chapter Text
The morning sun is warm on Séraphine's face, the kind of heat that seeps into skin and bone and settles there like a promise. She stands in the center of the lawn, grass still damp beneath her bare feet, eyes closed against the brightness that paints the inside of her eyelids red-gold.
She's been storing solar energy for days. Every afternoon spent absorbing sunlight, building reserves in her system, concentrating power the way her father taught her —methodical, disciplined, converting each photon into usable energy that hums beneath her skin. Her markings pulse with it, brighter than they've been since waking from the coma, gold patterns glowing against her skin like circuitry carrying current.
Today she's going to fly.
She opens her eyes. Takes a breath that fills her lungs completely. Focuses on the stored energy —all that accumulated power waiting to be released, to be transformed from stillness into motion.
Push.
The energy floods through her body, converting as it moves, following pathways her father carved into her DNA before she was born. Solar becomes lift. Physics bending to her will.
Her feet leave the ground.
The sensation is immediate and intoxicating —weightlessness, the sudden absence of earth's pull, her body rising through empty air like a balloon released from a child's hand. One foot off the ground. Two feet. Five feet. She's airborne and smiling, actually smiling, something bright and fierce expanding in her chest.
Yes. Yes!
She spins. Once, testing the control, feeling how the energy responds to intent. Twice, gaining confidence, the world tilting beneath her in dizzying rotation. The mansion wheels past, the gardens, the trees at the property's edge. Freedom. Power. Control. Everything she used to be, everything she's been trying to reclaim.
But she can't hold it.
The energy wavers. Flickers. Like a candle in wind, the steady flow stutters and breaks. She's tuning between wavelengths without meaning to, losing the frequency that keeps her aloft.
She drops.
She tries to catch herself, but she's already lost too much altitude. The ground rushes up to meet her.
She hits hard. Stomach first, the impact driving air from her lungs in a single violent exhale. Grass and dirt against her face. The taste of blood where she bit her tongue.
She lies there, vision swimming, trying to remember how to breathe. Her markings have dimmed back to their usual faint glow, the stored energy depleted in that brief flight.
Her father's voice fills the space where air should be:
Pathetic. You managed barely thirty seconds. You are weak. Undisciplined. A disappointment.
This is why you need my guidance. Without me, you are nothing. You will always be nothing.
"Khara…" She mutters into the grass. Shit.
She sits up slowly, testing for injuries. Bruised ribs maybe. Scraped palms. Pride wounded more than body. But the voice lingers, her father's disappointment settling over her like a familiar weight.
"Well, dat was almost graceful, chère. Almost."
Séraphine's head snaps up, embarrassment flooding hot through her chest. Remy leans against the porch railing, coffee mug in one hand, grinning like he's been watching a particularly entertaining show.
How long has he been there? How much did he see?
She tries to stand, but her legs are shaky and her balance is off and she ends up half-kneeling in the grass, trying to collect herself with some semblance of dignity.
Remy is already walking toward her, unhurried, setting his mug on the porch steps as he passes. He offers his hand when he reaches her —palm up, easy, like the choice is entirely hers.
Séraphine hesitates. Then takes it.
His skin is warm, and the kinetic energy surrounding him sparks where they touch, a small transfer of power flowing from his hand to hers without conscious effort from either of them. It settles into her system like coming home, familiar and comforting in ways she doesn't want to examine.
He pulls her to her feet with easy strength.
"Have you been watching me practice?" The question comes out more accusatory than she intended.
"Yeah." No hesitation. No apology. "Been watchin' all week."
"Why?"
Remy's grin widens. "I like seein' your markings glow. Dey're pretty when you use your powers."
The words hit unexpectedly, making something flutter in her chest that has nothing to do with the fall or depleted energy or her father's voice. Her markings are functional —evidence of her abilities, conduits for power. No one has ever called them pretty. Beautiful, maybe, in the way weapons are beautiful. Impressive. Intimidating. But not pretty.
She doesn't know how to respond to that.
"I need to keep practicing…." She says, voice too sharp, trying to dismiss whatever this feeling is.
"Go ahead." Remy takes a step back, giving her space.
But he doesn't leave. Just stands there, clearly intending to keep watching, and Séraphine is about to protest when his gaze drops to her side.
"Chère, your shirt."
She looks down. There's a tear in the fabric—a ragged hole where she hit the ground, probably caught on a rock. The shirt is ruined.
"Storm is going to be upset. This is hers."
"Storm ain't gonna be mad about a shirt."
"I ruined something that wasn't mine to ruin."
"It's just a shirt—"
"No it's not. I only have six shirts and none of them are actually mine."
The admission hangs between them, more revealing than she intended. Six borrowed shirts. Two pairs of borrowed pants. One borrowed cardigan. Everything temporary, conditional, dependent on the continued generosity of people who don't owe her anything.
She's been wanting to ask about getting her own things. Her own clothes, her own toiletries, her own possessions that belong to her instead of being on loan from others' closets. But she hasn't been sure if she's earned that right yet. Hasn't known if staying long enough to need her own belongings means committing to being here, to building something permanent instead of remaining in this liminal space between guest and resident.
It's that uncertainty she hates most. Not knowing where she stands. Not knowing if she's allowed to want things.
"You should probably go shoppin' for some clothes…." Remy says. "I mean, six shirts ain't even enough for me, an' I ain't picky."
"I've never gone shopping before."
Remy raises an eyebrow. "Never?"
"My father's servants would bring me clothes. Tailored specifically for me. I never had to ask for them. They just….appeared."
"So you're tellin' me you're a modern-day princess?" His voice is teasing, light, that playful tone that usually makes her almost smile.
"I'm not a princess."
"Servants bringin' you custom clothes? What else dey do for you? Cook your meals? Draw your baths? Brush your hair?"
"They….yes. They did those things."
"Definitely a princess."
"It wasn't like that—"
"All your story's missin' is a charmin' prince to save you from de evil king." Remy's grin widens, clearly pleased with his own joke. "Maybe he already did."
The words are meant to be funny. Séraphine can tell by his expression, by the lightness in his voice. But something about it catches wrong, snagging on thoughts she's been trying not to have.
"Is that what you think?" Her voice comes out flat, cold. "That you saved me from my father? That I needed rescuing?"
Remy's expression shifts immediately. "Chère, I didn't mean—"
"I don't need saving. I don't need some prince to fix my life. I made my own choices. Good or bad, they were mine."
"Séraphine, I was just jokin'—"
But she's already walking away, back toward the mansion, torn shirt and wounded pride and confusion all tangled together. She doesn't want to hear his backtracking, doesn't want his apology, doesn't want to stand there while he explains away words that hit harder than he intended.
Remy stands alone in the grass, watching her go.
"Imbécile (Idiot)…" He mutters to himself. "Why'd you say dat?"
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The Next Day:
The dryer hums its familiar rhythm, the kind of white noise that should be soothing but just makes Séraphine more aware of how much time she's spending staring at it. All her clothes are inside—everything she owns tumbling in heated air. She couldn't separate them into loads. There aren't enough items to justify it.
She sits on the folding table, feet dangling, watching the dryer's window where fabric flashes past in rotation. Thinking about yesterday. About flight and falling and Remy's joke that wasn't funny. About how she still doesn't know what she's doing here, what she's building, whether any of this is permanent or just another temporary arrangement that will dissolve the moment she proves she can't be trusted.
The dryer beeps. Cycle complete.
Séraphine opens it and pulls out the warm clothes. Starts folding with the same precise care she applies to everything —each shirt smoothed flat, edges aligned perfectly, creases sharp. The small pile grows on the table beside her.
Six shirts from Storm. Two pairs of pants from Jean. One cardigan that might belong to either of them. A single pair of pajamas. Everything borrowed. Everything temporary.
‘This is everything I own.’
She sits back down on the folding table, staring at the pile, and the thought that's been building for days finally crystallizes into decision:
‘I need my own things.’
But she doesn't know how to get them. Doesn't know the mechanics of shopping or spending money or acquiring possessions in a world where servants don't anticipate needs before they're voiced.
She thinks about her life before. Waking to find breakfast already prepared, training clothes laid out on her bed, servants who moved through the pyramids like ghosts —always present but never intrusive. She never had to ask for things. They simply appeared.
‘Does that make me spoiled? Does that make me the princess Remy joked about?’
But it wasn't a fairytale. Those servants feared her. Moved with careful deference born not from respect but from terror of what she might do if displeased. Her father demanded perfection, and love—if it could be called that—was conditional on usefulness, on meeting impossible standards, on being weapon first and daughter second.
Princesses in stories are cherished. Protected. Loved unconditionally.
She was neither.
But she also never had to navigate practical things. Never learned to shop or cook or manage the mundane details of existence. She doesn't know how to be a normal person. Doesn't even know where to start.
She picks up the folded clothes, holds them against her chest, and makes a decision.
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Séraphine climbs the stairs to the second floor, arms full of folded laundry, trying to construct the words she'll need. Her room is at the end of the hall —small, sparse, still feeling temporary even after three weeks of occupying it. She puts the clothes away in the dresser, taking longer than necessary, delaying.
Then walks back into the hallway and stops outside Jubilee's door.
Hesitates.
This feels like admitting defeat. Like confessing she doesn't know how to do something as basic as acquire clothes. But the torn shirt is sitting in her room, evidence of her ignorance, reminder that she can't keep borrowing forever.
She knocks before she can talk herself out of it.
The door swings open immediately. Jubilee stands there in an oversized band t-shirt and striped socks, hair messy, face lighting up with genuine pleasure at finding Séraphine there.
"Hey! What's up?"
"I need help with something." The words come out stilted, uncomfortable.
"Sure! What do you need?"
"I need more clothes." Séraphine forces herself to continue. "And I don't know how to get them."
Jubilee's eyes go wide. Then she grins—huge and delighted and bright enough to be blinding.
"Oh my god. OH MY GOD. Are you asking to go shopping? We're going shopping!"
She disappears back into her room before Séraphine can clarify. Séraphine watches through the doorway as Jubilee moves with hurricane energy —grabbing her yellow coat from the closet, shoving her feet into high-top sneakers, snatching her wallet from the dresser. She's back in the doorway in under thirty seconds, grabbing Séraphine's hands with barely contained excitement.
"This is going to be amazing!"
Where their hands touch, fireworks spark. Small explosions of light —Jubilee's powers responding to her enthusiasm, harmless but startling. The sensation is interesting. Warm. Energetic. Alive. Different from Remy's kinetic energy but pleasant in its own way, like touching concentrated joy.
Séraphine startles slightly, but Jubilee doesn't notice, already pulling her down the hallway.
"Come on! We need to find someone to drive us!"
"Wait—" Séraphine tries to dig in her heels. "I don't have money for shopping."
"We'll use the school card. Professor X has funds set aside for the X-men for stuff like this." Jubilee's grin doesn't falter.
"I'm not an X-men…"
"Details. Come on!"
Jubilee drags her through the mansion, Séraphine doesn't know where they're going, just follows, trying to match Jubilee's enthusiasm and failing completely.
They're halfway down the stairs when Séraphine hears voices from the sitting room —familiar cadences, comfortable back-and-forth.
"—an' I'm tellin' you, dat movie was terrible…." Remy's voice, amused and teasing.
"Your taste in movies is terrible, so that don't mean nothin'." Rogue's response, sharp but fond.
"My taste is refined. You just don't appreciate art."
"Blowin' things up for two hours ain't art, swamp rat."
Jubilee doesn't slow down, pulling Séraphine directly into the sitting room. Rogue sprawls on the couch, magazine in hand, looking relaxed in a way Séraphine rarely sees. Remy occupies the armchair.
"Perfect!" Jubilee announces. "I need one of you to drive us to the mall!"
Rogue looks up, expression cooling slightly when she sees Séraphine. "Shopping?"
"Yeah! We need everything. Clothes, shoes, all of it."
"You got enough clothes, petite…." Remy says, though he's smiling at Jubilee with genuine affection.
"It's not for me! It's for Séraphine!" Jubilee bounces with excitement. "She needs a whole new wardrobe to personify her new identity! And who better to help her than me? I've got ideas —we'll go modern, edgy, maybe some leather—"
"I don't have a new identity…." Séraphine interrupts quietly. "I just need clothes that fit properly."
"Yet! But the way you dress tells people who you are, right? And the way you used to dress definitely said 'daughter of a maniac from a time long dead.' But we're going to change that! Bring you into modern times!"
Séraphine flinches.
Daughter of a maniac.
She tries to hide the reaction, but it's too late. The words have landed, settled into her chest like stones. Is that what she was? Is that all anyone sees when they look at her —not a person, but an extension of her father's madness?
"New clothes don't always make a new woman…." Rogue says, and there's something pointed in her tone that Séraphine can't quite parse. Something that feels deliberately cutting.
The words hit harder than Jubilee's thoughtless comment.
"Maybe this wasn't a good idea…" Séraphine says, more to herself than anyone else. This was stupid. Asking for help. Trying to buy things like she has any right to them. She turns to leave.
"Rogue....." Remy's voice is sharp, scolding in a way Séraphine rarely hears from him. She doesn't catch the rest —already walking away, already regretting this entire venture.
Footsteps follow her into the hallway. Multiple sets.
"No, wait!" Jubilee grabs her arm. Séraphine has to refrain from pulling away instinctively, but she does slow down. "She didn't mean it like that! Rogue was just—ignore her! Shopping will be fun, I promise! We should still go!"
"I'll drive….." Remy says, appearing on her other side. He looks directly at her. "If you still want to go."
Séraphine is upset. Trying to keep it contained, trying not to let it show on her face, but her hands are shaking and her throat feels tight. She wants to go back to her room. Wants to forget this whole thing.
But she does need clothes. Does need to keep integrating, keep building whatever kind of life she's trying to construct here.
"Fine." Her voice is flat, empty. "Let's go."
There's no excitement in it. Just resignation.
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The drive takes almost an hour. Séraphine sits in the back seat of Remy's car —something old and well-maintained with a manual transmission he handles with practiced ease— and watches suburbs give way to commercial sprawl. Strip malls and chain restaurants and finally the massive parking lot of a regional shopping center.
It's overwhelming before they even get out of the car. So many vehicles. So many people streaming in and out of automatic doors. She's never been around this many humans in a non-combat situation. Never had to exist alongside them as though she belongs in their world.
Inside is worse. The mall stretches in multiple directions —two floors of stores and restaurants and the constant press of humanity. Music plays from somewhere, competing with conversations and footsteps and the general ambient noise of consumerism. Fluorescent lights make everything feel artificial, washed out.
Séraphine's shields are firmly in place, but thoughts still leak through. Surface-level, nothing deep, but present:
—need to remember the dry cleaning—
—hate crowds so many people—
—mutant freak what's it doing here—
—that test on Friday I'm gonna fail—
—markings on its face—
She tries to strengthen the shields, tries to block it out, but the pressure builds. Too many minds. Too much noise. And people are staring —at her markings, the gold patterns on her face and hands that she can't hide, that mark her as other.
Remy nudges her shoulder gently. She looks up at him. He's wearing sunglasses —dark lenses hiding his eyes, his own visible mutation concealed behind tinted glass.
"Dey're starin' because dey never seen people as good-lookin' as us…." He says, voice light, teasing.
"Or because they're judging. Scared. Looking for the nearest anti-mutant hate group to call."
"I like my spin on t'ings better."
"Your spin isn't very realistic."
Remy sighs. "Some of 'em probably judgin'. Some of 'em probably scared. Most of 'em just curious. None of 'em worth losin' your breath over."
He's trying to help. Séraphine knows this.
"This is supposed to be fun…" Remy continues. "Your first shoppin' trip. Don't let anyone ruin it, yeah? Just breathe."
Séraphine tries. Takes a deep breath, tries to let Remy's presence calm her, tries to push away the psychic noise and the stares and the thoughts bleeding through her shields.
"Okay!" Jubilee grabs her hand. "First store! They've got everything —jeans, dresses, jackets, all of it. Come on!"
She pulls Séraphine toward a store called "Urban Edge" —bright lights and loud music and mannequins dressed in clothes that look nothing like what Séraphine has ever worn.
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They move through multiple stores over the next two hours. Urban Edge, then a place called Threads, then something with a name in Spanish that Séraphine doesn't recognize. Jubilee pulls clothes from racks with enthusiastic abandon, holding items up against Séraphine for assessment.
"Okay, so what's your style? What do you usually like?"
Séraphine stares at the riot of colors and fabrics in Jubilee's arms. "I don't….I've never thought about clothes in terms of style. Just what's practical."
"Perfect!" Jubilee's grin widens. "That means I get free range. This is gonna be so good."
Everything she picks is short or tight or both. Trendy. Bold. Nothing like the practical, covering clothes Séraphine wore in the pyramids.
A crop top in electric blue. Jeans that look painted on. A sundress with thin straps and a hem that barely reaches mid-thigh. A leather jacket with silver zippers.
Remy adds his own suggestions from where he's browsing nearby. "Those jeans. That black shirt. Definitely de jacket."
"Try them on!" Jubilee shoves an armful of clothes at her. "You have to try everything on to see if it fits."
The fitting room is small and bright and overwhelming. Séraphine changes into the first outfit—the tight jeans and a fitted black top that shows more skin than she's used to. Stares at herself in the mirror, trying to recognize the person looking back.
"Let me see!" Jubilee calls from outside.
Séraphine steps out reluctantly. Jubilee squeals with delight.
"Oh my god, you look amazing! Remy, doesn't she look amazing?"
Remy, lounging in one of the chairs provided for waiting, looks up. His expression shifts —something in his face that Séraphine can't quite read, but Jubilee clearly can because she grins wider.
"Looks good, chère..." Remy says, and his voice has an edge to it that wasn't there before. "Real good."
Séraphine doesn't understand what's different about his tone, so she just nods and goes back to try on more clothes.
The maxi dress is comfortable—long and flowing, fabric soft against her skin. The leather jacket fits perfectly, making her feel powerful in a way she hasn't since before the coma.
Some items are uncomfortable. Some she likes. Jubilee offers commentary on everything while Remy watches with quiet attention that Séraphine doesn't know how to interpret.
They're in the third store when it happens.
Séraphine is browsing a rack of shirts when a sales clerk approaches. Middle-aged woman, blonde hair pulled tight, expression pinched with disapproval.
"We don't serve people like you here."
The words drop like stones into water, ripples spreading outward. Jubilee's head snaps up. Remy goes very still.
"Excuse me?" Séraphine's voice is cold, controlled.
"You heard me. We don't serve your kind. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"That's illegal…." Jubilee says hotly. "You can't refuse service based on—"
"I can refuse service to anyone making other customers uncomfortable. And your presence" —the clerk looks directly at Séraphine— "is making people uncomfortable."
Something hot and sharp rises in Séraphine's chest. "I'm not doing anything. I'm shopping. Same as everyone else."
"Your kind doesn't belong in places like this. You should stick to your own neighborhoods. Your own stores."
"My kind." Séraphine's markings are starting to heat, responding to rising anger. "You mean mutants? People who were born different through no choice of their own?"
"I mean freaks. Dangerous freaks who think they can just walk around normal people like they're equals."
"We are superior—"
"You're a threat. An abomination. And I want you out of my store before you hurt someone."
Séraphine's hands are shaking. Power is building beneath her skin, solar energy converting to electrical without conscious direction. She wants to prove this woman right. Wants to show her exactly how dangerous mutants can be when provoked.
In her father's world, no one would dare speak to her like this. In her father's world, mutants would never allow themselves to be treated with such contempt. They would respond with power, with force, with demonstrations of exactly why humans should fear—
"Chère." Remy's hand on her arm, gentle but firm. "Let's go."
"She can't just—"
"She can. She did. An' stayin' here arguin' just makes it worse."
He's pulling her toward the door. Séraphine goes, but the rage is still burning in her chest, in her throat, behind her eyes.
Outside the store, Jubilee is fuming. "That was so illegal! We should report her! We should—"
"We should keep shoppin'...." Remy says calmly. "Dere are plenty of other stores."
But the damage is done. Séraphine can't shake the feeling —the confirmation that coexistence is impossible, that humans will never accept them, that her father was right about everything and Xavier's dream of peace is just a naive fantasy that will get them all killed.
She keeps these thoughts to herself. Locks them behind shields that are starting to ache from constant use.
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They find other stores. Better stores where employees smile and don't comment on her markings beyond brief, curious glances. Jubilee's enthusiasm gradually returns, pulling them through shops with renewed determination.
"Okay, what about this?" Jubilee holds up another outfit.
They accumulate bags. Clothes —shirts and pants and dresses and jackets in styles Séraphine is still learning to categorize. Shoes —boots with small heels, sneakers for working out, sandals for summer. Everything feels like too much, but Jubilee insists it's all necessary.
"Okay, underwear next!" Jubilee announces cheerfully.
"I can help wit' dat…." Remy offers, grinning.
"Absolutely not! This is a girls-only mission." Jubilee grabs Séraphine's arm. "You stay here."
"But I'm an expert in dis area—"
"Remy. Stay. Here."
He holds up his hands in surrender. "A'right, a'right. I'll be in de bookstore."
The underwear shopping is awkward. Jubilee has opinions about everything —styles and colors and brands —while Séraphine just wants functional items that fit.
"Why is everything so…..frilly?" Séraphine asks, looking at lace and ribbons and decorative elements that serve no purpose.
"Because attractive underwear is a necessity! You never know when someone might see it."
"Why would anyone see it?"
Jubilee gives her a look. "Séraphine. Come on. You're not that naive."
But she is that naive. At least about this. In the pyramids, clothing was functional. No one cared what was underneath because it didn't matter. The thought of someone seeing her underwear feels absurd and vaguely alarming.
They compromise, ending up with a mix of practical and decorative that makes Jubilee satisfied and Séraphine confused about modern social conventions.
They find Remy in the bookstore as promised, browsing fiction with a small stack already accumulated. They get hair products next —shampoo and conditioner and leave-in treatments for curly hair. Skincare that Jubilee insists is essential. Sheets and pillowcases so Séraphine can have her own bedding instead of using the standard-issue mansion linens.
By the time they're done, they each carry multiple bags. Séraphine's arms are full of purchases that represent more possessions than she's owned in her entire life.
"This is too much…." She says, not for the first time.
"This is normal….." Remy corrects. "Most people got more than six shirts, chère."
They're walking past a jewelry store when Séraphine stops abruptly.
The window display is beautiful—gold and silver glinting under carefully positioned lights, stones in every color arranged on black velvet. Necklaces and bracelets and rings, all professionally crafted, all expensive-looking.
She moves closer without thinking, drawn by something she hasn't thought about in months.
"You like jewelry?" Jubilee asks, following her gaze.
"I used to make my own." The words come out soft, almost reverent. "In the desert. I would find materials —stones, metals, bits of glass that had been fused by heat. I'd craft pieces when I had time. Bracelets mostly. Sometimes necklaces." She's quiet for a moment.
"Really? That's so cool!" Jubilee sounds genuinely impressed. "I didn't think your dad let you do anything but train."
The comment is thoughtless. Not meant to hurt. But it lands like a blow anyway, cutting through the soft nostalgia that had been building.
Séraphine's expression shutters. The warmth drains from her voice. She steps back from the window.
Her father didn't encourage the jewelry making. Didn't know about it, actually. One of the servants —Lina, the kind one who sometimes smiled— had taught her the basics when Séraphine was twelve. Late at night when her father was in his chamber, when she could slip away to the small workroom where tools were kept, she would craft pieces by lamplight. Small stolen moments of autonomy in a life that offered few.
But she doesn't want to explain that. Doesn't want to share those memories, make them vulnerable to judgment or pity.
"You gonna buy anything?" Remy asks, nodding toward the store. "Dere's some nice pieces in de window. Dat bracelet would look good on you."
"No." Her voice is flat. "I'm tired. I'm done shopping."
"You sure? We could just look—"
"I'm sure. Let's go."
She turns away from the window before either of them can protest. Remy and Jubilee exchange glances but don't push. They head back to the car in silence, loaded down with bags, the day's excitement deflated by something Jubilee doesn't understand and Remy is smart enough not to ask about.
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The trunk closes with a satisfying thunk, bags of clothes and shoes and everything else packed carefully inside. Remy leans against the car's rear bumper, arms crossed, watching Jubilee reorganize the back seat to make room for more purchases.
"Can we get lunch?" Jubilee asks, stepping back to survey her work. "I'm starving."
Séraphine is already moving toward the passenger door. "I want to go back to the mansion."
"Come on! We've been shopping for hours. We need food." Jubilee's voice takes on that wheedling quality she uses when she wants something. "Please? Just something quick?"
"Lunch doesn't sound bad…." Remy adds. He's hungry too, and the drive back is long enough that eating now makes sense.
Séraphine stops, hand on the door handle, feeling outnumbered. Trapped. They both want to stay and she wants to leave and somehow her vote doesn't count as much as theirs combined.
"Fine….." She says quietly. "Something quick."
Jubilee bounces with renewed energy. "Food court! They've got everything—pizza, Chinese, burgers—"
"Non." Remy shakes his head firmly. "We're not eatin' food court garbage. We find a real restaurant."
"But the food court is fast—"
"An' terrible. We're findin' somet'in' better."
They start walking down the street where storefronts and restaurants line both sides. Séraphine follows behind them, letting their debate wash over her without really listening. Her shields are starting to ache from hours of constant use, holding back the psychic noise of hundreds of minds in close proximity.
"What about that place?" Jubilee points to a burger joint.
"Too crowded."
"That one?" A pizza restaurant with outdoor seating.
"Maybe. Keep walkin'."
"You're so picky!"
"I got standards."
Séraphine tries to focus on their banter, tries to use it as anchor against the building pressure in her head. But the noise is growing. Not louder exactly—more insistent. Like static resolving into signal, background noise sharpening into something distinct.
A voice.
Small. Desperate. Terrified.
Calling for help while everyone around it keeps walking, keeps ignoring, keeps pretending they don't hear—
Séraphine stops mid-step, pressing a hand to her temple. The voice is cutting through her shields like they're not even there, sharp and immediate and impossible to ignore.
Remy notices first. Turns back, his expression shifting from casual to concerned in an instant. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing—" Séraphine tries to push it aside, tries to strengthen her shields, but the voice is too present, too urgent.
Help us please someone help—
She can't block it out.
Remy is at her side immediately, hand hovering near her elbow without quite touching. "Chère?"
Jubilee hurries over. "Is it too many thoughts? Too much noise?"
"No." Séraphine struggles for words, for a way to explain what she's hearing. "It's just…..one voice." She focuses, trying to isolate the source. "It's small. Crying out for help. And everyone's ignoring them. She's scared."
Remy's expression hardens. "Where's de voice comin' from? We can find dem."
Séraphine concentrates, following the psychic thread back to its source. It's close. Very close. The desperation bleeding through suggests immediate danger, something happening right now while people walk past pretending not to see.
She points. "Three blocks. That way."
"Let's go." Remy is already moving, his casual demeanor replaced by focused intensity.
They run.
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They find it quickly —an alley between a closed restaurant and a storage facility, the kind of urban space that exists in every city, deliberately ignored by passersby who don't want to see what happens in shadows.
Six men. One little girl. One man on the ground being kicked and beaten while he tries to protect his head with his arms.
The child can't be more than ten. Her skin has a faint green tint, scales visible along her arms and neck —obvious mutation, impossible to hide. She's being held back by one of the men, his hand fisted in her shirt while she struggles and screams for her father.
The other men circle the fallen man like wolves, taking turns landing blows.
"We'll teach you not to bring your freak kid out in public!"
"Maybe we'll do the world a favor and get rid of her too!"
The father tries to lunge toward his daughter despite the beating. "Don't you touch her!"
Séraphine sees red.
She's moving before conscious thought, before strategy or planning or consideration of consequences. Just pure reaction to the sight of a child in danger, to the sound of hatred in those men's voices, to every hostile thought she's absorbed today crystallizing into action.
Remy is beside her immediately. Jubilee takes the other flank.
The men turn, seeing them approach.
"More freaks…" One of them spits. "Must be our lucky day."
They attack.
The man holding the girl shoves her aside —she hits the alley wall hard— and comes at them with his friends. Séraphine takes the first one. He swings at her face; she catches his wrist, and sends him flying backward into his companion. They both go down in a tangle of limbs.
Remy's fighting is controlled. Efficient. His bo staff appears from somewhere —collapsed in his jacket probably— extending with a familiar metallic click. He uses it to sweep one attacker's legs, then spins it to block another's punch. The staff glows faintly pink as he charges it just enough to make the threat clear: back off or get hurt.
Jubilee goes for the man who held the girl. Her fireworks explode in his face —not enough to cause real damage, but enough to blind and disorient. He stumbles, hands covering his eyes, and Jubilee sweeps his legs out from under him with a kick Logan definitely taught her.
But Séraphine is less controlled.
She hits with more force than necessary. Fueled by anger, by every hateful thought she's heard today, by the confirmation that her father was right about humans, that they're dangerous and cruel and will hurt anyone different without provocation.
One of the men pulls something from his jacket—a taser.
He jams it into Séraphine's side.
The voltage that would stun a normal person just flows into her system like water into a cup. She absorbs it all —every volt, every amp— and converts it automatically. Her markings flare gold, glowing bright enough to be seen through her clothes.
The man's eyes widen with fear.
Séraphine channels the energy back through her hand, through the taser still pressed against her side, directly into his body. Twice the voltage he gave her. Maybe three times. She's not being careful about the conversion, just letting it flow, wanting to hurt him the way he wanted to hurt her—
"Chère!" Remy's hand on her arm, pulling her back. "Stop. You're gonna kill him."
The man is on the ground, convulsing, smoke rising from where the taser melted against his skin.
Séraphine looks down at him. Feels nothing except the urge to do more damage. "They deserve—"
"Maybe." Remy's voice is firm. "But you don't need to be de one who gives it to dem."
The other men are scrambling to their feet, grabbing their injured friends. They run, stumbling over each other in their haste to escape, still shouting slurs and hatred as they disappear around the corner.
Séraphine stands there, breathing hard, electricity still crackling between her fingers.
The little girl is already at her father's side, crying into his chest. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"
The father holds her close despite his injuries, one arm clearly painful bruised from the beating but wrapped around his daughter anyway. "Shh, baby. It's alright. I'm alright."
Remy approaches slowly, non-threatening, bo staff collapsed and tucked away. "What was dat all about?"
The father struggles to his feet with his daughter's help. He's in his late forties maybe, black hair graying at the temples, wearing a button-down shirt now torn and dirty from the attack. He tries to be casual when he answers, like this is just another Tuesday.
"Just walking home from lunch. The Friends of Humanity jumped us." He trails off, but they all know the reason. They can see it in his daughter's green-tinted skin, in the scales catching light, in the way she tries to make herself smaller.
The girl's eyes fill with fresh tears. "It's my fault. You always get hurt because I look different. I'm sorry."
The father crouches to her level immediately, hands gentle on her shoulders. His voice is firm. Loving. "Listen to me. This is not your fault. Other people's hate is never your fault."
He cups her face, making her look at him. "You look different. But you're perfect. You're exactly as you should be. I would never change anything about you." His voice softens. "And you shouldn't want to change anything about yourself either."
The girl nods through tears, clearly not believing him but wanting to.
Séraphine looks away. The moment is too raw. Too intimate. Something about the unconditional acceptance in his voice, the way he holds his daughter like she's precious rather than dangerous, makes her chest ache in ways she doesn't want to examine.
The father stands, wincing slightly, and looks at them. "Thank you. For helping us."
"Just doin' what's right." Remy's voice is easy. "You need to get to a hospital?"
"No, no. I'm fine." His expression says otherwise —he's holding his ribs carefully, moving with the stiffness of someone who took a serious beating.
"Can we at least walk you home?" Jubilee asks. "Make sure those jerks don't come back looking for more trouble?"
The girl nods quickly. "Please." Her voice is small, scared, wanting protection from adults who seem capable of providing it.
The father hesitates "If you don't mind..."
They walk together through residential streets, the father and daughter leading while Séraphine, Remy, and Jubilee follow a few paces behind. The girl stays pressed close to her father's side, one hand fisted in his shirt like she's afraid he'll disappear if she lets go.
Jubilee fills the silence with her usual chatter. "How long have you lived here?"
"We just moved to the area a few months ago…." The father says. "Heard it was supposed to be more mutant-friendly. I just wanted a safe place to raise my daughter."
"There's no such thing as safe..." Séraphine says. Her voice is flat, matter-of-fact. "Not for mutants living among humans."
Remy sends her a look—sharp, warning. "Chère—"
"It's true." Séraphine continues, ignoring him. "The only place your daughter will ever be truly safe is somewhere with her own kind. Raised by mutants who understand what she is. What she'll face."
The little girl presses closer to her father, fear flickering across her face.
"What exactly are you getting at?" The father's voice has an edge now, protective.
"I'm saying she needs to be raised by mutants." Séraphine's tone is clinical, like she's stating facts rather than opinions. "Raised to be strong. To fight. Not to cower in the arms of the enemy."
"Séraphine—" Jubilee starts, clearly planning to apologize.
But the father speaks first. He stops walking, turns to face Séraphine directly. His expression is irritated but not angry —more exhausted than anything. "My daughter is ten years old. I don't want her to be strong. I don't want her to fight." His voice is steady, certain. "I want her to be a child. I want her to go to school and have friends and date boys I don't like when she's older."
He shifts slightly, wincing at the movement, but his eyes don't leave Séraphine's. "If someone needs to fight, if someone needs to take the punches to make this world safer for her —that's my job as a parent. As long as I'm alive, no one's hurting my baby girl. Not humans." His voice hardens. "And not other mutants either."
The words hit like a physical blow. Séraphine stands there, stunned into silence that's entirely uncharacteristic. Her mouth opens but nothing comes out. Her father never —she can't remember him ever saying—
As long as I'm alive, no one's hurting my baby girl.
Unconditional protection. Unconditional love. Not because she earned it or proved worthy of it, but because she existed and he was her father and that was reason enough.
‘Why didn't Baba—’
She can't finish the thought.
They continue walking in heavy silence. Jubilee tries to restart conversation but it doesn't catch. The father focuses on his daughter, whispering reassurances that Séraphine can't quite hear.
The neighborhood they eventually arrive in is modest —houses smaller than the mansion, paint peeling on some, yards that need maintenance. Theirs is at the end of a cul-de-sac, a small single-story with a chain-link fence and flowers planted in the front yard.
"Thank you again…." The father says at the gate. "I mean it. We'd be in much worse shape without you."
The little girl steps forward and hugs Jubilee, who accepts it with characteristic warmth. "Thank you for saving us."
"Anytime, kiddo."
They watch as father and daughter go inside, the door closing behind them with the solid click of multiple locks engaging.
Jubilee is the first to speak. "That was intense. Those Friends of Humanity guys are getting bold."
"Too bold…." Remy agrees. "Attackin' people in broad daylight like dat."
"Can we still do lunch?" Jubilee asks. "Because I'm still starving."
They start walking back the way they came. Remy suggests something to-go —they should probably report this to the Professor, make sure he's aware of Friends of Humanity activity in the area.
They make it maybe ten steps before realizing Séraphine isn't following.
Both turn back. She's standing where they left her, staring at the house where the father and daughter disappeared.
"You comin'?" Jubilee calls.
"I need time to myself…." Séraphine says without looking at them.
Remy walks back toward her. "You a'right?"
"I need to be alone." Her voice is flat, empty in a way that makes Remy's chest tighten with concern.
She turns in the opposite direction and starts walking. Not toward the mansion or the car or anywhere specific.
Just away.
Jubilee looks at Remy, uncertain. "Should we follow her?"
"Non." Remy watches Séraphine's retreating figure. "If she wants space, we give it to her."