Trial of Humanity.

Over the years people have begun to fear the Accusers. We are a brutal sub-section of the Kree Imperium. Charged with prosecuting our duties; the guilty of the galaxy, according to the law of the Imperium. We, the Imperium, believe that our laws are the Galaxy’s Laws. Through the many years of the institution of Accusers, only one has never lost a case. My name is Ronan, and I am that Accuser.

For the last several weeks the Court of the Celestial Heavens have debated heatedly over the facts presented to them. Across the pantheon from me, is a being known through out the cosmos as the All-Father. Even I, Ronan the Accuser, knew of the man's exploits. How he had once stood against the judgement of the Celestials, a second time he fought the Fires of the Phoenix. While perhaps not winning the battles, it is a testament to the worth of this man that yet still he stands. Yet still he serves over his people. He has stood the test of time, with the loss of only a single eye. How in the seven cosmos he managed that had once been beyond my ability to understand. Sitting there in his ancient throne styled seat, a flagon of mead half drank in one hand, while the other clings to a chop of mutton as if it were the revered Odinsphere. Yet during the course of this trial I have learned, undoubtably what countless others have: It is all an act. This kindly old fool is nothing of the sort. He lures you in with his apparent frailty of mind and soul, only to batter you with banter and bluster with such a ferocity that it leaves you to wish... perhaps, that he would instead hit you with the mutton.

His charade won him points, his guile won him prestige. Only now do I begin to understand the wisdom of the Supreme Intelligence placing me on this trial. Only I have a chance to defeat this man. The fate of the Universe rests upon my shoulders.

Court: Final Witnesses.

"As you have witnessed, the Humans cannot be trusted. In their hands is the fate of the Entire Universe, yet they do nothing. Faced with the prospect of the Crystal's overwhelming powers they do not move to destroy it. They flounder, here, even following their victory against the Imperial Guard. They sit. Awaiting for the witless Chitauri to open their ranks and take the crystal from them. Their inaction will be the death of everythi--..."

"Nay."

The word was but a whisper, but yet a single word has undone my arguements. "Nay? What do you mean Nay? They have done nothing! Weeks have passed, still they sit upon their secret. Captain Marvel, is one of the greatest heroes of the age, of any age, and yet when faced with the chance to enlist his aide, they hid their secrets away. They did not extent trust, they extended nothing but apathy! Their own bigotry has cost them a very powerful ally."

"I say, the, Nay."

"Perhaps," the voice of an accuser dropping to a maliciousness not previously seen. "The great and powerful one would do us the worthiness of an explanation...?"

I realize now, in retrospect, that he baited me in to giving him the floor. Because with all the swagger of prize fighter lumbering in to take a clubbing blow, Odin took the stage. "Nay, the Humans did not fail in their task. When faced with the improbable decisions, tis not it wisdom to do nothing? T' wait for a showin, a sign, to await wisdom t' guide them along the truer path?"

"Nay, tis not folly that lead the humans now. They are still a young race. Still prone t' mistakes and errors, we have all made mistakes. I object to them being held accountable for no less than all have done before. Lest you wish to hold a trial next for the ancient history of the Titans. There was a time when the Kree were not so knowledged as well. Where does the trials stop if we do not allow races to make mistakes. Nay. This has proven nothing!"

We all turned then to the tri-faced Tribunal. For a moment all is silent. Then our Judge speaks a single word: Continue.

"Very well, for my next witness I call to the stands....Blackagar Boltagon."

The light stung her bloodshot eyes, sharp as knives and twice as bright as they had the right to be. Brighter, even. The sharp smell of cinnamon and sandalwood permeated the air, thick on the steam that lingered in the air long after she’d attempted to scrub the skin off of herself in the shower. Hands braced on either side of the lined and aged porcelain of the bathroom sink, scalded red skin a stark contrast to the ivory, Barbara Morse stares unseeingly at her reflection, as if expecting someone else to look out of the mirror.

She’d have started coffee before, to ensure he didn’t resurface, to stave off the moment she had to close her eyes. . . if she had any coffee in the apartment.

She’d found the one thing Orange Juice didn’t cure.

Her hands don’t shake as she opens the bathroom door again, padding past the alarm clock. Her savior, perhaps, but it had died violently shortly after. At first the blaring sound of the morning radio had been the most welcome sound in the world. And then the news had begun, tawdry stories from Europe, picked up by the US radio news now—she had no problems with telepaths, in her organization her mind had been delved more than once. . . to assure her loyalties, to debrief her, as an instant psychological profile, as a buffer from knowing more than she should. She knew it had been. Her mind had never been completely her domain, it like all of her was ruled by SHIELD.

Nevertheless a phrase hit too close to home. The clock hadn’t seen the boot knife coming, hadn’t flinched away as it was slammed through its smirking, glowing red face. It continued to whine piteously around the blade after her shower as she stood before it looking through her drawers, as if the uncharacteristic display of rage had never happened.

Blue jeans, beaten, worn and simply familiar. The black sweater was out of season, but the sleeves were overlong, a bit too baggy for her frame, and slid down without a trace of the weapons beneath. The polished leather of the forearm bracers, burnished metal of her staves snapped into the quick-release disappeared under soft wool. Butterfly sword. Gun. Communicator—spins the dial of the iPod to crank the volume up high, ignoring the music except as negative stimulation. The boot knife is last, eased out of the clock and eyed against her sleeve for damage, before it’s slid into place as well.

Focus and discipline. Long before Stick had begun working with her, refining it for what in her current state seemed like the distant possibility of The Chaste, she’d had the concept drilled into her mind. As a field agent, she’d been in several difficult situations. They trained for them as well, and it had held true. She’d held, never let herself break, and she wasn’t going to now. Even if she was brittle around the edges.

Dispassionate, ruthless execution of her orders, of the task at hand, wasn’t going to do it now, though. She was going to fucking kill the son of a bitch bastard, again. What remained of him, lingering in her psyche and waiting for her to let her guard down.

And after she’d slaughtered him, she’d go back to spit on his grave.

Snatching her sunglasses and keys from the top of her stereo, Mockingbird activates the alarms on her door, and slips out into the day. She was no one’s victim. And even if she added more weight to her damaged soul by slicing his to ribbons. . .

There were some things worth risking an eternity in hell for. And she’d spend that eternity killing him again, if she had to.

Generals gathered in their masses
Just like witches at black masses
Evil minds that plot destruction
Sorcerers of deaths construction
In the fields the bodies burning
As the war machine keeps turning

Julie had her birthday just the other day. Mine's tomorrow. The big 20. I haven't really thought alot about it. Mostly you think about finding things to smile about, and finding things to do, and well - surviving. Getting supplies. Running around. Doing things that are helpful. Sure, sometimes I wondering what everyone's doing. The way I figure it, Remy's being Remy. Logan's being Logan. Scott is being Scott. And Jean? Well, she's being Jean. Doesn't 'xactly make me miss things or miss them any less. I just started working with them again, and then this happened. Disappeared straight out of the infirmary there. Am I worried about what they might think? If they think I flaked again? Nah. Chances are they either a.) didn't notice or b.) figured something was funky about it. I mean, I figure if Scott even wants to know I can just look at the man who flew in during the whole Chitarui thing and say, "Starjammer" and he'll know what's up. Kind of.

So I'm twenty. Some days I look at the mirror and I look like I'm all of thirteen or fifteen. Other days I look at the mirror and I actually feel like I look like my age. Go, go Asian Genetics. If I look this good when I'm forty? (If I live to be forty?) That would be awesome. I mean, you look at people like Carol, and it's really easy to think that you might not live to see forty, so you should live each day to its fullest. It's why I've tried not to be, you know, so mopey. I'm just quiet. It's hard to think in terms like you'd like, when a majority of the people are all, 'You killed people in order to survive! Augh! Go away!' What. Do they think I liked it? That I enjoyed it?

Helllloooooo. Do I look like I have mutant abilities that can restrain people? Can I fly to keep me out of harm's way? I've got acrobatic abilities but on a field of battle that's only going to do so much, especially when you're - oh - I don't know, in a freaking war zone! And martial arts? Trying to hit some of those armored goons would have been like saying, 'Please! Break all of my bones! I want you to! Honest!' My abilities have three settings. 'Pretty' 'Annoying' and 'Melt Your Face Off'. That last I always knew, but ..really discovered by accident. And that was something that made me freak out - at first. But, like Remy - and then even Emma said. It was an accident. I couldn't ..I couldn't let it weigh me down like that. And in this? I had to do what I had to do in order to not get cleaved in two. So. I can't let it weigh me down like that either. Logan wouldn't bat an eye. Neither would Jean nor would Remy. So I have to think of it in those terms right now.

We all keep ourselves entertained in various ways. I've got exercises I do. When we're not under the 'threat of detection' I've been trying different experiments with my abilities. You know, like trying to re-absorb the light energy I generate. Or by trying to shield myself with it. Doesn't ..usually work. It's something productive to do though, when we do have something called free time. Which isn't much. But you know what? I'd give just about anything for some paper and colors. Sketch. Design things. Maybe just work on pictures that tell our stories. All of our stories, from while we've been out here. That'd be ..I dunno, that'd be nice to be able to do I think.

Meanwhile? All there really is to do is hum, 'Happy Birthday' to myself. And focus on the reasonably good stuff. We're alive. That's what counts for right now.

Security Level: Custom. Group: House of M.

I begin to understand just why I frustrate you so, Father. Was I that impatient, that chaotic at that age? Can comparisons even be made?

Watching the chaos grow here, almost, almost amuses me. There's the distinct feeling in the air. It's almost as if Mastermind were sowing seeds with his illusions, Exodus were heightening hatred, or a pheremone controller was here.

It is, of course, none of the above. Simple human emotion and disagreements, combined with misdeed and resentments. If there were anything to be gained by manipulation, now would be the time to do it. Pity I have no desire in this regard. All I can do is watch this little drama unfold, and watch them as I watch children squabble over who gets what toy in the sandbox. If you were here, Wanda, perhaps we could turn these things around. Without you, I cannot find it in myself to muster the patience to care. They cannot grow if they do not experience pain and deal with it on their own.

As I told you, Amelia. Teaching is a somewhat disappointing experience. The bulk of that which I have attempted to impart is falling upon deaf ears, although it would seem he is learning despite himself. If only for the sake of that redheaded gravity controller. I suppose I should take some small appreciation that the young man is at least beginning to realize he has a reason to learn what I am endeavoring to teach him.

He will not be like me. None of these children will. One or two has an idea of the proper cold heartedness necessary to face the world, or a glimmer of the ruthlessness necessary to accomplish your goals. They all are lacking those combined together, and not one of them seems to understand the most important thing. Even the perceptive young Miss Lang (who bears future watching) fails to grasp what motivates me.

I should not expect the youth of today to understand the concept of Duty. Perhaps a result of none of them having a family like ours, or that they simply do not care about things beyond themselves. No urges or thoughts towards a grander future for Homo-Superior. No burden of responsibility beyond that innately imbued by their gifts. No constantly being in the shadow of a man far greater then you, always spurned to try and prove yourself his equal or better - doomed to always fail. No, they do not understand.

Did you enjoy the paintings I sent as your Fathers Day gift, Father? Beautiful vibrant Hammer Bay, contrasted by the accompanying piece of Muir Island? Admittedly the one of Muir was my better work, but Cape Wrath and its' gloom leap readily to the canvas.

-Pietro

Muir Island was home - and the people there were for the most part family. A dysfunctional family perhaps, but family nonetheless. For mutants seeking a place in which to develop a command of their talents so as to be of some use to society, it was an ideal environment. That is unless you happened to be a telepath. Muir's harsh climate seemed to extend to telepaths for varying, understandable reasons. But for the few telepaths who actually remained on the Island, it was a source of much frustration - particularly so for Xi'an Coy Manh.

Xi'an's Uncle, General Coy - had assured she and her brother Tranh that if they enlisted in the services of the North Korean government, if they left Vietnam, their family would be provided transportation to the states where they could begin a new life, a better life. This was something which Xi'an had wanted for her younger siblings, Leong and Nga. However the manner in which she and Tranh were taught to use their abilities, was far more perverse and invasive than others could ever imagine. Using others as puppets, using those puppets to assassinate targets for the North Korean government and then leaving them with no recollection of ever doing so, was a very cruel and calculating thing to do.

Naturally, when Xi'an began to correspond with Betsy Braddock, she learned of other means through which she could develop her mental abilities. Something less intrusive. Something to facilitate communication (from her per view) instead of outright possession. To explore other aspects of mental-related mutant abilities, something other than the controlling of one's mind. And so the lessons in telepathy began. At first, such practice rest solely with her younger siblings, and then with Tabor, all of whom were at Muir at that time. They were after all, the few who were willing to be guinea pigs in that regards. It was Tabor, and not Betsy who had first taught Xi'an about the notion of a team link, and that was something Xi'an made herself work on each time that she could. Only to find that many current and potential members of Excalibur didn't care for such things.

She had left Muir once, to get her younger siblings settled in a boarding school where they could be around other children their age, others who weren't mutants - just like them. But it was also to explore other avenues, because she had felt like she had walked into a wall. A dead end. She adored Muir. She adore Moira and enjoyed thoroughly the labs with Moira and Hank and the continued studies of genetics. However, those continued studies of genetics were not offering much insight in the realm of development in terms of telepathic abilities. And once again, she found herself staring at a dead-end. Xi'an was not the sort of person to complain. She understood very well what it was like to face hardship; however, even she found herself faced with a level of frustration with which she was uncertain of what to do.

After completing a lab, she jotted a note for Betsy, and slipped it under the woman's door. She wanted to focus more on lessons. And on lessons with people whom were willing to expand upon them with her. Before she felt like she needed to leave the one place she called home, once more.

This isn't the way it's supposed to be. Space, I mean. In the movies it's an adventure. Where's our Han Solo, and Obi Wan Kenobi? Well. I suppose maybe Sersi is Obi Wan, Hyperion is Han Solo, and Doom is Darth Vader? No... that really doesn't work out at all. Which most of the comparisons I've tried to come up with have just flat out failed.

Breakworld isn't the way these things were supposed to be. I could handle that first fight. Sure, there was still a lot of death, but at least Noh-Varr did it away from the ship where we didn't have to watch all those missles hit. It didn't seem as wrong when Binary and Ch'od were taking an entire flank during that first encounter, and I'd flip stragglers through their lines up into the air a few hundred yards and let gravity deal with them...

The second battle. There are no ifs, ands, or butts. I killed Breakworlders. A lot of them. It wasn't even like trying. I know I have a pretty good range - at least a few thousand miles. On Earth I could go anywhere on the planet - with accuracy problems. But accuracy really isn't a factor in 'straight up'. I didn't look out the windows on exit, but.. I wonder. Were they floating in space, like debris in a vacuum? Or did I just throw them up into the atmosphere so high that they died of a heart attack before gravity slammed them into their ugly ugly world?

I know some of them came back down. When they started closing in.. I started throwing my stepping discs out rapidly, two, three, four, five at a time at one point, just to make sure none of them got to me. I saw some of them crashing into the ground.. at least when I split my attention that way the distance gets cut. I learned what it looks like when someone takes a mile plunge without a parachute though.

I never want to see it again. I almost felt like cheering when a few of them flew when thrown, or got caught by those charioteers.

I don't even have a clue how many went through my stepping discs, how many survived, and how many didn't. I don't want to know. As soon as they sealed the hatch, I just lost it. What I did was bad enough, but seeing what that Binary woman and Noh-Varr did was so much worse. I broke down as soon as the hatch was closed. At least it was Hyperion who picked me up off the deck and held me, and talked to me. He had blood on him too. But he was so nice, as usual. At least to me he's been really nice.

He doesn't give me the chills like Noh-Varr does. I want to just drop a stepping disc under the Kree and throw him into space, but the little voice in the back of my head says "don't". Not because it'd be wrong, but because if someone has to do that kind of thing again - let it be him. I don't want that kind of blood on my hands. He seems to like it, let him do it.

My dreams have been pretty bad, except when Hyperion's been around. I didn't take Sersi's offer of making the dreams go away - if I don't face them now, I'd have to do it later. So I haven't gotten very much sleep - at least not good sleep, but it's forcing me to deal with it. And really - it's better it was them then me. I don't have a doubt about that, and it's why I'm not ranting about the others. I just.. didn't want to see it. It wasn't a good sight, and it was so pointless.

Next planet? Xandar. Hm. Kind of like Xander. The name of that guy Vin Disel played in xXx. Maybe I can go one alien planet without killing something.

Which is kinda funny, because when I first got my powers and I showed them to a friend and was acting a bit tough.. they asked me what I was goign to do, teleport them? Yeah. Guess teleportation is a bit more lethal then I'd have cared to thought about. I'd rather have not known though. The shocks wearing off, now to just make the nightmares and images of blood go away... This is the kind of stuff that gives people PTSD.

But, if Hyperion, Sersi, Doom, Noh-Varr, Corsair, and the others who seem to be able to cope with it can, then so I can I. None of them are better then I am, so that'sthe way it'll be.

A Massacre.

What had happened as they were leaving Breakworld was an outright massacre. But it wasn't like there was any other choice, was there? It was survival. Kill or be killed. And quite frankly, Jubilee had been tired of being the personal chew toy for some of the most sadistic people most people could encounter in a given day. But how do you deal with something like that?

You go numb.

You go numb and resolve to do what you have to in order to not be the one who ends up getting slaughtered. To have that right to live and live life to its fullest. Sometimes there really is no other way around it. Did it make her a bad person? To want to survive, to want to thrive and be strong, no matter what it took? She wasn't sure. She really wasn't. And it wasn't as if she could talk to the few people that she did know. Tabor, maybe. But, talking to Tyler was going to be a no-go. She knew how strongly he felt about being heroic, and taking that approach.

So for the moment, there really wasn't much else to do - outside of trying to be helpful, but hurry up and wait. Maybe by the time they hit that planet for supplies, she'd have better answers.

Court is now in Session.

Over the years people have begun to fear the Accusers. We are a brutal sub-section of the Kree Imperium. Charged with prosecuting our duties; the guilty of the galaxy, according to the law of the Imperium. We, the Imperium, believe that our laws are the Galaxy’s Laws. Through the many years of the institution of Accusers, only one has never lost a case. My name is Ronan, and I am that Accuser.

Nearly six years ago I was contacted directly by the Supreme Intelligence, the ruler of my people, to a remote world in the Imperiums expansive regions. It was there that I was shown, by our people’s most exalted leader, the beginnings of the one trial that I could never afford to lose. There before me was an antiquated vessel, a pod really, smeared with human DNA. The planet on which the vessel crashed was a desolate one, but it had not always been so. Here on this planet life had one existed, a Kree colony world in fact. There had one been high hopes for this world to supplant the exhausted worlds in our core, to rejuvenate rich minerals and crops that were lost in our wars with the Chitauri. It was here, on this world that I was shown the greatest threat to my people: Humanity.

Not merely my people though. As my investigation progressed I was shown a wide mixture of this race’s failings. Left unabated these people would not destroy merely the Kree Imperium, but… all life as we knew it. The Surpreme Intelligence had known the conclusions that I would find, and knew the actions I would take.

Court.

“Esteemed members of the jury; Living Tribunal, Majestic Eternity, over the last several days you have witnessed these human’s actions.  You have seen how they reap death and destruction upon where ever they touch. You have bore witness to their plunder and pillage of a society. Their absolute failure to demonstrate any diplomacy. One of their own Leaders has clearly made known the fact that all who oppose him should be destroyed. Must we continue with this far--”

“Buuuuuuuuurp.”

That would be the tone of objection from the being who opposes my case. His name is Odin, and he is supposedly a ‘god,’ for all the good manners he has demonstrated. Yet the opening of this trial showed me that his drunken exterior is nothing more than a careful facade. Despite being half inside his own flagon of mead, he has some wit for battle, and definitely treats this trial as War.

As the hulking one eyed man makes his objection known, I can only sneer with contempt, for I know that I under-estimated him once, but I shall not ever again. “Was not the death and destruction, Ron, speaketh of, wrought by one of his own? Tis not the human’s failure of diplomacy either, twas not that too attempted by non-Humans as well?”

Oh, my patience for this wretch are at an end.

Even as the Tribunal accepts the objection at face value, I have moved to my next piece. “Your honors, at this time I would like to make a motion to dismiss Odin as counsel. He is clearly bias, and has a personal stake in these proceedings. His son cavorts with Humanity even as we speak!”

Behind the one-eyed leader outrage soon consumes the court, but I am pleased, because this was all carefully planned. Before the Tribunal has even spoken, I know what his ruling shall be….

Somewhere out there...

The pieces of the setting are in place; A Celestial Court has been convened, Witnesses have been brought, Evidence has been gathered. Today marks the beginning of the Future, and I am proud to play my part in it. Today begins the Trial of Humanity, and I am it's Accuser.

"I am Ronan, Supreme Accuser of the Kree Imperial Court." For today it is time for the beginning arguments, the start of any trial hinges upon making the jury believe that what you have to place before them proves the guilt of your accused, I have long held a distinction of being able to do just that, having never lost a trial. "We face an unusual tria, most civilized society would simply invade an opposing species, commence with War, but the Humans have ... a higher power on their side, one that wishes to find a peaceful solution to all of this."

To my right, the 'Defense', in my time in the courts I have never seen a less worthy opponent. Standing there with his long white braided hair, a patch of dwarven iron covering his lost eye, and drinking booze straight from a cup while official proceedings are underway. If this is Humanity's defense, then surely I will prevail as always before. In the field of battle Odin is a God, but in the Court Room, only I have the power? The power is mine.

Before me are the Judges, and the Jury. There is no 'jury of piers' for that is a wasted human concept. There is a trio of the beings who are considered the basic fundamentals of the cosmos; The Living Tribunal, a being of immense power but with his own three sided natured he is empowered with the ability to rule judgments over the balance for all of the multiverse; Eternity, said to be the living embodiment of the very universe itself; The Beyonder, very little is known of him beyond his thirst for knowledge. It is these three that I must convince of Humanities guilt. Some would consider this a challenge.

I have already planned my victory celebration.

"The charges placed against humanity are base, and impossibly easy to prove, but none the less it is my esteemed opponents view that Humanity has done nothing more than Survive against all other odds. I ask you, does this fight for survival give humanity the right to Damn All Others? Does this give them the right to release the Scourge of the Galaxy upon us all? It is my belief that these humans have plotted, prepared, and staged all of these events to appear innocent, while secretly planning to take over the Universe." The 'court' has a sudden intake of breathe as I speak, no one can stop the stark gasps of the accusations. I have them in the palm of my hand. "They systematically plotted the break downs of the multiverse barriers, releasing the psychotic Nightmare onto their world, and into our universe."

"They have released the Scourge of the Universe, the Dark Phoenix, from it's Prison. Unleashing it into the Cosmos to rampantly run destruction, and scour innocent life out of the Stars! This release... lead to the first step in the fiendish plans! As their unholy pact with Gal Ak Tus, was a prelude to War. Their deal with the Phoenix for it's release... was for the Phoenix to lead Gal Ak Tus on a campaign of destruction. Feed the World Eater worlds of prime choice, weaken the defenses of their galactic rivals...empowering them to easy victories!" Outrage and Defiance from the courtroom suddenly overtakes me, and I am forced to stand down...and smile, while order is re-established. My words charging the mixed viewers of the Court with emotions and fear. "Further evidence by their harboring of Fugitives from the very cultures they will soon seek to destroy, and bring to heal! "

When I look toward Odin, who's on what must be his twentieth flagon of mead, I know that this drunken wretch stands no chance. I have already won. "These humans play with reality itself, setting off ripples in a pond through out the universe with their toying. They don't like their world, they don't like the circumstances they have brought upon themselves... so they simply try to 'Reboot' their world. Setting of untold chain reactions... the likes of which, forgive me .. but the likes of which bring about the very creation of one of our esteemed Judges without any consequence to their own!"

With those words I have navigated through the opening statements. Laying forth the bevy of humanities galactic failures. With each passing moment I am assured of my victory. It is then to my sheer surprise when the crooning old drunk rises for his own opening statements, amidst his belching and sundry of other 'ungodly' mannerisms. He spins a fabulous yarn, apparently these Asgardians are born to tell tales, and boast of the achievements of others. So overblown and fanciful are his opening statements that I am nearly asleep against my Hammer, and would have missed his proposition to the Court.

"I object! A Trial by Fire? What madness is this?! We live in a civilized universe, these human insects are guilty...!" But by then I realize that I have under-estimated this drunken dullard. A Trial by Fire, a test of Humanities Strengths and Weaknesses. Tests of their Humility, Ethics, and Moral Fibre?

It is only through my own cunning and fortitude that I am able to argue for equal rights in this 'Trial by Fire'. "So be it! A series of tests then. I am certain of their guilt, their greed, their selfishness in their desire to put their own survival above the rest of the universe."

Odin and I shall conduct a series of tests, to produce living evidence for the Court. For each test that Odin conducts to prove their worth, I may conduct one of my own. The 'Human Witnesses' will be chosen at random. Their testimony will be given in their actions within our 'tests'. The bitterness of my setbacks here today will not stop me from attaining the one thing I have never been denied; Victory. Humanity will Die.

A month is more then enough time, even by you slow-as-slug minded individuals, to come to some basic self truths.

While I find that young children, under 4, to be an amazing annoyance, I have also decided that teenagers above 14 are also worthless until they grow out of their hormones. It isn't as if children are highly involved within my line of"work". As an Ultimate, my job is simple. Scouting, recon, and then keeping my team-mates behinds from being fried once the fray is joined. Hardly a trying job for a man who can disarm an entire army in mere minutes.

A very simple and straight forward job, with a high responsibility factor if you fail.

As compared to working with children, a complex endeavor in and of itself, with just as high a responsibility factor. Especially when they are the next generation of Mutants, Metahumans, or leaders.

I find their naietivity to be almost refreshingly amusing. Some of their optimism laughable. Then there are simply those whom I can only in my head agree with. It is a terrible thing to see a young person whom at 17 or 18 understands the world is a cold, cruel place, and if you do not look out for yourself no one else will. Worse still, when I suspect they are like minded to me in just what I am willing to 'sacrifice' for a goal. It took traumatic events to seperate me from my childhood happiness, and a bloody revolution to make me reach this point.

What has driven them to it?

How do you teach disillusioned, cynical, emotionally mature children what they need to learn? They almost universally believe they know it already, or their pride outstrips their actual accomplishments.

Then of course, the annoyance of being around hormone driven youth. In a large way, I find this aspect to make me feel the need to bathe more often then even dealing with Politicians and the Media did.

The young man I've chosen to mentor should be out of the Hospital before long, if his healing process is similiar to mine. Then we will see if he is willing to learn, or if my coming here was a total waste of my time.

I am not a teacher, unappreciative children should be more thankful when I attempt to bridge this gap in my skills in their interest.

Oh well, Wanda? Expect a package in the next day or two. A painting, and some jewelry that reminded me of you.

My word, I look fabulous in this new jacket.

It's... been a day, and a decision I never, ever, thought that I would have to make. Even though in the moment, as things were all happening and my brain was swirling uselessly (it does that. A lot.), I really didn't do much deciding. Did I? I just went along docilely, like the obedient little girl I sometimes end up behaving like. I should have protested, protested a lot more, with things like 'It isn't any of your business,' or 'It's my personal life, stay out of it.' In the end though, raising my voice like I wanted to, and shouting and arguing would have gotten me...what?

I'd imagine it would have lost me the job I love, the opportunities to be doing what I love. In exchange for working on another sort of more personal emotion. Would he have wanted me to sacrifice my career? I can't say for certain, I don't believe so. I know I would hate myself if someone else did the same for me.

Maybe it was selfish of me, hugely and deeply selfish, to even try to have both things at once. I think I made the choice, truly, years ago when I decided to follow my conscience and have a stab at saving the world. Or at least my very little corner of it. It does, at least, make for a very busy distraction, when my mind tries to drift towards the 'what might have beens.'

Because really, I must have misplaced one of them, I had two the last time I tried this. Of course, last time I was completely flustered, caught off guard and fairly embarassed. Maybe that was more the problem than my being completely incapable of performing with any degree of... well.. grace.

Today was a completely different story, however. Poor Wes must think that I was lying to him about needing his help with this, for my own nefarious purposes no doubt, in order to get him to come to class with me. Not that I honestly think he minds, I haven't spent as much time with him lately as usual. We're both busy and well, I've had a distraction. A rather pleasant one though. Very pleasant actually.

But anyway. I actually got complimented by the instructor. I think they thought I was trying to sneak into a beginners class when that wasn't where I ought to be. Which really wasn't the case, but maybe next time I'll try something fancier. Won't that be a surprise?

I've reached an interesting conclusion today. It's hardly following the proper scientific method for forming and proving a hypothesis, but for now, it'll have to do. Any food, no matter where it comes from, is instantly made classier by the simple act of eating it inside of a limo. Or at least McDonald's is. Hard to say if it holds true for others, as I have yet to duplicate the experiment, but I'm just going to make the assumption. There is also the variable of the company that I had in the adventure to factor in, I suppose. I'd try to convince him to do it again, just with a different establishment to prove my point, except well.. I feel slightly idiotic about the entire thing already.

Was there a class on proper etiquette for this sort of thing at some point? Did I miss it? I must have. I'm a grown woman and I'm acting like I'm fourteen. I at least have resisted the urge to begin this with the salutation of "Dear Diary."

It was an interesting day to say the least though. From my adventures in improving the perceived quality of my dinner, not that I have any problems with McDonald's, or any other fast food establishment for that matter, it moved to sword fighting. That doesn't even happen in the movies. Or at least no movie that I've ever watched. Fun and educational, since I even learned a few things. I didn't know much to begin with when it comes to those weapons though, so anything is better than, well. Nothing. There was even some sneaky tactics employed, that ended with me being kissed, and likely looking incredibly stupid afterwards. What else was I supposed to do, at that point? See. This is why I need lessons.

At least I had the presence of mind, when I was taken home again, to actually respond back in kind. And he still smelled wonderful, even after a workout. I don't know what kind of cologne that is but it just smells...fancy. Here's hoping my juvenile antics don't make him not want to speak with me ever again.

I can't believe how long it'd been since I was taken out on an honest to God date. I think the last time was somewhere around the neighborhood of my senior prom, and even then, I went with a friend and not anyone that could truly be considered any sort of an interest. Not that he wasn't a nice guy, just neither of us felt that way about the other. I've always just been too busy, track and piano in high school, and in college it never really changed any. Practices were longer for track, and I mostly gave up piano. I don't have one to play on anyway.

I guess being finally finished with school though was the magic trigger. Because guess what, I had one? Yes a real date. I don't know why I'm talking about it on here actually, I never use this thing. My friends back home made me set it up, so they could keep track of me. I think this is my second? Yes second post ever. See, guys? I'm not totally hopeless. And this way I've got it all worked out what to say in my head before Mama F gives me the third degree in the morning. She actually waited up until I got home, I could see her head poking out the next window when I was coming back down the stairs.

It was really, well. Wonderful. I don't think I've got another word for it right now. It's late, and I'm tired, but I figured I'd at least start on this now, let you all know I'm not a completely anti-dating tomboy. I've never eaten in a restaurant so nice before, or had duck for that matter. I felt a little like a fish out of water, or I guess, bird out of my tree in my case since I never really was much of a swimmer, was I? How does someone get used to fancy things like that though? Maybe lots of exposure. Who knows.

I feel bad that I stepped on his feet though. I really do. Hopefully my inane babbling all night didn't chase him off. He's a great man, and a complete gentleman. I don't think I'd mind seeing him again at all. At least so long as there's no more singing telegrams.

How does one sum up a life?

I’ve had occasion recently to watch mine in its entirety, in the unique perspective that only impending death can bring to you. It doesn’t, as the cliché would imply, flash before your eyes in a series of illuminated images. It lingers, thick and cloying, choking you as certainly as the death itself.

I have lived my forty years expecting to be shuffled off each day. Clinging desperately to hope, with all optimism burned away. I have flogged my beliefs, my causes, at the rest of the world in the hope that perhaps at some point it would make a difference, even if it meant just one mind changed.

And yet, however hard I have lived my life in my field, and in my causes, it’s my personal regrets that cloud my life.

That I never could be for David the mother that he needed. That I have systematically pushed away every person I have ever loved. That I let myself linger so long in the worst moments of my life that I missed what could have been the best.

I want to be there for Rahne, to protect her and help her, as she grows into the woman I know she’s destined to become—to be there when she displays the courage I know she has, even if it’s in defiance of me. I want to watch Josh as he learns his potential—I want to see him develop, knowing that this is was boy who was the antithesis of everything I preach, who’s become someone I am intensely proud to call son. I want to see Mark free again, with his family, and be someone that my grandson would be proud of. And of the three men that I have loved in my life, it’s Sean Cassidy I have the most regrets about—years together, now, and in the end all I can think of is how many times I have swallowed what I wanted to say, because I could not muster up the optimism to believe things could change.

But I find it strangely fitting that I would be here for it all—it all began, for me, with Erik Lehnsherr. My first love, the man that put me on the path, though our visions diverged widely after their conception, a man that has subsequently been the bane of my existence by his mere presence and comparative success—I’ve never managed to reconcile these concepts.

And it’s only now that I realize that doesn’t matter.

I can no longer accept the world it as we’ve made it. This war, the lives lost or destroyed, the atrocities we’ve committed and had aimed at us, and my own selfish personal ghosts and regrets. This is my last stab at hope, in a time that has choked all hope away from the rest of the world.

I do not believe in an afterlife—what we make is all that we get.

Ironic—an atheist who’s determined that the only remaining course of action is to play God. I don’t know if in concept that absolves me of the sin, or makes it inherently all the worse. If it were my child, rather than his, being used to make it all come to pass… would I?

Should I have already?

Perhaps this is madness, then, finally caught up with me now that the worst has come to pass.

I refuse to allow everything to end on so many regrets, if I can change it. Whatever the cost, I hold out hope.

--Moira Kinross.

"Life springs from death; and from the graves of patriot men and women spring living nations."

Dublin. I've sent the children off in their groups to see the town--we'll be meeting again in an hour, provided all of us manage to avoid trouble. Watching them, it seems they're more animated than they have been for some time--since before Muir was destroyed. Before we became refugees. Before we lost one leader, and regained him at the cost of another.

They're more alive.

So I find it ironic that left to my own devices, my destination was a cemetery.

Glasnevin Cemetary. More history is buried in this spot than anywhere else in this city that revels in its own past. Here, on this quiet bench I've found, I can see the graves of Sir Roger Casement and Eamon de Valera, Maud Gonne and her son Sean MacBride, Con Markiewicz, O’Connell’s tower, and just before me Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa lays buried, as unaware of me as he was of Padraig Pearse, and every republican that saw this spot as a gathering post. A pulpit, disguised as a simple low grave with a headstone barely raised above its gravel.

There are likely tours that tromp through here, among the dead, that point to this bench and say that the Easter Rising sparked here, as Pearse read over the lines of his speech again and again, committing it to memory before making the transformation from schoolteacher and poet to revolutionary.

And I'm struck by the ridiculousness of it all. Perhaps some day a tour will stop by the Chalk and Cheese, point to my little booth in the back, and declare that the spot where Moira MacTaggert, scribbling notes on her napkin over more than one dram of Kinross whiskey, finally came up with the breakthrough that had her discovering the gene for human mutation.

And how exactly will that then be interpreted, I wonder.

For a scientist, I've found myself becoming remarkably Luddite in my thoughts lately. Arguing that some scientific advancements shouldn't have been made, as I watch them abused. Culture changes, with science, and now what I've done is being used to further the bigotry that I fight against.

And more and more, I find it's that fight that truly matters to me. That goal. That dream. I am still a scientist. I cannot turn that off, cannot step away from it, cannot disassociate myself from that fundamental truth. I am driven to explore, to discover. But the children, their future, that is what I truly hope to affect.

Is that Erik? Charles? I choose to believe that this is my dream I'm fighting for. My goal I'm dedicating my life to. Whether or not the differences from their own are subtle, they are there. And the truth of the matter is that I am not doing this for any of us.

I believe it's right.

But I don't necessarily believe we'll prevail. Not in our lifetimes. I've rather resigned myself to the fact that I will either die in this cause, or I will die seeing it unfulfilled.

Perhaps that's why I found myself drawn to this place. The history's not my own, these Irishmen, but people like Rossa died before they could see it happen--catalysts. Casement was executed for his part. And from their ideologies sprung violence that still continues--but it also eventually made headway.

Were I Charles, I'd protest that it ever come to violence. I'd point at the cycle it began.

Were I Erik, I'd embrace the violence and declare it part of change. Necessary, even, and part of how all revolutions are won. I'd never agree to the compromise.

I just want something better for the children than I see around us now.

But I'm not willing to put myself in the grave, yet.

I'm going to change the world.

A lot of people say that, and a lot of people never really manage to pull off what they want to do. Most of the people who say that plan on changing it in certain ways. Through 'heroics', such as the Excalibur team, X-men, Ultimates, etc etc etc. Then there's my adopted mom, Moira MacTaggert. She tries to change the world in her own way - through her constant scientific research into mutants, and through ceaselessly ranting and raving at politicians. Then there's the politicians.

I'm going to change the world, but I'm not going to do it through any of those ways. Ironically, no one has ever asked me what it's like to be a Healer. Mine is a power that can only do good for people. It's hard to ignore all of the sentimentality attached to healing. Mostly religious, some superstitious, but always the healer of stories is cast as a Holy person, or a person of some level of faith or belief. They're the pristine one, touched by a power beyond normality - supernatural or divine, look at it how you will.

I'm a Healer, one of the best. I'm still learning, but already what I can do is more then I ever thought I'd be able to do.

So, the question becomes.. how am I going to change the world, if not by being a 'super hero', or a politician, or anything else?

I'm going to change the world by being what I am. A healer.

Let them rail against the evils of mutants, as I heal their wives. Let them protest at the Arcadia campus, while I heal children out of the hospitals. Let them print horrible news paper articles, while I breath fresh life into the dying. Let them do what they will, while I use the gift that I was given. Even if it doesn't counter all the bad things in the world, the good that could be done with my powers can bring some brightness into the lives of those who need a helping hand out of the darkness of suffering and pain.

There's more kinds of heroes then 'Super-Heroes', and I plan on being a Hero.

If your reading this Doc, well, you know what I plan on doing when my education is done, I suppose. I think you already knew though, didn't you? If you were looking for dirt on my relationship with Tara, that's all filtered entries, so hah!

There are times when I am forced to thank the heavens I am no where near as mad as the world apparently thinks I am.

They display it in small ways. The most infuriating is that patient, patronizing expression--musn't anger the madwoman, it only encourages her. May as well toss in a pat on the shoulder, and that slow, sad shake of the head. "She was such a talented lass--it's a shame, really." Rubbish.

I was, and typically am, completely right. I did learn from our little exercise. I watched the lad and lasses--my teammates, Sean would be quick to remind me--I took my paint pellet, I listened to their conversations afterwards.. the pairing off for further training--and yes, I am capable of listening. And I watched Karma, as well. And Meggan, sitting apart, eating her marshmellows.

This exercise wasn't indicative of what she should be expecting. I remember taking her from the UK to the States for the encounter in Idaho. She weakens, away from home. Just as Brian would.

And then there's me. I do realize what I am--as a medic, I'm an asset to the team. As a field team member, however, I am a liability. Not because of my lack of mutant abilities--because regardless of my training, of everyone whom I've worked with, the lumps I've taken, I am a scientist. Underweight (thank you, Laynia, I had noticed), and phenomenally average in quite a few more ways than my inflated ego cares to admit. I'm a decent shot, though that doesn't particularly help us any longer, and my pub brawling days are long past.

Even among the half-trained lads and lasses, I'm going to be a pretty target.

And I have to wonder, love him though I do, if Sean Cassidy is as daft as everyone says I am.

He's the only one of the lot that I could have chosen to train with, that I haven't. A throwback to my own mental hangups, which are rather infamous at this point as Braddock seems incapable of keeping her mouth shut. He hasn't ever said anything, for which I am thankful. Scowled at Wisdom even more than usual when I ran the little training experiment that had me hiding broken ribs from him, and unable to hide the rest of the bruising. But he hasn't pressed the point.

Even without that, I know he's aware of my capabilities. So what, pray tell, is he doing?

I ask. I'll sit here and brood over it, as I always seem to, and ask myself. And what I realize is that it doesn't matter. Daft or no, I trust him.

A rather shocking declaration from me: I trust him.

And so I'll go back to our team exercises, and take my paint pellets, and follow where he tells me to. Never did expect to live to forty, anyway.

Jubilee wasn't entirely sure of what she was and
wasn't allowed to do as a whole, apart from the
whole No Leaving Academy Grounds thing. She had
a feeling however that the danger room was off
limits, not to mention using her powers without
some supervision going on. Heck, it's the
limitations she would put on herself, if she were
in the shoes of the Administration.

So - how to start building herself back up again?
Sure, she was aware that she still looked ..tons
more cut and lean in terms of physique than she
ever had, but she wasn't entirely sure what those
changes meant in terms of what she could do just
yet. She had ..the occasional idea, but things
were still fuzzy in terms of things that she
knew definitively. She found herself at the track.

There had been lots of stretches - many of them
slow and steady, as although the bruises had long
since faded, she wasn't really sure how it would
impact everything. Once she felt she was - y'know,
ready? That's when the jogging began. Two laps
first, for a warm up to get the blood circulating.
Something that would let the air move through her
hair, which although it was now pulled up and away
from her face, was something she still enjoyed.

The warm-up, those two laps? Were at a very
controlled pace. Her movements more focused
and precise, even in the stride themselves. It
wasn't something she noticed as of yet -
presumably because of how natural it felt to her.
But when she finished, it was as if the speed
wasn't adequate - or as if quite possibly she
wasn't pushing herself enough. For a brief moment,
there was a sense of fear, of which she couldn't
quite understand. Flinching, she had to focus
for a moment in an effort to shake the sensation
out of her head, before crouching down.

Sprints? Sprints were next on the agenda.
And her strides and form were likely to startle
any onlooker that happened to watch. Although
quick, her movements were far from sloppy. Poetry
in motion was perhaps, a better way of describing
them. Poetry inspired by some unknown sense of
fear. Five two-hundred sprints followed by ten
one-hundred sprints. For someone who had been
in the 'out of comission' department since
arriving, she thought that this was all she
should be able to handle. Shoulds and realities
were two different things however. And so she
ceased there, believing it to be a good start -
despite the fact that her bodylanguage likely
told a different story. One that said it could
handle more.