In the frenzy of a fantastic fight, Kurt Wagner's thoughts were interrupted by those of Professor Xavier. These urgent messages were still an unfamiliar and unsettling phenomenon to the newest member of the X-men, but it was understood that when the summons came, they were to be obeyed immediately and without question.

Nightcrawler, came the intuited instructions, we must not leave the civilians on campus unguarded. Scott says you are to look after the cook.

Jawohl, Herr Professor. I will find a place of safety for her.

He grabbed a poker from beside the fireplace and menaced his opponent, a fellow with large ears and an unbelievably gaudy uniform made of various shades of magenta and chartreuse satin, an ensemble which only made the bandolier and artillery seem more ridiculous. A quick thrust of the iron implement left the man screeching in pain, dropping the gun to hold his bloodied wrist and shout imprecations at the German mutant. The weapon thudded to the marble floor, skidding a short way in an awkward dance. Kurt's tail lashed out, grabbed the gun, and heaved it toward Beast; the other blue X-man caught it easily and broke it in pieces with one foot while his hands pummelled an opponent.

Do we know where she is located? Kurt asked.

The Professor patched Scott's voice directly into Kurt's mind to inform him that the non-mutant cook was probably in the guest cottage down the hill from the mansion. Naturally she'll be unaware of this fracas, he added, since the attack was sprung so suddenly.

Where should I take her? Though no stranger to battle, Wagner was nervous about this particular assignment, especially since he had only been on the Institute campus for a week and a half at this point in time. The damsel in question had shown no fear of his odd appearance, but how would she react to being rescued in such an abrupt manner? One must take care to start off on the right foot – even when one's feet were prehensile and covered in blue fur.

Use your best judgment, Scott answered. Now hurry!

A day going as badly as this could only get better. Elise tried to hold on to that thought as she surveyed the mess in the breakfast nook of the cottage in which she lived on the grounds of the Xavier Institute For A Better Tomorrow.

Inviting several of the X-People to watch the entire run of Star Wars DVDs seemed like a good idea to stave off isolation or boredom or restlessness among the group. But the concept seemed less brilliant mid-morning in view of scorch marks on the walls, ranch dip curdling in the trophy won years ago at an archery tournament, and several of her tools scattered about. God had made her an introvert for a reason, she reflected.

Some idiot must have invaded the toy chest which sat in the tool room diagonally across the hallway; her cherished brass-handled Mexican bullwhip, found stuck between the couch cushions, now nestled safely in the side pocket of her overalls. The dart board in the living room was bereft of knives; probably take hours of sour surprises to track those down. Fortunately nobody had been audacious enough to rummage in her bedroom, so the shin sheaths had remained undesecrated; they were strapped over her wool-blend socks at the moment, awaiting the discovery of the knives whose handles she had carved.

There was one – she let loose a disgusted sigh – stuck in the aspidistra planter. The nerve. Thank goodness a quick polish restored its glory. The presence of it tucked into her left leg scabbard was comforting; a place for everything and everything in its place.

And what was this? For pity's sake, what bimbo had dragged her nail gun into the kitchen? The magazine was full; thank goodness there would be no nails stuck in odd places. And the gauge showed it to be full of propane, which suggested they must have gotten distracted before using it to test each other's powers. The more hands she had free to gather stuff in one load, the quicker would go the cleanup, so she pulled a Spider-man bandana from her back pocket and, although the Hilti was almost too heavy, tied it to the hammer loop by her thigh.

She extricated another knife from the remains of a cheese ball on the butcher block kitchen island, and wiped it on a washcloth. Her other hand grabbed a paper place mat and held it under the edge of the tabletop as the knife-wielding forearm scraped some corn chip fragments onto the place mat. She tossed the detritus into the compost bucket, securing the lid with her elbow, then trotted across the small space back to the breakfast nook intending to round up a couple more tools and ferry them to the room designated for working on various projects. Heaven only knew what she'd find in there, but anyone who had so much as breathed on her model trains or done something disgusting to the massage table, would get the low-down on the wrath of one 5'7" sapiens. She might lack an x-gene, but 150 well-honed pounds of angry Elise was a force not quickly forgotten. She shook her head, mousy hair barely budging from its tight bun.

A noise startled her. It resembled a firecracker, but due to the muffled nature of the sound, she guessed it came from right outside the bay window in the front room. Whoever it was, she was not at home. The sound of the door handle jiggling was followed by another loud clap. She hadn't served egg salad … what could cause the scent invading her nostrils? From the foyer, a curl of violet, sulfur-scented smoke snaked around the corner of the wall separating den and kitchen.

"Fraulein Stringfellow?" The new guy – she'd think of the name in a sec. Wagner, like the Valkyrie music. He sprinted around the wall and covered the remaining space in two bouncy leaps, then put his arms around her waist, and with a lightning smile said, "Entschuldigen Sie, bitte."

The world turned to confetti in a wind tunnel.

She looked down, a little woozy, to see grass instead of delft design flooring. Toto, I've a feeling we're not in my quarters anymore. They were in the middle of the lawn which sloped between the mansion and her bungalow. Her pleasant abductor gave an apologetic smile and – BAMF! – again the spinning, tingling sensation accompanied by hot fumes.

Solid ground. She straightened her shoulders and wavered a bit, then planted her feet firmly and glared at those golden eyes.

He released her and padded back, but only a couple of steps away, his tail rippling wildly behind him as if in response to an unheard gale.

After a couple blinks of her hazel eyes the room was still there. A crucifix and an icon of Our Lady Of Perpetual Help stood on an antique dresser; at various places on the floor, posters of swashbuckler movies leaned against the wall. Must be his digs.

He was babbling in German, but in hushed tones, which seemed odd.

"Slow down," she said, raising her hands to gesture – and banged one on the nail gun which hung like a peacemaker at her side. Sheesh. "Tell me exactly what we are doing in your bedroom, and this better be good or you might have to make your next Confession without benefit of teeth." A waggle of the knife reinforced the sincerity of the threat.

The blue man drew a large, long, somewhat shaky breath, released it slowly, and said, "I beg pardon for the swiftness of our departure, but I was afraid to leave you down there, unprotected and alone. You have no special powers, das ist korrekt?"

"Right. But what has you in such a tizzy?"

His brow furrowed as he mouthed the word "tizzy" a couple of times, shook his dark head and shrugged. "The Institute has been overtaken by a group of dangerous fellows who seem to have a grudge against the good Professor, and brought many weapons to even the score. It was necessary to 'port you quickly, before the enemies knew there was a vulnerable human around."

She allowed that line to slide, for the moment. "Why did we end up in your bedroom? This the first place you think of taking a strange woman?"

"You do not seem so strange." At her grin, he seemed to relax a bit. "I am learning my way around this great mansion." He gestured with his tri-fingered hands. "Here is the place most familiar to me. Now we must think of a secure spot to keep you away from the evil designs of the intruders."

"Dude, not to complain, but you're gonna wear yourself out with all this disappearing stuff, and I'm not feeling 100% myself."

"I am quite sorry. I thought it best to take the journey in two smaller leaps. I realize that for a passenger, the experience of teleportation can be quite nauseating, even to the point of exhaustion."

"No, I don't feel sick to my stomach. A little disoriented at first, but I have my sea legs now."

He favored her with one of his warm smiles, and she thought she'd like to become better acquainted with the immigrant. Preferably some time when they were not being chased by bad guys armed to the teeth. He had already come out with a few intriguing tales while munching on samples in the Institute kitchen as she cooked, and that smile, rare at first but more common the last few days, made her think he might be a good addition to her and Logan's poker nights.

But for the moment, survival was uppermost in her mind.

Footfalls pounded on the stairs and came down the hallway closer to his rooms.

"We could go to the Danger Room," she suggested.

"That does not sound safe." His eyes were alight with growing desperation; she knew that look from seeing it on the faces of the other mutants during some rough times here at Xavier's.

"Or there are a few hidden areas in the tunnels below. D'you know how to get there?"

He hung his head slightly. "I … I do not think I am familiar enough with that system. Could you be my guide?"

"Sure's shootin' pardner. First we head to the elevator by Rogue's room."

"Rogue." A wan smile this time. "She is …?"

"You know the pretty Southern chick with the white streak who always wears the gloves? Anna's her name, but they all call her Rogue."

"Ja, ja, I am good with learning the names and faces, but not so quick to memorize the areas."

"Third door on the left if we go west - toward the gardens - on this floor. Let's roll."

She felt like a dodo, with that knife still clutched in her hand and the nail gun's ponderous weight tugging at her overalls, but darned if she were gonna leave them in his room and have to replace yet more tools due to some crazy invasion. Maybe this time they'd be lucky enough that none of the mansion would get blown up ... or burned ... or transported into another dimension ... or painted with their own blood. One could always hope.

The sound of wood splintering announced the fact that the door to the suite had burst open. So much for their escape route.

She expected to see panic, but Wagner drew himself up, a grin of pure mischief on his face.

"Bitte, hide here until I indicate it is safe to come out," and he shoved her, with a distinct lack of ceremony or decorum, into his closet.

[To Be Continued ... and please take my polls to let me know if you want me to post more chapters.]