Everything Is Different Now

I.

The Boarding house was not the only property in the area that Magneto owned, under his various names. In an apartment building a few miles outside of Bayville proper, his new troops waited for instructions.

At least, most of them did. Sabretooth had gone out somewhere—hunting, probably. The French kid (Pietro thought he was French, anyway), Remy, was on the phone with some girl. The Australian, John, and the big Russian, whose name was Peter, were watching TV.

Pietro was in his bedroom, staring up at the ceiling. He'd been there since shortly after the group's arrival that afternoon. He hadn't even eaten dinner; his plate was still sitting on the tiny kitchen table. He just hadn't felt like eating. Or doing anything else, for that matter.

He'd told the others he was tired from all the running around he'd done during the battle, and he just wanted to take a nap. But he couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Wanda's face. How could he have betrayed her and the others?

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," he said. His voice was raspy from lack of use. He needed a drink of water, but couldn't be bothered to get up and get it.

Peter came in, ducking his head under the low door frame. "Do you mind?"

Pietro shrugged. They did share the room, after all. The apartment was only a three-bedroom, so everyone had to double up.

Almost everyone—the largest bedroom belonged to Magneto alone, but he hadn't come home yet.

"So . . ." Peter said. He didn't talk much (unlike John, who never shut up); everyone had thought at first that he didn't speak English. But he seemed to be managing all right. "What is bothering you?"

"Huh?"

"Your eyes are red. Were you crying?"

"Well . . ." Pietro started to tell him, and then he remembered Rule Number One: Never show weakness. "No. No, I've . . . got a cold."

"Oh. Have you taken anything for it?"

Pietro shook his head. "That stuff knocks me right out. I'll be okay. I'm a fast healer."

"Do you want your dinner?"

"I'm not hungry." How could he eat after what he'd done? He closed his eyes again . . .

Wanda's face, frozen in shock.

Mystique's voice: "Are you loyal to him, or me?"

And his own, answering: "You!"

What was he thinking? How could he have done something like this? Lied to his teammates—former teammates, he reminded himself. After this, there was no way they'd ever take him back, even if he begged on his hands and knees, which would not only violate Rule One but Rule Three (Never bargain) as well . . .

He felt a hand on his forehead and opened his eyes. Peter was looking at him with an expression of concern.

"Are you sure you feel all right? You are very warm."

He was warm because he'd been lying with his face pressed into the pillow for most of the day. "No, I'll be okay. I just need to be by myself for a while."

"Okay. Let me know if you need anything."

He started to leave, but then Pietro stopped him. "Was there something else you wanted? You must have come in here for something."

"Oh, yes." Peter dragged a chair over and sat down. "You and I have similar names."

"Yeah, I noticed."

"Do you have a nickname? So we don't get confused with each other? What do your friends call you?"

What friends? "Uh . . .I don't know."

"We'll work it out."

"Sure." They'd have lots of time, wouldn't they? People were so paranoid about mutants now that if Pietro and his present companions went out on the streets, they'd probably be shot. Until things changed, they were staying put.

Peter stood up. "I'll make you some tea. That should help you feel better."

"Do we have any?"

"We have everything."

"Okay."

With that, Peter left the room. Pietro closed his eyes again, but didn't get to sleep because he was thinking too hard. He had a lot to think about.

At one point, he had thought about suicide. For a short time—oh, about three minutes. Long enough to decide that even if he could find something to do it with, if it only screwed things up more, there was no way to take it back. His situation was bad, but not that bad.

Peter came back with a tray containing a mug of tea, and the reheated dinner plate. "I thought you might like to try and eat, at least."

"Fish sticks and Cheezy Mac?"

"John did the cooking."

Pietro actually smiled. "Well, it can't be too bad. You're still alive."

"True."

As he ate, Pietro reflected that maybe he'd been wrong before in thinking he had no friends. He had one after all.