Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dawson, 1907

She believed in demons, and each day she faced them. They hid in shadows, whispered in the wind, and revealed themselves behind the faces of neighbors who called themselves her friends. Yet as she rose from her bed each morning, nothing scared her more than the monster she found staring back at her in the mirror.

Patch scrutinized her reflection in the cracked glass. She had inherited her mother's sun-kissed skin, deep dark hair, and striking green eyes. The strong jawline and rugged features came from another lineage entirely. Her face was weathered beyond her years—many mistook her for someone in her mid-thirties, though she had yet to reach thirty. Such was the toll of Yukon life, where survival often demanded tomorrow's strength in exchange for today's endurance.

A wanderer at heart, she was known far and wide as Patricia "Patch" Johnson. To most, she appeared as a tough soul molded by harsh realities. She encouraged this perception—it simplified things. She had traveled to the Yukon with a small circus for the past two years. Though modest, it provided food and shelter. Sleeping in a cramped wagon was preferable to enduring the biting cold of the wilderness.

The circus was an eccentric ensemble of entertainers, each carrying their own tales and hidden truths, all united by a shared yearning for freedom and adventure. Patch had carved out her role as a stagehand and animal wrangler. The pay was adequate, though better compensation might be expected from a show called "Master Hugo's Fantastic Phantasms: The Greatest Show On Earth."

The name was pretentious nonsense. The circus was anything but the greatest spectacle—instead, it was a collection of outcasts struggling to find their place in an unforgiving world. Master Hugo had died five years earlier, and his widow, Agnes O'Conner, had taken control. Many considered her kinder than her late husband. Patch felt a trust in Agnes that she rarely found elsewhere. The widow welcomed Patch and her companion, Moro, offering work when no one else would.

Patch took a quick look behind her and noticed the figure lying bare in her bed. All she could make out was the faint outline of a woman—short and slim, with translucent skin and a mass of jet black hair that fell from the bed to the floor.

The appearance of a woman, but such beauty was only skin deep. Moro was neither female nor male; instead, an existence neither human nor beast, male nor female. Moro was a creature of shadows and whispers, their form flickering like a candle flame caught in a gust of wind. Skin that shimmered with the iridescence of oil on water, eyes stark-white and haunting. Moro's hair fell in a cascade of black waves, a glistening midnight waterfall.

People yearned for many things in life. Countless souls had ventured to the Yukon pursuing wealth, but the golden veins of the Klondike had long since been exhausted. Patch had no desire for riches; her hunger was directed toward something entirely different—the magnetic pull of human connection. After all, was not desire itself a form of greed? The distinction lay in the object of longing. Gold offered only fleeting satisfaction, quenching the thirst for material wealth. But the warmth of another's presence? The gentle brush of a hand? Patch would brave any challenge for the embrace of one she cherished, eager to feel that closeness each night. In Moro, she had everything she could ever want. They were everything she thought she didn't deserve.

Her light, love, and laughter, her changeling was the moon pulling at her dark waters. The land in her black seas. Yet to many, Patch's companion was an enigma wrapped in mystery. They seemed almost ethereal, defying traditional gender norms. Moro transcended the binary in a society bound by rigid definitions, embodying both femininity and androgyny. To those who didn't understand, they appeared female, concealing their true essence. Yet in their shared privacy, their authentic self emerged—fluid, adaptable, and resilient. To the world, Moro was an ever-shifting puzzle.

What frightened Patch most was how dangerously close they were to discovery. If anyone unveiled Moro's true nature, it wouldn't just threaten Moro—it would also put Patch the Wanderer at risk. The thought sent shivers down her spine, the burden of their concealed identities weighing heavily on her shoulders.

Shaking off the dark thoughts, she refocused on the day ahead—her only free day in a month. Patch didn't relish what was to come. She donned her hat and long coat and stepped out of the wagon into the frigid air. Daylight stretched before her until evening. The crisp air bit at her cheeks as she pulled her collar tighter. Striding across the circus grounds, she headed toward Dawson City. Despite its grand name, it was a modest settlement. Buildings stretched before her, cloaked in shimmering frost. The early morning sun peeked over the horizon, casting a golden hue across the town. As she made her way through the streets, townsfolk kept their distance—to them, she was a stranger, and strangers were often seen as threats in Dawson these days.

She briefly pondered what others would think if they knew her origins.

Born into a notable family, her lineage was steeped in power and prestige. Years ago, her great-grandparents had immigrated from Europe, establishing themselves and acquiring vast lands rich in copper and precious metals. Manufacturers had paid handsomely for her family's resources across Canada and beyond.

Hers should have been a life of ease. Perhaps it would have been, had she been the gentle beauty her parents wanted rather than the sickly, fragile tomboy she was instead.

Her memories of them drifted like fog: a handsome father with kind hands and a soft smile, a distant mother whose presence in her child's life had been as fickle as the wind, and a grand estate. Memories flickered in her mind like pinpricks of stars against a darkened sky, save for one bright light—a girl named Rose O'Hara.

After Rose's father died of winter fever, she was sent to live with her aunt, a cruel woman with little patience and no love. Not even a month after Rose's father had died, the woman had called her the "child of a red-haired runaway whore."

Rose was found by Mrs. Sumer, the governess, who brought her to the estate as a companion for her employer's child.

"A companion would do wonders for your daughter," she told the heiress's father. "Especially after the death of her brother."

The heiress had been so young when her brother died that she hardly remembered him. The sudden passing of the young master had shattered the household's stability. How could such a vibrant life end so suddenly? Whispers among the staff suggested that it would have been less shocking had it been their sickly daughter instead. Soon, rumors circulated that the young miss might follow her brother into an early grave.

The death of her brother had pushed her mother's already fragile psyche over the edge. The heiress barely saw her mother for years afterward, who became consumed with managing the estate and family affairs. The staff told her that the heiress had inherited her brother's warm smile, but that was all she had of him. After all, what use was a sickly daughter? A man needed a son to inherit his legacy.

The one source of love the heiress had known came from Rose. Mrs. Sumer, kind as she was, had only been hired to act as caretaker and nurse until the child's health improved. She made it clear that one day she would be gone, leaving a small child feeling unwanted. So it wasn't unexpected when the heiress came of age at twelve and Mrs. Sumer left the estate.

For those precious years, it had been her and Rose. As the heiress grew, her love for Rose matured beyond childhood friendship. Yet it was not to be—society dictated that love existed solely between a man and a woman. The idea of love existing between anyone else was shameful and ungodly.

The heiress spent her childhood in Rose's care. Her parents were still present for important things, and her mother taught her a woman's proper role in society. Every night, Papa would have the family eat dinner together, and he always had the heiress tell him about her day. She couldn't imagine someone as important as Papa caring about her boring day locked inside the house, yet he always listened with utmost attention.

Then came the night her childhood ended, with innocence withering away like the last bloom of summer as autumn's chill settled upon the land. The night she lost everything. All she could remember was red.

"Aberration. Abortion. Animal."

She remembered a cruel man with a hunched back and a long shadow. That man had been her grandfather—at least he had been until he raised his cane and struck her across the face.

"Send for Sussex," he hissed. "Get him here now. Remove this abomination from my sight. Lock her in the basement until he arrives. You should have listened to me. John should have listened to me! Nothing good would come of the Roanoke bloodline. Nothing!"

Red. Red. Red. Run. Run. Run.

Two claws split her skin as pointed bones emerged sharp as blades. A feral roar tore itself free from her throat. Her family's staff—men and women she had known her entire life—reached out to grab her. One man tackled her from behind, catching her in a headlock. She gasped for breath, her lungs constricted. Panic flooded her chest, and her vision reddened.

No, protested a small voice against the rage. Fight. Fight or die.

In the red, she drowned.

She jabbed her clawed hands into his forearm. Screaming, the man threw her to the floor.

Wasting no time, she sprang up. Her eyes darted back and forth, seeking escape. Her gaze fell on a window. She was a cornered animal acting without thinking. Adrenaline coursing through her veins, she dove for the window, claws shattering through the glass. Her entire body lurched forward, fragments of glass slicing and tearing at her skin as she plummeted through the air. The ground was twenty feet below. Within seconds, it rushed up to meet her.

How long she lay on the ground, bloodied and in pain, she could not say. Bones broke, skin shredded, and shards embedded in her flesh. Yet still, the red within her whispered: run, run.

Now a runaway, the heiress leaped to her feet, not paying attention to the path ahead. The staff parted to make way for her, bewildered and frightened by her display of ferocity—a child possessed by demons. She ran for the tree line. Someone yelled her name, a desperate voice calling her to come home.

She disappeared into the shelter of the forest, into the safety of darkness. The trees closed around her, turning the forest into a twisting maze. Overhead, branches intertwined in sweeping knots to blot out the sun. She heard the men chasing behind her. Something old, primal, other than human, whispered in her mind: faster, faster, go faster. She leaped into the air, climbing high into the trees. Her claws sank into the bark as easily as a hot knife through butter.

The men below shouted to one another, their voices laced with frustration and anger, but their words were lost to her as she ascended higher into the canopy. The world below became a blur, the underbrush and the figures of her pursuers shrinking into nothingness. With each leap, she felt the wildness within her surge—here she belonged, a shadow flitting between the trees, unseen and unknown.

As she reached a thick branch, she paused. When only stark silence and stillness met her, she jumped to the forest floor. The towering trees loomed overhead, sentinels against a starless night. Only the moon shone, a thin crescent peeking through the clouds. Utterly alone, she collapsed to the cold ground and cried herself to sleep.

The next day, she woke under a bundle of fallen leaves at dawn's break. The air was chilly, nibbling at her skin, yet she burned up with fever.

Songbirds chirped and called to one another, and she heard the throaty chatter of a winter wren. Back home, she had loved listening to the birds in the early morning—so much sound from something so small. Now, their song made her heart ache.

Pushing herself up, she stepped forward and tripped over a stone. She landed face-first in the dirt. Enraged, she sprang up to kick the obstacle. Her foot dislodged it from the earth. Rolling a foot away, it stopped at the root of a tree. Two empty eye sockets stared back at her. With dawning horror, she realized it was no stone—it was a child's skull, no larger than her own.

Summoning her courage, she reached for the skull with shaking hands. She studied it more intently and noticed its surface was worn and fissured. Intricate, primitive symbols were etched into the bone.

She remembered the tales the household staff told of lost travelers venturing into the woods, never to emerge. Most claimed they met their end at the hands of the first people, seeking rightful vengeance against the invasion of their homeland. Was this skull one of them, or someone like her? Left behind and forgotten? A shiver ran down her spine. This place was no forest but a tomb.

She didn't know why she found herself caring about the skull. As a little girl, she had always felt sorry for poor children who died alone with no mama or papa. Were they alone in Heaven now, too? Mrs. Sumer said the Christian Lord might love all His creations, but no gods loved all their charges. A strange sense of nostalgia enveloped her. The skull reminded her of a longtime friend, one as alone and unwanted as herself.

A baby doll made of porcelain, its face painted with laughing eyes and a wide smile. The doll reminded her of comedy's mask. As a small child, she had always thought it strange that tragedy was always crying when it had comedy beside it. Comedy was funny and happy, but it always stayed with tragedy. Comedy must have loved tragedy greatly to remain beside one who neither laughed nor smiled.

"Oh my, just look at that awful expression," her mother had sighed. "I told the toymaker to paint the eyes blue and the hair yellow. This looks frightful. Hand it back to me right now. If that man has any sense, he'll make it right."

Her mother, Elizabeth, had snatched the doll away, and she cried until it was returned. She wanted her comedy. She never wanted to be a lonely tragedy! She loved its funny, laughing face! For so long, she had longed for a toy like this—a companion to cherish and hold close. It belonged solely to her, a treasure that was entirely her own. It was perfect for the little girl she was, regardless of what Mama thought.

They allowed her to keep it, if only to silence her tears.

Perhaps longing for an old toy or grief had engulfed her heart. She took the skull with her, tucking it under her arm. Together, they entered the wilds, stepping into a realm dark and old. Something seemed to stir in the forest. Overhead, the branches rustled like whispers. The trees parted, towering and silent sentinels of an unknown domain.

The chill air bit at her skin, yet she found herself oddly unbothered, her body ablaze with inner warmth.

She roamed throughout the night and into the following day. Dazed and disoriented, her forehead throbbed, and her body ached with exhaustion. Her nose caught the faint scent of something—an old scent, human but not quite—something ancient and other. The smell was years old. Time should have erased it, but it had seeped into the ground and poisoned the land.

Eventually, she stumbled upon a small clearing. At its heart stood two majestic white spruce trees. In the clearing was an abandoned farmhouse and barn. She looked at the skull in her hands. Could this have been their home? Were the bones of the rest of their family inside? The thought made her shiver.

The old wooden structure loomed ahead, its door hanging slightly ajar. She hesitated momentarily, glancing back at the darkening sky, before pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The interior was dim and musty, damp wood filling her nostrils. A few stray rays of light filtered through cracks in the walls, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. She closed the door behind her, shutting out the cold.

As her vision adapted to the dim light, she surveyed her surroundings. A shattered dining table and chairs lay abandoned, shrouded in dust and cobwebs. Cabinets adorned the walls, their shelves cluttered with rusty cans and old jars. To one side stood a small fireplace, while in front of it rested a haphazard pile of furs and worn garments. The makeshift bed resembled an animal's den. Its maker must have slept by the fire for warmth at night.

Next to the fireplace was a tiny antique table. The small tin box atop it piqued her curiosity. What had she stumbled upon? The farmhouse looked abandoned, but something in it felt alive with secrets.

Her fingers slid across the table's surface, sweeping away the thick dust coat, and uncovered a small, rusty jewelry box. When she lifted the lid, she was met with shattered animal fangs. The largest among them seemed to have come from a bear, while she also found what looked like the jawbone of a wildcat. She recalled how her family's groundskeeper had once hunted down a wildcat that had wandered into her mother's garden. After skinning the creature, he presented the pelt to her mother as a token of respect. The household staff had deemed the gift inappropriate, insisting the mistress burn it. Instead, her mother fashioned it into a scarf. It became her most prized possession, much like the doll for her daughter.

At least, it had been. Her heart had broken the day Dog, the groundskeeper's son, had smashed her beloved toy. Once a cherished childhood friend who had grown bitter over the years.

"You get to live in a big house, you get Rose, you get all the nice things! All I got is nothing. Nothing but scraps and beatings!"

She knew better than to believe Dog's jealousy was justified. Rose worked for her father. The house belonged to her grandfather. Her parents had no time for her. The only thing the child had truly owned in the world was the porcelain doll, now a shattered pile of shards. She had knelt on the floor, her tiny fingers brushing against the cold, jagged pieces. Each shard glimmered in the light, white and sharp as splintered bones. She picked up the largest shard, stuffed it in her pocket, and carried it for years. She wore down the sharp edges so it wouldn't cut her. She painted a diamond across its surface to symbolize its significance. The broken toy became the friend that never left her side—a secret stone to keep. Two years ago, she had fashioned the shard into a necklace. Around her neck, it now rested—the last piece of home she had taken with her.

All at once, its weight became unbearable. She removed it and set it inside the box filled with fangs. After closing the lid, she set the skull down, angling it so that it seemed to gaze at everything within the cramped farmhouse.

She explored the rest of the house. Three bedrooms and an attic. Each room was filled with broken furniture. None of these would be helpful to a runaway girl besides firewood. But she had no idea how to make fire.

In the dusty attic, she discovered a forgotten trunk. Inside lay a collection of men's garments and a thick duster. It was far too large for her small stature, but the chill in the air was unbearable. With a determined sigh, the runaway wrapped herself in the duster, fastening its clasps, and felt warmth envelop her. As she paced the room, the weight of the coat settled heavily on her shoulders, the flaps sweeping along the floor like the trailing hem of a gown.

The escapee returned to the main room, finding refuge among the piles of fur. She drew her knees to her chest, curling into a ball as tears flowed freely down her cheeks. Slowly, exhaustion took hold of her. She drifted in and out of restless slumber, her mind weaving nightmares and dreams.

In her dreams, she envisioned a skull fixated on her, its gaze unyielding. From its hollow eye sockets flowed a shimmering stream of silver, a vibrant mercury pooling at her feet. She imagined the skull tumbling from the aged table, splattering as it hit the ground. It lay soaked in its own living quicksilver that shifted and morphed. Tiny black tendrils jetted from the pool, latching to the skull and rocking it back and forth.

A silly dream. The runaway rolled over and fell back asleep.

When she woke, her fever had faded. Chills crawled across her skin. Shuddering, she instinctively reached for her covers only to grab something with thick, coarse hair. That's right—she was on a pile of furs. There was no blanket. She curled in on herself to preserve what little warmth she had.

Hours later, when she woke again, she found the farmhouse dimly lit. Flames danced in the fireplace. A new layer of fur had been draped over her as she slept—thick, soft, and white as snow. It felt like bear fur. Unlike the other pelts, it smelled clean, like pine, earth, and rain.

At some point during the night, she must have found the white fur and lit the fire, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't recall the exact moment. Had she blacked out again? It mattered little now; she would ponder it in the morning. Though her skin was still flushed with fever, she felt a sense of safety and warmth. Her stomach let out a loud growl, reminding her she hadn't eaten in two days. Hunger gnawed at her belly. In the morning, she would have to find food.

But finding food seemed impossible. And what was the point? Rose was dead, her parents were dead, and her grandfather would send her to the asylum if she returned. He had called her an aberration. He had summoned the doctor.

Her mother had gone to that place once. When she came home, she was even worse than before. She tried to hide it, only seeing the servants after her return. She never went near Papa. She threatened the staff with whippings if they said anything.

"I can't go back," she had insisted. "That awful man said if I couldn't recover, he would perform surgery on me. I would rather die! No one survives what happens to them. I met them—I met that madman's victims. They never ate, moved, or talked. Food was shoved down their throats through pipes! And their eyes! Oh god, their eyes. There was nothing in them. Nothing! I'll die before I go back. You will die too! I will make sure of it. If you tell my husband and make me return, I will tell Thomas. He will kill you. All of you."

She wished she could fall asleep and never wake.

"Woof!"

Her eyes snapped open. Panic and confusion washed over her until a familiar scent captured her attention—one that would linger for years. It smelled of leaves, rain, evergreen pine, and fresh earth.

Looking up, she spotted a white canine creature, its milky eyes fixed upon her. The beast lay curled up on the floor. She stared into its eyes as they focused solely on her. Her breath hitched. The creature's scent filled her nostrils—the aroma of pine, earth, and rain.

The creature shifted slightly, communicating in silence. She raised an eyebrow at it. Not an ordinary canine, so what then?

Her knuckles itched.

Then it smiled—a wild, cunning, and mischievous grin that revealed teeth larger than any canine had the right to possess. She imagined that if it could speak, it might ask: Can you see me?

Her stomach growled, and hunger gnawed at her insides. The creature rose from the floor with long legs and a slender frame, looking more like a deer than a wolf.

The creature nudged the small table. To her great shock, a crumpled leaf lay there with a heaping pile of wild berries and nuts. Grabbing fistfuls of food, she shoved them into her mouth. She had never been so ravenously hungry in her life. When she finished eating, she found herself still unsatisfied. Her body continued burning like a furnace. She collapsed back onto the furs.

The fever broke later that day, but she couldn't summon the strength to rise. Dramatically, she thought she would never get up again. She wanted it all to end.

Without warning, the bear skin was ripped away.

"Hey!" she yelled. The creature dragged the white pelt across the dirt floor. She lunged for the fur, but the beast flung it into the air. The bear pelt landed on its back as it dashed out the door.

"You dog, get back here! Hey, I said, get back here."

Blind fury came upon her. With a savage roar, she chased after the canine. Her claws sprang free in answer to her anger. She raced outside, her feet landing in inch-thick snow. Yelping at the frigid cold, she fell backward into the farmhouse.

That was when she heard the most obnoxious laughter she had ever heard.

She looked up, expecting to see the canine, only to receive the shock of her life. Sitting on the fence line was a person unlike any she had seen before. The scent of the creature clung to them. She might have mistaken them for the canine's owner if not for their milky white eyes. Yet they smiled mischievously. A face more like a clay mask than a human's. They had a lanky, skeletal frame—pale and thin like a specter. What looked like an oversized pillowcase draped from their shoulders to their knees.

They almost looked like her baby doll had.

Screaming, she fled into the farmhouse and slammed the door. Grabbing a chair, she shoved it under the door handle, hoping it was enough to keep her safe from the creature.

It was not.

The creature changed back into the canine. It whined at the door like a dog would. When the whining failed to move her, it scratched with its oversized paw as if trying to knock. She stayed huddled in a corner.

Later, the thing seemed to disappear. She sighed in relief, only to feel something tiny nudge at her leg.

It was a white rat.

Screaming, the runaway ran to the box of teeth. Hoisting it over her head, she threw it at the creature.

The box hit the creature's tiny body. Letting out an anguished cry, it changed back into the ghost-like form. Silver lined its milky eyes. It stared at her in grief and pain. Streams of mercurial liquid wrapped around its body. Transforming back into a rat, it fled the room.

What had she done? She ran from room to room, looking for the rat. The creature crawled through a gap in the wall, pushing its fat body between two broken boards. Diving for the rat, her hands grasped empty air as it fled from the house.

"Please," she begged. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Please come back!"

Rising, she raced to the front of the house and pulled back every scrap of debris she could find.

Once outside, her nostrils flared, trying to find the creature's scent. Where were they? All she smelled was snow and this rotten place. All she felt was the cold.

Her eyes fell to her clawed hand. Why had she run away from home that day? She should have just stopped and let them take her. She could be with Rose, Papa, and Mama right now. Flexing her fingers, the claws extended. They were the length from her fingers to her palm. She trembled. She bared her neck and raised the claws to her throat—

That's when an iron-clad grip encircled her wrist and yanked her hand back.

"No! You hurt!" the creature screamed. "You hurt! You hurt!"

"I know!" she screamed back. "I already know." All she saw was red—the red of Rose's hair, the red of her blood-stained hand cutting that beautiful green dress her friend loved so much. It was her fault. It was all her fault. She didn't deserve to live. She was a monster. She just wanted Mama and Papa and Rose—

"No," it cried. "You hurt."

Then it hit her. The creature wasn't saying she hurt others. They were saying she was hurt.

The claws retracted into her hands. She flung herself at the creature, holding them tight—a lifeline in the sea of grief. Slowly, as if they were unsure what to do with their body, two arms encircled her in a loose embrace. Then they disengaged to take her hand in theirs.

"Patch up?" They started rubbing their hands as if that might fix her, not seeming to realize she had already healed. She couldn't speak but nodded solemnly.

Together, they went back into the farmhouse. The creature changed back into a canine. She tried to light a fire with the steel and flint she found above the fireplace. She threw the tools at the wall when she failed, crawled under her furs, and went to sleep. She only caught a few hours of rest before opening her eyes to a roaring fire and a pile of fresh berries. The creature was snuggled under the furs beside her, wearing a strange, wolffish smile while asleep. Hesitantly, she moved an arm to encircle the beast. Milky-white eyes opened as she drew it close.

They stayed together. Left with nowhere else to go, they stayed at the farmhouse. Memories of her past life lingered yet faded as she focused on surviving. The days ahead consumed her thoughts, overshadowing everything else. She was acutely aware that she would have perished without the creature by her side.

It was the creature that provided for her. It would gather food, wood, and whatever else it deemed necessary for the runaway's survival. It would run off into the forest and return with sustenance.

Days passed, then weeks, and they constantly mimicked her actions and speech. She tried teaching them to talk to no avail. Then, one day, they started speaking coherently as if they always had.

"When did you learn to talk?" she demanded.

They shrugged. "I just remembered."

Patch. It was a nickname the creature had started using because that was what her powers did. Her healing "patched" her up.

As for the changeling? It tried calling itself Dog. But she had known a Dog, and the less she remembered him, the better.

"You're not a dog," she said. "You need a better name. Since I'm Patch because I can patch up, what about you? A name for changing. Changeling?"

The changeling stuck a white tongue out at her. She growled in warning. They glanced at her in surprise, then looked away, hurt. She hated it when she acted like an animal. It happened more often now, especially over little things like sharing food and nighttime space for warmth. Patch pushed the thought away. She was still human. She had to be. It helped to talk to the creature. Animals didn't speak. Talking to someone made her feel grounded. Her friend reminded her that she was human.

"Well, you can't just name yourself Dog," she insisted. "You can have more than one name. I have two names now. My old name and Patch. So we can have lots of—"

"Moro then," they said matter-of-factly. From then on, they were Moro.

The spring thaw arrived late that year. Patch decided it was time to leave the farmhouse. It was too close to town, and now that winter was over, hunters would soon enter the forest seeking game. Patch couldn't risk anyone finding them lest they return her to her grandfather.

So they left, and thus began the years they spent in solitude and isolation. In those years, it was only the two of them. And in those years, the little hideaways fell in love.

To Patch's surprise, it was she who realized it first.

It was the way her changeling would wrap themselves around the runaway, like morning mist clinging to the valley floor—gentle, encompassing, protective. Moro's form would shift unconsciously in sleep into the canine or an even bigger lupine, always molding to cradle Patch's smaller frame, as if their very being could keep her close and safe.

She loved their laugh, rare as summer rain, and how it surprised even Moro when it escaped. In those moments, their carefully constructed walls would crack, revealing glimpses of someone young and uncertain beneath layers of ancient wisdom and careful caution.

Patch loved how Moro spoke her name—never careless, always deliberate, as if each syllable held weight and meaning. They would say "Patch" like it was a secret, a prayer, something precious to be protected.

She loved their hands, regardless of their form—sometimes slender and pale, occasionally strong and weathered, sometimes neither fully human nor entirely other. Those hands that could become claws to hunt, or fingers to intertwine with hers.

Most of all, Patch loved how Moro saw her—something not broken, wild, or lost, but as someone worth having, staying for, and becoming something more human.

For years, they roamed the wilderness of the Yukon. Though Patch hailed from a background of wealth and comfort, she had instincts befitting a creature born wild. The runaway had no idea where her beastly senses and traits came from. Once a sickly child, now she thrived. She would race after deer and elk, sometimes following on all fours in the chase. Moro followed her trail in the form of a wolf. The two would race and challenge each other nearly as fast as the wind, but never as fast as Patch. Their prey would be dinner, but who was its killer?

It was almost always Moro. They would transform into a bird to dart ahead of Patch. The changeling then shifted into another predator, an enormous lupine. This creature was massive, unlike the long-legged canine that curled against Patch each night. Nearly eight feet in length and standing three feet at the shoulder, its coat the same silver-white of Moro's skin, the predator was death incarnate. Moro would bite into a fleeing animal's neck and pull them down. Pinned to the ground with their fangs in their flesh, the animals would struggle and fight back before turning limp.

During their second winter together when killing a moose, Moro would change back into the outline of a girl, looking more like a porcelain figure of a human than any real person. They tried to match Patch in age. The form was small and slight, built to be physically unopposing. But strange features still marked Moro's body. Shaped like a girl, but sexless like a doll. Their features were carefully sculpted to be aesthetically pleasing. Both alike and unlike the ghoulish body Patch first met them as.

The changeling turned to Patch, their chest rising and falling in exhaustion from the kill. Milky-white eyes fixed on her, like a blind seer staring right through her. Blood stained Moro's mouth and face. They smiled at her genuinely, mouth and teeth stained red.

It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. In that instant, Patch knew she was no longer human. But what did it matter when she had Moro, and Moro was hers?

Patch had the potential to thrive endlessly among the trees.

However, as the years passed, she grew increasingly untamed. With each passing moment, she sensed a part of herself fading while a new, feral thing grew.

It reached its breaking point one evening as Patch and Moro were preparing dinner. Suddenly, a ferocious bear charged at them. In response, the changeling transformed into a massive dog to defend themselves. Moro instinctively lunged for the bear's neck, a tactic they had always employed during hunts for larger prey. But this animal was a predator, not prey, and was armed with claws and fangs of its own. It stood tall on its hind legs and unleashed a brutal swipe with its right paw, sending Moro crashing to the ground. The changeling's back collided with a rock, and a cry of pain escaped them.

All Patch saw was red. Berserker's rage consumed her. Bone claws popping from her hands, she tackled the bear. She was only a hundred pounds, and she had no strength to face this animal.

But she was no longer Patch. She had transformed into the entity that emerged the night her parents were lost. Red rage and blind fury, her claws tore into the bear. The beast roared and sank its fangs into Patch's shoulders. She could feel veins snapping and bones cracking. The agony was unbearable.

Then it faded as fast as it came, her healing quickly working to mend her body. The harder she fought, the faster she healed. It was addictive.

It was proof she was alive.

Her claws sank into the bear's neck and ripped through its flesh. Blood gushed forward, spraying hot fluid onto Patch. Its head flopped to the side, barely attached to its neck by a piece of flesh. The creature's dead weight fell forward, toppling over Patch and burying her underneath its corpse.

Moro let out a piercing scream. Just moments later, the lifeless bear was yanked away from Patch by the changeling. Moro had transformed into a colossal creature that defied the girl's wildest dreams, resembling an overgrown, shaggy, and large-footed beast of a man.

Moro flung the bear to the side before changing back into their ghoul form. Arms flung around Patch's neck as the changeling sobbed into her buckskin shirt.

"I'm fine," she replied, though her voice trembled. A sharp pain shot through her as Moro withdrew, revealing her stomach. Patch's eyes widened at the sight of gore and flesh, but as she shifted slightly, a wave of agony coursed through her, and she realized it was hers.

"Not fine!" yelled Moro.

The healing process for Patch was swift, but the challenge of regenerating her lost organs proved to be much more complex. After two weeks of excruciating agony, Patch found herself pleading with Moro to end her suffering, even if it meant death. Instead, the changeling transformed into a bird and soared away, only returning the following day. Patch continued to writhe in torment, her cries echoing in the stillness, until Moro finally approached her. With tears streaming down their face, they gently cradled Patch's head and then snapped her neck.

The runaway heard the crack of her own bones and Moro's scream before the darkness took hold.

Patch would make her way back. Though her body ached all over, the intense pain had subsided. With unsteady legs, she managed to stand and shouted for Moro. She spotted them sitting behind a tree, weeping, incapable of meeting the runaway's gaze.

Patch had never truly known how much she could hate a person until that moment, and that person was herself.

Moro wanted them to leave the untamed wilderness and venture into the realm of civilization. Upon reaching the first city, Patch and Moro sought refuge in an abandoned house. They lay curled together on a cold floor, Moro changing into their monstrous lupine form. The following morning, as they wandered about, Moro transformed into a familiar yet subtly altered form. They retained the shape of a slender and petite person, but their curves were more defined, their hips and chest more pronounced. A cascade of curly black hair tumbled around their shoulders. Moro's complexion still resembled pale porcelain, their eyes a striking milky white. Yet their facial features had become sharper, sculpted to embody an exquisite beauty, flawless and unearthly.

In a strange way, Moro's allure was both captivating and eerie. In their pursuit of an idealized beauty, what was meant to be perfection instead veered into the valley of the uncanny.

"I saw a person like me," Moro said, placing a handkerchief filled with nuts, fruits, cheese, and bread before Patch. "They had skin and eyes as pale as mine. People said he looked like a corpse. The only difference between me and him was that his hair was jet black. And his white eyes had spots. I changed to look like him, and his eyes kept following me."

Patch tried to quell the rising fury. Whoever this stranger had been, she wanted to carve out his eyes.

They journeyed from one city to another, primarily by train and occasionally by carriage, using the money Moro lifted from unsuspecting passersby. Small acts of theft. An old widow's prized wedding ring. Some gentleman's pocket watch or something similar. Patch took the job of a woodcutter at one point. Anything to keep Moro from thieving and getting caught. But if the changeling wasn't stealing trinkets, they were stealing food.

The two stayed at inns and abandoned places. One day Patch took work in a quarry. None knew she was a woman. She worked longer and harder than the rest of the men. She thought her work ethic would earn their respect. Instead it earned their envy.

Then the circus rolled into town. Patch had never experienced a circus before; her childhood had been filled with illness, keeping her confined to the estate. It was Moro who had eagerly urged her to attend, their excitement bubbling over at the thought of seeing animals and discovering new, exotic forms. Patch found it hard to refuse their plea. However, the reality of the circus was disappointing; they were too poor to showcase any creatures that Patch and Moro hadn't already encountered in the wild. The highlight of their menagerie was a scruffy old mountain lion, toothless and weary, along with a black bear that behaved more like a playful puppy than a wild beast.

Patch had nursed the bottle of whiskey through the entire show, the amber liquid doing little to dull the edge that always seemed to cut at her insides. When she and Moro finally left their seats, the circus tent buzzed with the departing crowd's chatter and laughter.

They were making their way past the performers' area when the circus strong-man stepped into their path. His eyes fixed on Moro, who had chosen to present in their feminine form that evening, all flowing curves and graceful lines.

"Now that's a real woman," the strong-man leered, reaching out to grab Moro's arm.

The world exploded into red.

One moment Patch was walking, whiskey-heavy and tired. The next, she was a snarling fury on the man's back, her hands locked around his arm as she wrenched it from its socket with a wet pop that cut through the crowd's noise like a blade.

The strong-man's scream brought everyone running. Smithy—her employer from the quarry—appeared with three other quarrymen, all shouting as they tried to drag her off. But the whiskey and rage had turned Patch into something wild and unstoppable. Four grown men couldn't pry her loose from her prey.

It was Moro who finally stopped her. Their form shifted subtly as they moved, borrowing strength from some other shape, and their surprisingly powerful hands closed around Patch's shoulders.

"Enough," Moro whispered, and somehow that single word cut through the red haze better than all the men's shouting.

Patch released the strong-man, who crumpled to the ground clutching his ruined shoulder. The crowd had formed a wide circle around them, performers and civilians alike staring in horrified fascination.

"I have never," Smithy bellowed, his face purple with embarrassment and rage, "seen such a shameful display from any man in my employ!"

But it was the circus owner who took control. Agnes O'Conner—the old ringleader's widow whom everyone called "Widow O'Conner"—pushed through the crowd with surprising authority for such a small, eccentric woman. She took one look at the scene, then at Moro helping Patch to her feet, and made a decision that would change everything.

"You two," she said simply. "You work for me now."

Patch took the job even though she felt ridiculous doing so. But a traveling circus with so many exotic animals would make it easier to hide Moro. She and Moro had a comfortable life with the circus. They traveled from one city to the next, never staying in any location for too long. While the mountains beckoned to the wanderer, she turned away from their primal call for Moro's sake.

Her changeling found joy in the vibrant cities, where every moment was filled with excitement and endless possibilities. Nothing could match the warmth of Moro's smile. They flourished through connection, soaking in affection and returning it tenfold. As an armored bear, they awed and delighted crowds. As a wolf, they played with children they met on their journeys. The excitement of travel and adventure benefited Moro in ways Patch never experienced. The wanderer often found solace in quiet moments, watching Moro interact with the world. The way their eyes sparkled with joy and embraced every new experience with an open heart was a sight to behold. Their happiness was infectious, and Patch wanted nothing else.

During the four years they worked for Mrs. O'Conner, Patch and Moro befriended a woman named Clara, an animal trainer. Clara and her brother Saul had run away as children to join the circus, though Patch suspected there was more to the story than two children dreaming of adventure. It wasn't her place to pry. Clara was sweet and kind, but Saul was sullen and moody, suitable for a game of cards and a drink. Unlike Patch, who knew better than to pry, Saul always stuck his nose in her and Moro's business, asking how Patch could put up with someone so loud, talkative, and foolish.

"Could ask the same about you and your sister, gentle dove that she is," Patch commented. The two sat outside the train car she and Moro shared. The sunset shone on the river where the circus had stopped for the night. She silently nursed a bottle of whiskey while Saul carved a wooden figurine. There was always some wildcat emerging from this man's hands.

"Don't you talk about my sister," growled Saul. His lips pulled back in a snarl, flashing sharp teeth.

"Calm down, Creed," she snapped. "I don't give two shits about Clara, not like that. Just don't know how she can stand your grumpy ass."

"Whatever," Saul muttered. He went back to carving his lynx.

But he had a point about Moro. Patch and Moro had only become intimate within the last year. Her changeling's nature had always struck the wanderer as childlike. It didn't help that neither knew the changeling's age or nature. If Patch believed them, Moro had been alive since "furry elephants."

Moro had been the first to approach Patch about intimacy. Moro had always been eager for stimulation: learning, socializing, traveling. Unsurprisingly, they would be curious about that most controversial and celebrated aspect of mortal life.

For Patch, she had never thought of intimacy as something to be freely expressed or given. Elizabeth had always demonized it, saying it was a woman's duty to her husband and for childbearing, nothing more. However, when Patch remembered her past and her mother's behavior toward the groundskeeper, Thomas Logan, she understood the hypocrisy.

Her father's name was John Howlett. Blood be damned.

Patch needed to know Moro understood what they were getting into. But that wasn't the whole truth. She had wanted Moro for a long time. When her changeling spent more time in human form, they began to behave less like the creature the runaway met in the woods and more human. Patch knew she wasn't entirely human, but Moro made her feel like one.

Being with Moro encompassed everything—from making love to them to simply holding them in her arms.

I'm not afraid of dying, Moro, thought Patch. I'm scared of living in a world without you.

The circus never lingered in one city for too long. Still, something had happened in southern Canada—something that had driven Widow Conner to take her menagerie of misfits farther north into the wilds of the Yukon. Gory murders had been happening in cities. Gruesome rumors circulated of mutilated corpses, drained of blood, discovered along traveling roads. Each body was gutted of organs through a Y- or X-shaped incision cut across the chest. On the back of each neck was branded a number in Roman numerals. So far, twenty bodies had been found, including a creature everyone swore was a Sasquatch.

It wasn't just human bodies people were finding. Alongside these corpses were the carcasses of animals, each tagged and collared. An unusual number on one side of the tag would be eleven, fifty-one, or seven. The opposite side featured just one word: Essex.

No one knew what to make of this Essex—madman, naturalist, or butcher. The bodies he left were meant to be discovered. Whatever he aimed to accomplish, he wanted the larger populace to know. Yet Patch had witnessed the chilling reality of the victims he took: people vanished without a trace, those considered undesirable by society—the shunned, the ridiculed, the forgotten.

The circus had been in a frenzy as the bodies piled up. Many feared the killer would come their way. Moro wasn't the only "freak" the circus sheltered. Nighttime shows were canceled. Strict curfews were enacted. Roll calls were conducted each morning to ensure everyone was accounted for.

People like Moro were deemed by society to be without purpose. Though Moro presented as a woman, they unsettled many. Despite their attempts to conform to societal ideals of feminine beauty, the more they sought perfection, the more discomfort they evoked in others.

It was only a matter of time before Essex would come for them.

Patch understood that the world would never show compassion to "freaks" like Moro and herself. Yet she was prepared to become whatever was necessary to protect her changeling.

It had to be her and Creed tonight. Three bodies of mutilated and unidentifiable creatures had been found just a mile from the circus. Creed would track the killer's trail. Once they knew his location, Patch and Creed would confront him together. For Patch, it was to protect Moro. Creed would bloody his hands a thousand times over for Clara's sake.

Reaching her destination, a familiar figure emerged from the shadows. His skin was stark white, and he sported a neatly trimmed goatee. He wore dark glasses, which Patch knew concealed even darker eyes.

She had seen this man only once, yet it was a face she would never forget—the doctor who had taken her mother from their home to his asylum.

"Sussex," she breathed.

Dr. Sussex removed his glasses and pulled out a handkerchief to clean the lenses. His gaze met Patch's, and a shiver ran down her spine as she saw the unsettling red of his eyes.

"Well, if it isn't Jane Howlett," he said with cheer. "It's been quite a while. You certainly gave your grandfather quite a scare when you disappeared like that."

Chapter Text

Dawson City, 1907

Beneath the fraying fabric of a deserted circus tent, rain cascading outside, a changeling waited in the cold for a lover who had long since disappeared. They returned to the wagon they had shared to find Saul and Clara Creed, two siblings and longtime friends, awaiting them.

"You're an idiot. For years, she didn't want you!" hissed Saul. "She's gone!"

"You're wrong!" the Morph of the past roared back, desperation fueling their fury. "She would never—You don't understand her like I do, Creed!" With a primal scream, Creed lunged forward, knocking the shifter to the ground.

"Saul!" Clara cried out, her voice laced with panic.

"She's not coming back, you fool! Why would anyone want a freak like you around?"

But Moro refused to believe Creed. They clung to hope and bided their time, enduring countless years as they waited. But like the waters of a well, hope withered and left them dead and dry.

They had nothing and no one to live for. One day, the changeling wandered into the wilderness. The circus waited for Moro's return.

When it could no longer wait, O'Connor's circus left Dawson City that spring after the murders had mysteriously stopped. Clara and Saul stayed behind, the young Creed woman determined to find her friend.

Yet like a thief in the night, the changeling was gone.

Roanoke, Virginia, 1975

"But that didn't matter," Haliya Sydney said. "You could be made of slime, mud, or clay—you were our baby, that was all Eddy and I ever needed. You were our little miracle, our little dream, our Morpheus."

Mother and child sat in a rocking chair, gently tipping back and forth, as Haliya recounted her child's birth. She hugged her child tightly, who squirmed under her touch.

"Gah! You're choking me, I'm dying! I'm dying! Everything is quiet! Goodbye, cruel world!" The little mutant went limp in their mother's arms, head lolling to the side like a rag doll's.

"It's 'the rest is silence,'" Haliya said in mild exasperation. "And don't let your father hear you get that line wrong. You'd give him a heart attack."

"Are you done being dead yet?" she asked. Several minutes had passed, and Morph's mother was slightly impressed by her child's dedication to the role.

"Blah!" said Morph, rising with their arms outstretched before them. "I'm a zombie. Blah!"

"Well then, no dessert for you tonight. Zombies eat brains, not sweets."

"No, no," protested Morph, latching onto their mother's neck. "I'm alive! I promise."

"Do you want me to finish the rest of the story?"

Haliya felt her child's head bob against her chest. "You were my little boy, and I didn't care what genes you had. It didn't matter how you arrived or what you looked like. You wrapped your tiny fingers around ours—that was all we needed to know." Her voice softened. "We were so worried you wouldn't make it. But it seems an angel was looking out for us. Have I told you the story about that fright you gave me before coming into this world, little man?"

The child shook their head, settling deeper into their mother's embrace. Of course, she had told them this before, but they never tired of hearing it.

"This was before you were born, when your father and I worked at the university. He taught literature while I researched genealogy techniques in the anthropology department—trying to identify ancestry through cranium structures." Haliya's fingers absently combed through her child's hair. "We received these old bones from somewhere up in the Yukon Territory. Dawson City, I think."

"What made them unusual wasn't just their age, though they were ancient. It was their condition, the circumstances of their discovery. My supervisor assigned them to me because of my forensic background—the hope was we could determine basic information. Age, sex, ancestry, and maybe cause of death. Help give these forgotten souls their identities back."

Morph shifted, looking up at their mother's face. "How?"

"Everything depended on measuring bone structure, cataloging unique features, piecing together clues about who these people had been." Haliya's expression grew distant. "This girl's bones were so distinctive. Unlike anything I'd studied. I thought maybe she belonged to an Indigenous population I wasn't familiar with, or had some rare condition that affected her development. I was being extra careful, documenting everything properly."

"Why?" Morph asked, though they sensed the weight behind the question.

Haliya's voice took on the cadence of someone recounting history like a ghost story: "We wanted to find who she was, whether family remained. I was alone in the lab that day, just Jane Doe and me."

"Jane Doe?"

"Close. For women, the name is Jane Doe. That's what they call people without names," Haliya explained, watching recognition dawn in her child's eyes.

"Did the bones come alive?" The question tumbled out before Morph could stop it.

Their mother's laughter rippled through the quiet room—deep and rich. "No, sweetheart. Bones don't come to life. Where did you get that idea? Your cartoons?"

"Yes," Morph lied, studying the green carpet rather than meeting their mother's knowing eyes.

"Well, I was feeling light-headed that day. The doctors had told me to take it easy, but you know your mother—stubborn as stone. I went to work instead of resting." Her hand found Morph's, squeezing gently. "It didn't seem right to leave Jane Doe waiting. She'd been somebody once. She deserved to be known."

Morph's pulse quickened. "What happened?"

"I kept working, and then I began seeing things. But it wasn't the bones causing visions—I was hallucinating from pregnancy complications. All the blood rushed from my head to my belly, and I collapsed." Haliya's voice grew tender. "Next thing I knew, I was in the hospital. The doctors said I'd nearly lost you, that it was a miracle we both survived."

She smiled, the memory softening her features. "They did an ultrasound while I was unconscious and said they'd never seen such an active baby. You were kicking and fighting like you couldn't wait to meet the world."

"What happened to Jane Doe?"

The question seemed to surprise Haliya, but she answered without hesitation. "Her remains were returned to Canada, as far as I know. I'm not sure what's sadder—that we lost our chance to discover who she was, or that she might be forgotten again."

Morph stared at their hands, trying to understand their mother's sympathy for bones and stories without endings. They might not have grasped Jane Doe's tragedy, but they understood their mother's.

Haliya had always been oblivious to the identities of her biological parents. In her teens, she was taken from the Philippines by Protestant missionaries, along with three other children. As they grew up, the adults surrounding Haliya often reminded her and her siblings of how fortunate they were to have been rescued. However, the children of these same adults would cruelly taunt them, insisting that their parents were deceiving them and that they should be dead.

Throughout her teenage years, Haliya grappled with feelings of dislocation and isolation. In an attempt to cope, she began smoking. After finishing high school, she pursued a nursing degree in college but ultimately decided to switch her major midway through her studies. She completed her studies overseas and returned to the States when offered a research position at St. Greymelker, a research college in Roanoke, Virginia. The school took great pride in its exceptional medical and science departments and its anthropology department, which was among the earliest established in the nation's history.

As a researcher in the emerging field of forensic anthropology, Haliya sought to understand the human past and solve the riddle of identity itself. She might not learn her story, but if her drive could help others find theirs, she would dedicate herself to that work.

But then Haliya met Edward Sydney, a scholarly bookworm who was more at home with the ghosts of dead writers than living people. Despite his macabre tastes, he was a lively and good-natured man charmed by Haliya's grounded and no-nonsense attitude.

The two married. They tried to have a family for years until their child, Kevin, was born. The child was their dream—Kevin to the world, but little Morpheus to them at home. Haliya and Edward sheltered their son completely, never letting Morph glimpse the harshness waiting outside their loving home. Their child was a mutant, and there was no place for hate in their house. They transformed the world's cruelty into distant stories, ensuring Morph grew up surrounded by safety, warmth, and unconditional love. When he came of age for school, Edward left his university position to devote himself entirely to his son's education.

His study was a sanctuary of leather-bound books and handwritten notes, where afternoon light filtered through tall windows while father and child explored the mysteries of literature and life. Edward had hands that smelled of ink and old paper, fingers perpetually stained from the fountain pen he insisted on using despite Haliya's practical protests about modern alternatives.

"The beauty of storytelling, my little Morpheus," Edward would say during their sessions, "is that every character represents someone's truth. When we read about others' struggles, we learn to understand our own."

Morph would nod solemnly, pretending to understand. Edward never condescended to his child, never simplified his passion for knowledge. Instead, he treated Morph as an intellectual equal, planting seeds that would bloom years later.

"But here's the real secret," Edward would continue, leaning forward conspiratorially, "meaning isn't found in existence itself. It's created through the connections we forge, the love we share, and the impact we leave on others. You, my child, are my meaning made manifest."

Edward would spend hours reading to Morph from classic works, his voice bringing characters to life with theatrical flair. "Listen to how Poe builds tension," he would say, his voice dropping to a whisper during "The Tell-Tale Heart." "Every word chosen for maximum impact. That's the power of precise language—it can create entire worlds in a reader's mind."

Or bore someone out of their own mind, the shifter thought.

But Edward's greatest gift was his absolute acceptance of Morph's nature. When other parents might have been frightened by a mutant child, Edward encouraged exploration of the ability.

"Show me what you discovered today," he would say each evening, and Morph would shift through the various forms they'd experimented with—birds, cats, sometimes even attempting to mimic their father's appearance with varying degrees of success.

"Remarkable," Edward would breathe, genuine wonder in his voice. "You're not just changing shape, my Morpheus. You're experiencing the world from entirely different perspectives. That's a gift beyond measure. The hero with a thousand faces is still one hero. But you? You are a thousand heroes in one."

Haliya sheltered and carried young Morph while Edward taught and nurtured them.

But for all their love, there was one thing they could not protect Morph from.

As Morph aged, their memories began to resurface. They were a thing that existed in the between. Where humans had but one life to live, the shape-shifter was a mutant that had lived hundreds. Edward was not wrong when he called his child a thousand heroes in one. They could vividly picture their earliest existence among a band of hunters and gatherers, in a land perpetually cloaked in winter—a realm where stretches of profound darkness swiftly followed months of sunlight. They held onto the memory of their final life as Moro, swept up in its currents for the love of a wild woman. But their other lives were shrouded in fog; only fleeting glimpses remained like pieces of a lost puzzle. Some fragments remained, but the rest was lost. The shifter had the vaguest sense of what had happened, but not of how it happened.

How Morph and Moro had found themselves the Sydney child was no mystery. After realizing Patch was gone, they wandered into the woodlands. For days, they had roamed in circles until fatigue finally took over. Finding refuge beneath the sprawling branches of an ancient oak, the changeling closed their eyes, slipping into a dreamless slumber.

Their body withered into bones as they had centuries ago.

Decades passed in this dormant state until Haliya's delicate fingers discovered their skull. Morph sensed her vitality and the life burgeoning within her even in stillness. They felt the moment life began to wane, taking Haliya's strength. Rising from their skeletal remains as they had when Patch first found them, the changeling's flesh flowed from the marrow of the bones, infusing Haliya to reignite her fading organs. They compelled her heart to beat again, coaxing blood to circulate through her body. Morph replaced her tainted cells with healthy ones of their own making. Yet, the endeavor proved overwhelming. The changeling sacrificed too much of their body to revive Haliya and was ultimately forced to seek refuge within the lifeless child she bore.

Now, Morph was filled with dread at the thought of facing Haliya and Edward. Would they still love them? Would they condemn Morph for taking away the child they had longed for? Would their father cease to call them "the best little assistant I could ask for?" Would their mother still cherish them as her little "dream child?" The doubt loomed over Morph's head like a guillotine.

Yet Morph was human, or at least human enough, to be selfish in their love. They wanted to stay with their parents as long as possible. The changeling, a shape-shifting mutant, knew they would have to tell them the truth someday. When they were older, they told themselves they would be ready to let go of being a kid.

But all their well-intentioned plans vanished when Haliya was diagnosed with terminal cancer, given mere months to live. With his compassionate heart, Edward devoted himself entirely to caring for his wife. Morph kept quiet. Morph kept out of the way. They loved their mother and wanted to give her peace.

They decided not to tell her the truth. It was selfish, they knew, but Morph loved their mother beyond words. They wanted to give her comfort and peace. Each breath she took was a strain on her body. They did not want her to know their secret. How, when she slept, Morph, desperate to keep their mother alive, would fuse their flesh with hers. Little by little, they took the cancerous cells from her body and replaced them with their own. Morph had to be careful with this. They had saved others in the past like this, but moving too fast could damage her body beyond repair.

There was no definitive cure for cancer—just many treatments to keep a person alive. Cancer wasn't like a virus that the body could build a defense against. Cells mutated, grew out of control, and contaminated flesh, bones, and organs, spreading their taint. Taint at the cellular level. Cells no longer behaved as they should. The body's immune system, designed to identify and eliminate foreign invaders, struggled to recognize these rogue cells. They wore a disguise, mimicking the cells they were meant to replace. As a result, the immune system would allow them to flourish, leading to tumors that choked the life out of vital organs. Multiple organ failures that were too extensive for Morph to understand and fix.

Morph loved Edward as much as Haliya. Edward, a classical history and literature professor, had christened the shape-shifter Morpheus. Haliya wanted a normal name for her child for the world to see, but she also wanted a name for her child to let them know they were precious. Edward insisted that if the child were to be her dream, he would be his as well. This child was theirs—their Morpheus.

But humans are selfish. They will sometimes care for one thing, and only one thing. Edward put his wife's needs before his own, neglecting his health.

High blood pressure. Irregular heart rhythms. The heart can only take so much stress before it breaks. The breaking of the heart then leads to the failure of the heart. And a life without a heart is no life at all.

Morph cradled their father in their arms as he underwent cardiac arrest. Foaming at the mouth, convulsing in his son's arms. Desperate to save Edward, the shifter intertwined their mutated flesh with Edward's human body to save him as they had done for Haliya many years earlier. And so the mistake they had so desperately tried to avoid with their mother was what killed their father.

They wrecked his body and left it a shredded corpse. When Haliya heard her son crying, she went downstairs to see her husband dead in her beloved child's arms. They cried and cried together until Haliya found the strength to pry herself away to call the police and have the body taken away.

But Edward died under suspicious circumstances, according to the police. Morph was taken into custody. The coroner examined the corpse and concluded that Morph's hijacking of their father's body had hastened his death.

The shifter was arrested for accidental manslaughter and spent three months locked away in a juvenile detention center as the courts went back and forth. Edward Sydney likely would have died with or without his son's intervention, many argued. But also, his child had tried intervening unnaturally and had done more harm than good.

This was the fear of mutants. Many pro-mutant activists pleaded that mutant gifts could be used for the good of humanity. So what happened when the opposite came true instead? When good intentions bred death?

Morph's Aunt Sarah desperately petitioned for their release. But no one cared about the mutant child and their family. The case made its way to the desk of a judge sympathetic to mutants, who ordered the shifter's release.

They left their home in Roanoke, Virginia, to move to northern Massachusetts with Aunt Sarah and her family. A week after moving in, Professor Charles Xavier and associate Moira McTaggart knocked on the door.

Morph would learn Xavier had manipulated minds and events to ensure Morph's release. After their release, Xavier and Moira McTaggart came to invite Morph to stay with them and have a "real" family of mutants.

Sarah Sydney promptly responded by slamming the door in both their faces.

Weeks later, when tempers had cooled, Sarah's partner, Hema Aman, pleaded with her lover to let the choice be theirs. Morph overheard them one night. They crept downstairs with their cousins, Sarah's adopted children whom she raised with her partner, and listened. Morph was a teenager with their cousins, only a few years older. They put their hands on the shifter's shoulders as Hema reasoned with her lover.

"Do not take this from him," she pleaded. "I know he is your nephew, but this is his life. It is not yours to live for him. And his mother died while he was locked away—"

"Which is why he needs to stay here."

"You came from America to Scotland searching for your heritage, your place in this world. I was there because my family chose to leave India behind. But it was not my choice. It was the same for the boy's mother. Even his father—"

"Do not use my brother against me!"

"Then do not steal your nephew's future from him! He is a mutant, and you are human. His parents did all they could to protect him from the hate of this world, but sometimes, to protect ourselves, we must prepare ourselves for the days of the future. The present is here in the now. Yet all too soon it passes us by. That boy will face the future with or without you. It is his to live, not yours."

Sarah collapsed into Hema's arms, crying. Morph's mind was already made up. So they marched downstairs and told them what would happen.

"I'm staying," they said, "but I'm a mutant, and I want you to say my mutant name. It's what mom and dad called me, Morpheus. But Morpheus is a mouthful, so maybe… Morph?"

They loved being shape-shifters. They had seen the world through the eyes of a hundred different people. But Morph was still human, or at least human enough to be selfish in their love. They hated the idea of leaving the family they had left, not after how suddenly their parents had died.

The shifter had never been able to bid farewell or properly honor their parents. Isolated from the outside world, they had missed the funerals of Haliya and Edward. In time, the family arranged a simple ceremony to commemorate their lives, primarily to provide Morph with some closure. Although Sarah and her partner had good intentions, the gathering did little to soothe the deep pain in Morph's heart.

Edward was interred on the family estate, close to an imposing stone mansion resembling a Gothic cathedral from Transylvania rather than the colonial American style typical when it was constructed in the nineteenth century. For more than two centuries, it had been the family custom to have their final resting places in this very spot.

Morph never learned their mother's resting place. Her adopted family had her body cremated and scattered her ashes in a secret location. The family patriarch forbade anyone from telling Morph where their mother rested. The shifter was an abomination in his eyes. Such unapologetic bigotry shocked Morph's aunts and their cousins, but not the shifter. The hatred of Reverend Stryker and his Purifiers knew no bounds.

Years would pass, and Morph still never learned their mother's resting place. The best Sarah and Hema could do was commission a tombstone next to Edward Sydney's.

Beloved Mother and Wife.

Morph knew the tombstone was more their aunt's need to comfort them. They weren't sure what to think, but they told themselves that was okay. There was an afterlife out there. Morph could not imagine what state their mother's soul was in. Was she in Heaven, or was it too stuck up for her that she would rather be reborn on Earth? Did people get a choice when they died, where they ended up? You never have a choice about where you were born.

Their adolescence passed by in a blur. They attended the same high school as their cousins Saga and Hunter. Both foster sisters were as different as night and day. Hunter ran with the jocks and athletes and was the top fighter in her martial arts club. Saga hung out with the goths behind the school, smoking cigarettes, drinking cheap coffee, and reading bad poetry. Morph found solace among the theater crowd. Each day became an experiment in shapeshifting, as they tried on various personas to fit in. Years of homeschooling left them feeling isolated from their peers at first. Morph wanted other people to like them and would change into whoever they needed to be.

The older they grew, the more they realized how much their parents had sacrificed to protect them. Public schools, especially high schools, were absolute hells. So many vulnerable students slipped through the cracks, unnoticed by the adults meant to shepherd and guide them.

With a strong desire to help kids, they thought of becoming educators. The idea excited the shape-shifter, even if it seemed conventional to follow in their parents' footsteps. In their hearts, Morph envisioned establishing a school for mutants, a dream that brought them joy. They remembered Professor Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters not as just an institution but as a home for wayward mutant kids.

When Morph revealed their ambition to enter the education field, their cousins and aunt's partner were enthusiastic, but no one could match the sheer joy radiating from Sarah, who was moved to tears by the news.

They attended the college their parents had taught at. St. Greymelker had grown since their parents' time. It felt odd roaming the same academic halls they had as a child. But tuition was free because their parents had taught there.

Life turned out to be a blend of challenges and unexpected rewards. Morph had to skillfully manage their shapeshifting abilities while sustaining their human form for long stretches. Late-night study sessions often proved exhausting, as fatigue made it harder to maintain their human appearance.

The shifter chose solitude over sharing a living space. The shapeshifter claimed a privacy preference, but the reality was that they were reluctant to bunk with roommates should they discover Morph's mutation.

The path ahead was clear: gain classroom experience, build a reputation as an educator, and ultimately create a safe place for kids. College had been the crucial first step toward realizing their vision—a sanctuary where every child could feel safe, accepted, and encouraged to embrace their true selves.

"You're just like your father, my little Morpheus," she told them just before school started. "You are your own person, and your parents would want you to do whatever makes you happy. But you were always the little showman—he joked you would one day be a star! He loved the theater too, but teaching meant so much to him. Teaching was the purest form of human expression for your father—sharing thoughts, ideas, and all that. He always said they should depart a little wiser when two people left after meeting."

"Yeah, yeah," Morph answered softly. "That was from that big book he wanted to write. I get it. He never got around to it, though. Too busy looking after me to think of anything else." Despite teaching literature for years and having a prestigious academic career, being hailed as the foremost expert on the works of Edgar Allan Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Ambrose Bierce, Edward's true passion had been creating literature. He had published plenty of books in his life, but based on the works of other writers, not his own. Morph's father always came up with larger-than-life grandiose statements about life and humanity, and would rave to his child—the best little assistant in the world—that he would see it in a book someday. Haliya would tease her husband that the book was less about creating his own stories and more of a catalog for his "whimsicals," as she called them.

However, any thoughts of books and publishing were put on hold when Morph was born. Too busy homeschooling a wild child, Edward had very little room left in his life outside of his child.

"You have no idea how much your parents loved you. Your parents would be so proud of you. I see them in you, and not just because of that face you choose to wear. Don't think I missed you trying different faces, looking for the right balance between Haliya and Edward."

Morph's heart skipped a beat. "You saw that?"

"You can fool the world, cub, but you can't fool your old Aunt Sarah. You miss them, and I can see how much you wish they were still here." Sarah gave Morph a fierce hug, as if she might never let them go. "You don't have to be your parents. You never did. You are worth so much more than that to me and Hema and your cousins. I'm sorry I never told you enough."

"You did!" they protested.

"No, I did not." Sarah withdrew from Morph, silver lining her eyes. "Your father and mother loved you more than anything. And when they were gone I felt I had to protect you—"

"I do not have a romantic heart!" they protested. But Aunt Sarah had only laughed at them, unshed tears lining her eyes.

"Fine, fine. You have the heart of a crusty bastard. But you see so much good in people, cub. You think with your heart before your head. I've seen you. Little moments where you just reached out to someone in need, even if it meant putting yourself in a vulnerable position. It's a rare quality, and it's what makes you special. Sometimes, it's easy to get lost in all this naysaying. But you, you shine a light in the darkest places."

Morph received their education at the private college of St. Greymelker, double-majoring in Early Childhood Education and Computer Science. Since their parents had taught at St. Greymelker, tuition was free. It was bittersweet to learn in the place where Morph's parents had met and fallen in love.

However, their hopes and ambitions for life beyond college were abruptly shattered when Congress enacted the Mutant Registration Act. Morph was on the official list, accompanied by their "criminal history" and specific details about their mutation. Even though they were still minors, their identity as mutants meant that their record couldn't be kept confidential or sealed. The MRA insisted that the public had the right to know the identities of mutants. Morph submitted applications to countless schools. Lots of schools were in desperate need of teachers. Morph's energy, enthusiasm, and positivity always impressed the recruiters. It was apparent they were natural with kids.

However, as soon as the background check was run, they never heard back from anyone.

They knew the reason even if no one said it. Mutant.

Even though their heart was heavy, the shifter aimed to stay hopeful. After spending a few months at home, they packed their bags and set out for Manhattan to stay with their cousin Saga. Saga had joined forces with her partner, a mutant transwoman named Nyx Turn, to run a vintage coffee shop that also functioned as a bookstore. This cozy establishment served primarily as a sanctuary for the queer community, providing a welcoming space to unwind. With a background in Computer Science, Morph devoted their energy to keeping the shop's aging computers up and running.

Just as their life seemed to go nowhere, they received a message—not by letter or phone, not even by showing up at Morph's door one day.

Instead, Xavier sent someone else—a human in his place.

Moira McTaggart.

The mutant geneticist Moira McTaggart.

The two sat in the back of Saga's cafe, in Morph's makeshift office that also doubled as their bedroom. It was hardly more than a corner the shifter had carved out for themselves in the back storage area. A narrow cot pushed against one wall served as both bed and seating, while a makeshift desk fashioned from stacked milk crates and a salvaged wooden board held scattered papers and a flickering computer screen.

"Professor Xavier has been following your progress," Moira explained over coffee at Saga's shop. "He's not just impressed by your resilience, but also your dedication to your community."

"My progress toward what? Coffee and muffins for all?"

"The world is changing faster than anticipated," Moira continued. "Anti-mutant sentiment is reaching dangerous levels, and government responses are becoming increasingly militaristic. We need people who can gather intelligence, who can infiltrate organizations that threaten mutant lives. Your shapeshifting abilities make you uniquely suited for more… undercover work."

Morph rolled their eyes. "This isn't the first time someone's approached me for infiltration. SHIELD made me that offer when I graduated high school, and I'm telling you what I told them: fuck off."

"This is different—"

"Is it?" Morph crossed their arms. "Let me guess—become anyone, get close to anyone, betray anyone's trust for the greater good? That's not me. Sure, I can pull off John Wayne for a birthday party, but I'm not a goddamn spy."

Moira was quiet for a moment, then her expression grew somber. "What if I told you that your father died because no one was watching?"

The words hit Morph like a physical blow.

"Don't," Morph's voice was barely controlled.

Moira spoke with a clarity that echoed the principles of strict empiricism. "Let's analyze the information at hand: your father's passing is just one point within an extensive web of systemic neglect. While he dedicated himself to caring for his wife, we must ask: who was there to care for him? This incident is merely a fragment of a much larger issue. Each day, as anti-mutant sentiment spreads among human communities like an insidious virus, the legacy of hate continues, and with it the death toll rises. Mutants do not suffer due to any violation of laws or ethics, but rather as a consequence of natural selection. They did not choose their nature, but Nature chose them."

"That's not my responsibility!"

"Isn't it?" Moira leaned forward. "Three weeks ago, a mutant named Mark Anthony should have died from bone spurs growing into his lungs. He walked out of here completely healed instead. David Freeman, Bastian Bax, Sarah Williams—twenty-three lives you've saved in eight months. Twenty-three lives you've saved, practicing your shape-shifting in secret on other people in an underground clinic beneath your cousin's coffee shop. You do so to help other mutants. But is that all? What is your conscience? That nagging 'what if I had been better, I could have saved my father?'"

"Don't you talk about him! You don't have the right—"

"You wonder if you were a more successful mutant, better taught, and more practiced in your abilities, he might have lived. You've been running an underground medical clinic, Morph. You think the professor didn't know? You thought this place was a secret? And if he knows, who else in the world might? And how long before they show up at your door? You save the mutants who make it to your door, but what about the ones who don't? What about the ones locked away in government facilities? How long before they show up at your door in the middle of the night, ready to take you and Nyx and your cousin?"

"She's human—"

"You think that matters to them?" demanded the doctor. "My son is a mutant. To the Friends of Humanity, a dormant X-Gene is as bad as an active X-Gene."

That's when Moira's hands began to shake. She brought a single hand to her stomach, and Morph feared what next she had to say.

"He is the only child I will ever have. I would do anything to protect him. Tell me, would that have been any different from what your mother and father did for you?"

Morph's mind spun. "I can't save everyone," they said quietly.

"No, but you could save more out there than in here. The X-Men are more than a vanguard protecting mutant-kind. They are paragons of what mutants and their gifts can be. Professor Xavier believes that if humanity could see how our gifts can uplift both species, we will be better than what came before, and we can learn to co-exist. But that takes time—time that mutants like your patients do not have."

Morph's hands were shaking. "I don't want to fight."

"I'm not asking you to fight. I'm asking you to gather information. To be the eyes and ears other mutants can't. You'll likely have to defend yourself at some point, but a mutant as versatile as yourself should have no problem deescalating conflicts and escaping fights."

The silence stretched between them.

"The underground medical clinic you, Saga, and Nyx have been running," Moira said quietly. "It's incredible work, but it's also dangerous. Government agencies are starting to notice patterns—mutants who should be dead but aren't. They're asking questions, sending people to investigate. You're all at risk."

"So this is a threat now?"

"It's reality. The X-Men can offer protection, resources, legitimate cover for your medical work. But we need something in return—intelligence on the organizations that are hunting mutants like you. Information that could prevent more deaths like your father's."

Morph felt the weight of every patient they'd saved, every life that depended on this place continuing to exist. They thought about everyone who walked through that door.

But mostly, the shifter thought of their parents.

Morph closed their eyes. "You're asking me to become everything I swore I'd never be."

"I'm asking you to honor your father's memory by making sure his death wasn't meaningless. The system he died fighting is still out there, still killing people. Xavier's way—education, cooperation, changing minds—that's the endgame. But until we get there, someone has to work against the system from the inside."

"And you think that someone should be me."

"I think your father would want you to have the backup he never had. I think those twenty-three people you saved would want you to save twenty-three more. And I think you already know that sometimes healing means cutting out the infection, even when it hurts."

The decision came at three in the morning, during one of Morph's frequent bouts of insomnia. They had been staring at the ceiling of their small apartment above the coffee shop, thinking about their father's face the last time they'd seen him alive, determined and hopeful. About how he'd hugged them goodbye and promised to be careful.

Saga found them in the shop's kitchen, stress-baking cookies at an hour when most people slept deeply.

"Stress cooking is a Sydney family trait," Saga observed, settling at the counter. "Hunter does it too, except she makes protein bars that taste like cardboard."

Morph looked up from the batch of muffins they'd been mechanically mixing. "She knew exactly what to say. Exactly how to make me feel responsible for every mutant I can't save from here."

"Your father—"

"Would probably tell me I'm an idiot for falling for emotional manipulation." Morph's laugh was bitter. "But he'd also understand why I can't let other people walk into the same trap he did."

"So you're saying yes? To the spy work?"

Morph set down the whisk, their voice heavy with resignation. "I'm saying I can't live with myself if more people die because I was too much of a coward to get my hands dirty. Xavier's dream of coexistence is beautiful, but until that day comes, someone has to watch the watchers. Even if I hate every second of it."

"The clinic?"

"Will be safer with X-Men backing. And maybe… maybe if I can feed them good intelligence, we can shut down some of these facilities before more families lose their fathers." Morph's voice cracked slightly. "I don't want to fight, Saga. But if this is how I honor his memory, if this is how I keep more people from dying alone…"

"Then you'll do it."

"Yeah. I'll do it. God help me, I'll do it."

So Morph gathered their belongings and set off for Xavier's "academy." They casually informed Aunt Sarah, Aunt Hema, and Hunter that they had landed a position as a teaching assistant at a private boarding institution. Hunter and Hema were fully on board with the plan, naturally, while Sarah couldn't help but express her frustration, insisting they should be an actual teacher rather than just an aide. But that was classic Sarah—an overprotective lioness ready to defend her cubs, all hisses and claws at any perceived threat.

Meeting Xavier again was no different than meeting him the first time for Morph.

The Professor sat behind his mahogany desk, fingers steepled as he regarded the shape-shifter with that familiar, penetrating gaze that seemed to see straight through whatever facade they might present. The study remained unchanged—leather-bound volumes lining the walls, the scent of old paper and polished wood, the way afternoon light filtered through tall windows to cast long shadows across Persian rugs. Xavier's voice carried the same measured cadence, the same subtle authority wrapped in gentle concern.

"Welcome to the Institute, Morph," he had said, though they both knew this wasn't truly a return. Too much had changed. Too much had been lost and found and lost again. "I trust you'll find your place here among the X-Men."

"The team has evolved since we last communicated," Xavier continued, hands folding atop a stack of student files. "New members, new dynamics. I believe you'll find Logan particularly… compatible with your approach to conflict resolution."

Even then, Xavier had seen something Morph hadn't yet recognized in themselves.

At first, they hit it off with Gambit, the only group member who didn't take himself too seriously. Hank McCoy was also quite personable, and his cheerful demeanor was contagious. Jean Grey was among Professor Xavier's first students, but the real matriarch of the X-Men was Ororo Monroe. With her nurturing spirit, striking beauty, and larger-than-life presence, she cared for her teammates like a guardian, ensuring they were emotionally and physically supported. Ororo, known to the world as Storm, not only wielded the power of the weather but also had an innate ability to sense the needs of those around her.

Her leadership skills shone through during battles, where she often strategized on the fly, using her powers to manipulate the environment to their advantage. Yet, it was her compassion that cemented her role in their lives. It did not escape Morph that she was the X-Men's unofficial third-in-command behind Xavier and Summers. She was a queen in her own right.

Hank was friendly enough if you managed to get him away from his microscope for five minutes. His passion for science was not unlike Edward's love for literature and mythology. Something about seeing their father in another living person, a mutant at that, was a bittersweet experience. Was this how Aunt Sarah felt when Morph acted like their parents? Knowing that the person you loved was gone, yet witnessing another like them in the world? Knowing all that made that person who they were was still alive in the world, even if it came as a stranger?

Morph thought they and Gambit would get along. The man never took himself too seriously, unlike Cyclops, who had a stick up his ass twenty-four seven. Yet that man couldn't be bothered with anything that wasn't a deck of cards or Rogue.

The shifter thought Patch would have liked the man.

As for Rogue, she often kept everyone at arm's length except for Storm. But that was Storm, whose heart was bigger than anyone else Morph met. Gambit was head over heels for her. They understood the Southern belle carried a chip on her shoulder because of her powers, but they had met many touch-repulsed yet still friendlier people than Rogue. Besides, neutralizing devices for mutants were a thing. What stopped Rogue from getting a bracelet-sized version she could wear when not on active X-Men roster duty?

In the field, Morph quickly established their own approach to missions. While the others engaged in direct combat, Morph preferred subterfuge and misdirection. They would shift into enemy forms, creating confusion in the ranks or impersonating authority figures to lead threats away from civilians. When the team needed to infiltrate a facility, Morph became their master key—shifting into guards, scientists, or officials to grant them access. Violence was always Morph's last resort; they'd rather talk their way out of a situation or simply disappear into a crowd as someone else entirely.

Yet the person Morph found themselves spending the most time around was Logan.

When the two were training in the danger room, Morph felt their breath catch when Logan unsheathed three metal claws from between his knuckles. The metallic snikt echoed through the Danger Room. Morph stood frozen, transported back in time to when they had been something barely human.

The bone structure was nearly the same, three claws to Patch's two, protruding from between the knuckles like organic Bagh Nakh.

Morph had always believed their mutation was one of a kind. Then they met Logan, who not only wielded remarkably similar weaponry but also shared an astonishingly similar healing factor. It was like mutant healing and mutant shape-shifting were more common than they had thought. Morph watched in awe as Logan defied the odds, recovering from injuries that would have incapacitated or killed anyone else.

During their training sessions, Morph found themselves captivated by Logan, pondering the sheer improbability of their similarities. What were the chances? In a world where mutations were already few and far between, what cosmic coincidence had brought forth another individual who mirrored Patch's most defining characteristics?

Yet, the differences between them were striking. Logan's jawline was more rugged than Patch's, and he stood shorter by a couple of inches. He was also more heavily muscled, while Patch had a broader frame. Their skin tones contrasted as well, with Logan's pale complexion standing in stark contrast to Patch's Mediterranean hue. Though Howlett was a distinctly English surname, Morph recalled Patch's mother's lineage was a blend of Greek and Romanian.

But the most glaring disparity lay in their eyes. Patch's gaze had been a rich, dark green—so deep it almost appeared black. In contrast, Logan's eyes were a pale blue, as cold and harsh as winter.

Both possessed healing factors, retractable claws, and instinctual ferocity. Was it merely a shared mutation? Could they be distantly related?

Initially, Morph hadn't paid much attention to Logan, but as time went on, their fascination grew into obsession.

However, Logan often stood apart from the team, making him an easy target for criticism. Cyclops labeled him "a savage brute," and tensions rose whenever Morph defended Logan's unorthodox methods. After particularly intense team discussions, Morph would find themselves passionately arguing, "He gets results, Scott. Maybe if you tried understanding him instead of judging—"

"Understanding?" Scott would respond, his visor glinting as he focused on them. "I understand more than you think. I understand that Logan's first instinct is to solve problems with his claws. I understand he disregards protocol and team unity. And I understand that your judgment is clouded when it comes to him."

In the end Cyclops had been right. What else could a person be when they died in the place of another?

Morph would remember the Nights of the Sentinels as long as they lived. Sinister rescued Morph and forced them to return, hurting the X-Men. That madman put a chip in them. A mind-control device, a tiny bug with a red diamond in its center, burrowed underneath their skin and nestled into the side of their skull.

The only thing that would break the thing's hold on them was the thought of Logan. The only reason they survived all those years was thinking of Logan. It was realizing that loving Logan had brought them here. Like their mother and father, like Patch herself, they had made their end by putting someone else first.

It dawned on Morph that despite everything they had experienced, they had made a difference for one person.

Two years would pass before the X-Men rescued Morph. After the rescue, the mutant just wanted to go home. What shocked the shifter was realizing what they meant: they wanted to be where Logan was.

But Xavier believed that Morph lacked the strength to come back. And throughout their two-year separation from the team, Logan had fallen for Jean Grey.

So Morph agreed to be institutionalized at Moira's facility, and it would mean another two years locked away from the world. It felt like a death sentence. They spent days trying to get better, but time just slipped away from them.

They visited their aunts and cousins to remind themselves that life beyond the facility still thrived. While their family was aware that Morph was alive, this marked their first return to the estate since the abduction.

The shifter visited their parents' grave and saw a tombstone nestled between Edward and Haliya Sydney, reading:

Kevin Morpheus Sydney,

1969-1992

May Your Light, Love, and Laughter Live On

A tiny fracture was barely noticeable at the bottom of the tombstone unless you knew how to look. An X in the stone. Not a crack, more of an etching, as if a bear with razors for talons had carved the mark.

Morph was no more than a hollow vessel. Diminished, stripped of their identity—no longer a mutant, barely even a person, and certainly not the shape-shifter they once were. Instead, they felt like a ghost, a mere echo of who they used to be. A changeling that had replaced the actual Morph's existence.

They were a specter, and the tombstone between their parents' graves proved it.

Chapter Text

Asteroid M, 1997

Magneto had stripped Logan of his adamantium skeleton. Whether he would live or die remained anyone's guess. Cyclops claimed his condition was stable, but while Scott excelled as a tactician, he was no medical professional. The guy probably couldn't tell the difference between unconscious and dead.

Morph pushed the thought away, focusing on Logan instead.

A pale hand rested on the old soldier's chest, counting each rise and fall. One, two, three, Morph thought, marking each pulse to ensure life still coursed through him. Sixty, eighty, ninety—the rhythm fluctuated wildly, sometimes racing too high, then dropping far lower than normal. Logan's chest rose and fell rapidly, as if he were clawing for each scrap of breath.

In another time and place, Morph might have thrown caution aside and healed Logan themselves. They could expand their flesh by multiplying their molecular structure, fusing with Logan until they could manipulate his body the same way they shaped their own—restoring him to perfect health through touch alone.

Morph had developed the ability after Edward's death. A skill from their old life, it had taken years to remember and perfect. When fused with another person, Morph possessed the power to alter that person's body as effortlessly as their own. Yet this talent came with a price—each fusion left traces behind. The phenomenon worked both ways, as the other person's molecules and cells also intertwined with Morph's.

They were no longer that mutant. Sinister had taken that from them. Most days, they didn't even feel alive—just a ghost trapped in a body too stupid to know it was dead.

Around them, the Blackbird trembled, pulling Morph from their dark memories.

"Jean," Logan rasped, his voice a low growl.

Warmth coursed down Morph's spine as their molecular structure shifted and blurred. Electric pulses raced through their nervous system, igniting at one end and traveling to the other—a command to transform. They shape-shifted from their blank slate form into the red-haired beauty of Jean Grey.

"I love you, Logan. Stay with me," they whispered, leaning closer. Logan's breathing quickened.

"Do not deceive him, meine Freunde."

Morph glanced up to meet the priest's gaze. Under Nightcrawler's stare, they felt vulnerable, as if cut open and laid bare. In a swift motion, they reverted to their base form—a ghostly outline reminiscent of a mannequin.

So the elf had overheard them. Strangely, his awareness bothered Morph very little.

"Just keep praying for the Professor and Tinhead. I'll handle Logan."

"Your feelings are yours alone," Nightcrawler replied gently. "But I see how you look at him. It reminds me of Rogue and Gambit, Emma and Madelyne. You love him."

"I don't," the shifter insisted, the lie tasting bitter.

"Deceive yourself if you must," Nightcrawler said softly. "But do not deceive him. I know men like Herr Logan—men who think themselves unworthy of love. But how can he be unworthy when you have given him that most precious of loves? 'Greater love hath no man than this: that he lay down his life for his friends.'"

"In case you didn't get the memo," Morph replied, "I'm not a man. I'm 'non-binary.' According to both time-travelers I've met, it's a future term for people who aren't exclusively male or female."

"All I see is a mutant who cares deeply for their friend," Nightcrawler interrupted. "When we choose love, it is God that we choose. Free will makes us human. Freely we love, and freely we serve one another. When we deny love and choose hatred, we serve not the devil but the idolatry of our basest selves. We are all born with the capacity for choice—the wisdom to discern good from evil is not a curse but a divine gift. We know good, we know evil, and we know we can decide where they lead us. I have witnessed humanity's duality—our kindness and our spiral into darkness. Yet I have never encountered a man as blind to his own light as Herr Logan. He perceives himself less as a man and more as a ghost."

Before Morph could point out that they were the phantom here, the Blackbird lurched violently. The sudden jolt sent the shifter tumbling from their seat to the hard floor.

"Magneto lives!"

Morph shot upright, colliding with Nightcrawler. The blue mutant's hands steadied them. "Easy now, liebling. I teleported you and Logan away from the plane. Magneto—"

"Not a morning person, got it!" Morph finished. "Wait, what about Logan?"

Nightcrawler gestured toward Logan, who lay sprawled on his back with a breathing mask secured to his face and an oxygen tank beside him. Morph was at his side in an instant. His labored breathing had intensified—Logan gasped as if each breath might be his last.

To Morph, it didn't matter if Magneto had once been the X-Men's ally. They were going to kill him for what he'd done to Logan.

"By the goddess, what happened to him?"

Jean, Ororo, and Rogue burst into the docking bay, followed by Jubilee and Roberto. The two younger mutants had been trying to help Hank with the controls.

Jubilee raced ahead to reach Logan first. The blood drained from her face as she stared at him in shock. Without thinking, Morph rose and embraced her. She threw her arms around them, her body shaking violently as she sobbed.

They had just lost Gambit, and now she had to witness this. The closest thing she had to a father lay broken and near death.

Morph was going to make sure Magneto paid.

Jean rushed past them, kneeling beside Logan. She touched his forehead—probing his mind with her own.

"Storm, Roberto," the telepath ordered. "I need you to hold his arms down. I can't have him struggling while I work. Logan will injure himself."

"Fine, but if I get sliced, I'm coming back as a ghost to haunt you," Roberto muttered.

"Don't be ridiculous, child," Ororo lightly scolded. "Magneto ripped out his adamantium."

"Don't you mean adamantine?" Roberto asked.

The young mutant flinched but nodded, putting his weight onto Logan's struggling frame. "Christ, does this guy have a double mutation or something? I know he's huge and jacked, but I'm wrestling with the Hulk! I thought his strength came from the adamantine."

"Adamantine?" Jubilee repeated. "I've never heard him call it that before. It's always been adamantium."

"That's because adamantine isn't real," Morph explained, still watching the two mutants hold Logan down. "Adamantine was a metal in Greek mythology—metal of the Gods. But adamantium was named after adamantine. It's an artificial alloy like steel, not a naturally occurring metal like copper—"

The mention of the lustrous metal sparked a memory long submerged. A glimmer of verdant eyes danced through their imagination, reminiscent of the lush hues found in the Yukon, where nature had beckoned to their and Patch's frostbitten souls. Adrift like castaways at sea, the two orphaned children had answered its call.

Morph's love for Patch would never change. But now, they loved Logan just as much. Loving Patch had been like summer. Loving Logan was like winter.

A woman's wail cut through the air, its echo reverberating off the station's walls.

"It's his mind," Jean murmured, pulling back from Logan. "It was done to him at Weapon X, or maybe before. They wiped his memories and tried to weaponize his instincts, turn him into their killer. But instead, he turned on them. The Hudsons found him afterward and took him to Alpha Flight, but his condition only worsened. They used him like an attack dog. Vindicator would send him on black ops missions where someone had to make the tough calls. But the tough calls…" Jean trailed off.

"To take lives," Morph concluded, recalling the stories Logan had shared during a night of excessive drinking, when the man had finally cracked under the weight of too much whiskey.

"His mental state started deteriorating," Jean explained. "He felt he couldn't turn it off and ran. Logan was afraid of hurting the wrong person. The Professor and I worked with him when he came to the X-Men. He was healing, making progress, lashing out less, but then Morph died."

"What?" Morph exclaimed. "What do you mean? What happened after I died?"

Jean's eyes darkened. "He started regressing. He blamed us for your death and wanted to leave. I think part of him hated Scott for leaving you behind and the Professor for supporting the decision. He nearly left, but feared that without us, he would become an animal and kill someone. Then something happened between him and the Professor. I don't know what, but he returned to normal afterward. I thought Professor Xavier was working privately with Logan to curb his aggression, but that wasn't what happened. I didn't understand what was going on. The Professor said he was 'helping Logan through it,' but that was a lie. He put psychic wards on Logan's mind to keep the thing inside him at bay. The wards are breaking. I don't know what's happening."

"Well I'll be damned, sugar. Look at you there—healin' up faster than kudzu in August. That metal they had pumpin' through your veins all these years, it was like puttin' molasses in a race car engine, wasn't it?"

"English, Rogue, not Foghorn Leghorn!" snapped Morph.

A shadow crossed Rogue's face. "Ya don't know. None of ya do. Ya ain't never seen them powers actin' up like a wild hog on the loose. Whatever that professor done to keep Logan's wild side locked up, it sure ain't holdin' no more. That metal in his bones? It's like he's got lead poisonin' or somethin'. And now that it's outta his system, his mutant side is revved up and ready to roll."

"His body is healing quicker than his mind can keep up," Jean whispered, horrified.

"Can't we just get the professor?" Roberto asked. "Put the security system back in his brain?"

"Professor Xavier's mind is too weak from saving Magneto. And I can't replicate his work—I have no idea how to construct psychic wards like he could. The important thing is reaching Logan, because the thing inside him is cannibalizing his mind."

"Are you kidding me?" Rogue's voice cracked. "That big old hoss never had a problem before!" Jean's gaze dropped, unable to meet her eyes. "Sugar? Come on, you said it yourself—you're Jean Grey. Your mind ain't no problem, so why should his be?"

Someone laughed. To Morph's surprise, it was them. Their laughter sounded strange even to their own ears, like it belonged to another person entirely.

"The hell's wrong with you?" Rogue demanded, her eyes flashing with anger.

"Don't act like you care!" Morph shot back. "You said you didn't want any more mutants to die. Well, looks like you got your wish. It's not a bunch of mutants dying—it's just one."

"You think I wanted this?" she screamed, pointing at Logan.

"You chose Magneto over us," Morph retorted.

"Y'all reckon your dumbass is any smarter? You threw a fella with iron guts into the ring! That's like throwing a bear against a coyote. You think Logan was just gonna walk away?"

"The two of you will cease this right now," Jean interrupted sharply. "This isn't helping Logan, and it gets us nowhere."

"Ain't me who kicked this off—that was purely Gumby's handiwork," Rogue spat. "Y'all weren't at Genosha, were you? You ain't got a clue about fighting for our people, about watching them get butchered and tossed aside like last week's garbage. You've been pampered and tucked away, now throwing fits because you're going all mushy for a fella whose head's so deep up another gal's business, he can't even see the sun."

"Rogue!" Jean cried. "Enough."

"Now don't you go acting all high and mighty!" Rogue continued, hand on her hip, fixing her fiery gaze on Jean. "I swear I heard you telling Cyke about Morph's thoughts right after it happened! 'He died for love, Cyclops. That's a finer ending than most folks get!'"

"You think I care about that?" Morph's voice broke. "No, what I care about is that you fucking forget I was the first mutant a Sentinel ever killed."

"You weren't dead!" Rogue argued. "Sinister found you. You're still alive, but Remy ain't."

"Yeah, I wasn't dead. I was just kidnapped by a guy who worked at Auschwitz. Yeah, turns out Sinister was there. Yes, Rogue—Sinister was at Auschwitz."

Rogue flinched back as if Morph had physically struck her. Heavy silence enveloped the X-Men. Morph sensed their gazes upon them, yet felt an unbridgeable chasm between themselves and the team. The shifter knew it—they were too different, too alien, too damaged—

A gentle touch, light as a breeze, brushed against Morph's mind. Jean extended her consciousness to them, her thoughts imbued with profound compassion. It was a struggle; her mind was still connected to Logan's. But she wanted to show them that she understood what had been done to both of them. And oh God, did she understand.

She knew their feelings for Logan, yet the intensity shocked her. It was so much like her love for Scott, but different—a punishment and a baptism, both poison and balm.

Jean's thoughts seeped into Morph's mind without restraint. The weight of an Omega telepath's consciousness was immense. Their own thoughts washed away as the floodgates opened and hers poured through. What Jean found inside Morph's mind left her in shock and awe. The telepath had thought she understood love, having connected with countless minds to hear the chorus of a million silent voices. Love had been her anchor against the rising tides of the outer world.

For Morph, love knew no limits, stretching infinitely like the vast ocean with its myriad depths. It flowed like rivers meandering toward the sea, bursting forth like springs from the earth. Carried away by its current, they ventured toward a distant horizon. The icy waters chilled them to the core, yet in that frigid embrace, they felt more alive than ever—an island floating amidst black waves, so separated from the world it had become a world unto itself.

Logan's body convulsed. The mental link snapped as he began to move. His fingers clawed weakly at his breathing mask. Fresh blood started pouring from the slashes and cuts crisscrossing his flesh. Morph could only stare, stunned, watching and waiting for him to heal.

Why wasn't he healing? Why wasn't Logan healing? Many mutants had healing factors, and their friend was among the strongest—

"Wolverine, please," Jubilee cried, silver lining her eyelashes with unshed tears. "Wake up!"

"He will neither hear you nor anyone else, Ms. Lee," Nightcrawler said softly. "Not when the one he seeks is Morph."

All heads snapped toward the priest.

"Back the fuck up," Morph protested. "Why would he be looking for me? Jean's the telepath. She can reach him. I… I can't."

"Trust and love are not the same," Kurt said thoughtfully. Jean's expression shifted, guilt flickering in her eyes. What burden weighed on her mind, Morph wondered. "Perhaps Herr Logan has feelings for you. But your heart is not something you wish to give, nor can it be stolen. He knows it is not his and guards against hope."

"But none of this is helping Logan," Jean asserted. "We have to reach him now, or we lose him. We lose him to whatever is inside him, and I don't know if we can get him back."

Morph looked at Logan, thinking of that mighty heart and all it had endured. "What do you need from me?"

"A guide, a beacon to light him home. Help him see. Make him remember who he is—the person he chooses to be. When all else fails, he will trust you, because he never trusted himself. I'll be with you the entire time, but it must be you who reaches him."

"Wait!" Jubilee rushed to Morph, hugging them tight. "You can't go. What if we lose you too? Do you think Logan would want that? For you to die again for him?"

"You think Jean would risk Morph like that?" Rogue pointed out. "I ain't gonna pretend to know this psychic business, but we've seen him go crazy chasing after Morph before. They'll pull the old fella out, if anyone can."

Morph's eyes locked with Rogue's. Guilt flashed in her bright green eyes before she tore her gaze away. Regret stung Morph's heart at everything they had said to her. They wanted to apologize, but there was no time—not with Logan's safety on the line.

"Please," Jubilee begged. "We can't—I don't want to lose you, too." She buried her face in Morph's shirt, and for a moment, they feared she might start crying.

Morph turned to Jean. Her cool fingers pressed against their temple and—

It was as if a blazing blade were slicing through their skull. Unwelcome and hidden memories rose—a lifetime captured in ephemeral instances, a single seed sprouting, its roots diving deep into the earth. So deep the tree seemed to be seeking Hell itself. The further the roots reached for Hell, the higher the branches reached for Heaven.

Foreign senses intertwined with their own. The lives of the two mutants converged, and something in Logan threatened to engulf Morph. Predator, prey, intruder—it mattered little to the thing. An embodiment of pain and savagery, exploited and honed to perfection by Weapon X. Nothing but bestial rage and insatiable hunger, wrong and nothing.

The weight of the Other's presence pressed onto Morph, threatening to assimilate the shifter into itself. It had no mind, but it could attack.

Where was he? Where was their Logan? Were they destined to lose him like everyone else? Their origins, their family, Patch? Was this the shifter's fate—to live while everyone died?

The thing reacted to Morph's every thought, constricting their consciousness, locking them in inescapable panic. Their first instinct was to resist, but there was no fleeing one's fear. Morph had endured mental intrusions from Jean and the Professor, who had delved deeply into their psyche, extracting thoughts and memories. But this was different. The telepaths had gently probed Morph's mind; this thing took—grasping, clasping, clawing in hunger for something out of reach. Something taken, something stolen. A sensation hit Morph that something belonging to it was gone, and the Other would devour whatever lay in its path to reclaim it.

Wanting and waiting. Searching and seeking. Where was it? Where was it? WHERE WAS IT? 

This was not Logan. So where was the mutant in this madness that was his mind? Where was Jean? The telepath had promised to be there for Morph as they searched for Logan.

Lies. Everything had been lies. The X-Men had abandoned Morph again.

In the midst of the swirling turmoil, Morph caught a glimpse of laughter. The Other hesitated, and Morph sensed it drawing something from within. They felt as if they were a tapestry slowly coming undone, a single thread being pulled from its intricate design.

The laughter echoed once more, reminiscent of a distant bell ringing in the depths of memory. It was both teasing and eerie, wrapping around them like tendrils of smoke, weaving through the remnants of their thoughts and emotions, awakening fragments of joy once cherished and love now lost. Each note carried the weight of nostalgia, evoking the essence of that laughter.

Faintly, the outline of cabin walls emerged. A crackling fire blazed brightly, and couples swirled across the dance floor. Their feet moved in flawless harmony with the music, as the high trill of a flute urged them to quicken their steps.

In the center of the room danced two women. Patch, who dressed like a man, and her partner—a woman short and slim.

No, not a woman—merely the semblance of one. This was what had sparked the amusement, the recollection. This was the Memory. Translucent skin, almost paper-white in color. A tumble of black curls cascaded down their back. The Memory, more girl than woman, Morph noticed, grinned maniacally as they forced Patch to circle around them. They had a sculpted face, as if chiseled from marble, and were a near-perfect imitation of human beauty.

But that was the thing about imitations—they were rarely real, and the dancers in the room had known it.

Onlookers gazed with a mix of envy and disgust at the mesmerizing beauty that twirled with Patch.

Forever yours, whispered the Memory. I will be forever yours.

'We moved like this,' Morph reminisced. 'Patch and I shared this dance.' The shifter had craved the attention of the room—not just Patch's gaze.

Why were they witnessing this moment? Had their past experiences seeped into Logan's consciousness? Was this what the Other had stolen from Morph? Wanted from Logan?

The memory was no longer solely theirs; it had bound itself into Logan's being as well. A gentle breeze caressed their faces, heralding Jean's presence. She had arrived.

Jean, a delicate thread connecting them, momentarily brushed the memory aside. In that instant, she was little more than a fleeting whisper, holding back Logan's Other. Once she faded, the wall separating them crumbled, allowing Logan to see everything in Morph.

Everything came out—the weight of those endless years, every sin committed in survival's name, their past with Patch, their father's blood on their hands. But one thing cut through it all in Logan's mind, a lighthouse beam through the storm of revelations, pulling his attention with absolute clarity.

The thing inside Logan's mind recoiled as if burned. In that moment of reprieve, Morph felt something shift—a wall crumbling, a door opening that had been locked for years. His consciousness wrapped around Morph like dawn breaking over mountains.

'You love me.'

The realization moved through Logan's mind like water finding its course. Morph felt the exact moment understanding bloomed in him.

'You've always loved me.'

Around them, Logan trembled as his memories flooded forth—Morph's laughter echoing through the mansion halls, the way they never flinched when his claws extended, how they'd appear beside him when crowds grew too thick, offering their presence like shelter.

Logan's mental presence surrounded them. It had been so long since they had felt this—someone seeing them completely and irrevocably accepting them. The long years between this life and now seemed so small. Patch had made them want to live. Their parents had shown Morph what it meant to love. Sarah, Hema, and their cousins had helped the shifter understand what staying meant. The X-Men had taught them courage. But with Logan, they could simply be

Morph recognized this sensation. It resembled raindrops cascading from above. The parched, fissured ground seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as the water satisfied its long-held thirst, meandering through the hills and winding its way among the towering oaks and pines. A river to the sea, freely flowing, joining the ocean’s great expanse. 

He pulled away from Morph to take them in. He regarded them like something lost, now found. Something in his head clicked. Logan felt centered in a way he had not for years. His thoughts were a storm of revelations and realizations. Everything he had wanted from another person. Someone who saw him and never flinched. Never saw the animal in him, ‘Morph, I—’

But that Other remained. It shattered Jean's defenses as if they were made of glass. The golden thread of their connection snapped. They both felt her fire extinguished like a candle flame in the wind. And Morph felt themselves pulled out with her—

Morph's eyes snapped open, mind reeling. Vision spinning, Jubilee's face came into view.

"His eyes,” gasped Jubilee. Morph’s vision spun until it focused on Jubilee next to them, holding Logan’s head in her lap. “What the hell happened to his eyes?”

“I can only assume his eyes were destroyed when Magnus pulled the metal free from his body,” came Professor Charles Xavier’s voice. “But Logan’s healing factor can allow for complete regeneration. What I worry about now is the thing on his mind. And Morph, tether here’s to his mind. Jean, what have you done?”

"I was just trying to fix the mess you created!" she retorted sharply. "The entity inside Logan nearly destroyed him. I can't believe he managed to resist it for so long. But sealing it away only made it stronger. You must have known it would eventually break free—then what were we supposed to do?"

"While I would love to hear Charles's thoughts on that matter, this is not the moment for it," came Magneto. "I recommend we hurry to the Blackbird. The entire facility is crumbling. After reversing the Earth's magnetic poles, I can barely keep it stable."

"You blew a massive hole in the Blackbird's roof! How are we supposed to escape?" cried Ororo.

"Already sorted," Scott replied. "I used a metal panel and fused it to the roof with my optic blasts. Hank assures me it should hold until we get back to Earth."

"Not exactly on par with Reed Richards' inventions," Beast said, "but it will suffice."

Morph let out a frustrated groan, wishing for silence. The resonance of Logan's mind still tugged at them. Although they weren't telepathic, Logan's claws had latched onto Morph's psyche, his grip born of desperation.

"Rogue!" Nightcrawler called out, panic in his voice. "Where's Rogue?"

"She was just here," Ororo replied. "She was standing right here a moment ago."

"Roberto is missing too," Jubilee said, stepping away from Morph. They could hear her footsteps fade as she called for the boy who wasn't there.

‘Time is fleeting—the void calls. The Timestorm comes,’ a whisper echoed in Morph's mind. A gentle warmth enveloped their consciousness, a soothing murmur wading through their thoughts. As clarity began to bloom, confusion receded, and the dark drowned out reality.

Morph and Logan remained tethered to Jean by a fragile thread; a single tug could sever the connection. But Logan's consciousness sought the shifter's own, crowding Morph's thoughts. The panic Logan had felt dissipated once he found the shifter. He could not lose his changeling. 

Around them, the world gained clarity. The formless void transformed into an expansive medical laboratory, its atmosphere cold and clinical. The enormity of the space was daunting, suffused with an unsettling sense of sterility and stillness. As understanding washed over them, thoughts surged from Logan to Morph. The Other had extracted a memory from Logan—his experiences at Weapon X.

The moment unfolded like a film playing in reverse. A younger version of Logan was trapped within a transparent enclosure, his fists bruised and bloodied from pounding against the surface. He halted, gazing at his own reflection in the glass. As he did, his thoughts raced through Morph’s consciousness—panic and confusion.

The younger Logan noticed his entire body had been shaved clean. It was the first time he had seen himself in this state, and he could see the two faint lines —marks he had carried as long as he could remember, usually obscured by layers of chest hair.

Inverted T-scars, Morph realized. Top surgery scars—the double incision variety, the kind the shifter was accustomed to seeing.

Logan’s attention snapped to Morph in shock. ‘You knew?’

How could they not have known? Scott had guided them into the X-Mansion’s garage, where they’d spotted Logan immediately—back turned as he worked on his motorcycle. Morph’s eyes had traced the width of his shoulders, the corded muscles along his arms, the way his hips tapered—

Morph slammed the door on those thoughts. The current memory was more pressing.

A younger Logan frantically thought about escape. He had to get back home—to the farmhouse in Roanoke, Alberta, where he had lived. Someone was at that farmhouse. He had promised to be back that night. He had promised Silverfox—

But no, Logan’s mind rebelled against the memory. Silverfox had never been his. That had been a manipulation by Weapon X.

The memories shifted. They were in a new one now—Logan and Morph at the lakeside just outside the mansion. The shifter saw Logan and Jean speaking privately, seeking shelter from the reporter and her prying questions.

“Only seen one of you, Red. Just the one.”

Something inside Morph broke at the admission. Was that their heart? Logan must have heard or felt the shifter’s thoughts because suddenly his mind was pressing against theirs like a tidal wave, as if he could wash the doubt away. But love for one didn’t suddenly end because you wanted another. How many times had past lovers asked Morph to change into someone else, only to learn that person was their ex?

Morph wanting to shut those feelings away again. Last time they had hoped Patch had left. The shifter had hallucinated Logan to see him turn into Sinister.

That sea of grief they had carried their entire drowned them. The only balm had been whatever the felt for Logan. But not even that could save Morph now. Even as Logan was begging for the shifter not to push him away.

Jean’s lips pressed against Logan’s. Shocked, a fleeting sense of joy—

And in that moment, both of their hearts did break. No matter what body Morph took, how much they changed, and gave their whole love, the shifter knew they would never be enough. Whether for Patch or Logan or the X-Men, they were just a shadow, a replacement. They would never be enough of a real person.

Logan’s mind chasing after Morph’s. Terrified to lose the one person who loved them.

The kiss felt like fire.

The kiss tasted like ash.

An old wound opened in Logan—a gaping hole in his chest where his heart should be. It felt like that night he’d lost Morph.

Outside the memory, the shapeshifter’s thoughts came to a grinding halt. They could barely respond, could only watch.

At the lakeside, Logan shook his head. He had to get away. Jean could see into his mind. She would know. No—he had not thought of her. Did not want her.

“Logan,” Jean murmured, her voice heavy with regret. It was unclear whether her sorrow stemmed from the kiss they had shared or the realization that she had overstepped.

“You’re Jean Grey, he’s Scott Summers. Those are the rules. You forgot them for a sec. ’Nough said.” Logan walked away, his heart heavier than the adamantium coating his bones would ever be.

Logan shut his eyes, feeling a wound deep within him threaten to tear open completely. He excelled at his craft—and that craft was seldom gentle. Yet if his abilities ran so deep, why did loss follow him like lengthening shadows at dusk? Even Jean, now closer than ever before, still kept her distance. Whether it was Stryker and his cronies reshaping him into Weapon X, or Alpha Flight and the X-Men exploiting his body and rage, Logan had finally reached his breaking point.

The connection between Morph and Logan pulsed and fractured. Memories waited within the silent moments, his heart pulsing with the tick-tock rhythm of a relentless clock. Some debts were never settled. Some regrets lived on. And doubt remained a ghost he had yet to put to rest.

The lakeside around them shattered. The two were pulled into another time and place as a new memory took hold, but Logan’s thoughts remained fixed on Morph—always chasing.

Materializing before them was another memory of Logan and Jean. They had left the lakeside behind and now stood inside the X-Mansion. Logan recognized the scene immediately, and the information flooded into Morph’s consciousness. This was a week after the Night of the Sentinels, when Logan had been on a three-day bender that ended with him putting his fist through the Danger Room wall.

When angry, Logan was hell on wheels. When brooding, he was worse.

But his drinking binge the night before had been the goddamn worst. A red haze had consumed him, and he’d been itching for blood.

Logan snarled at Jean, much to Morph’s surprise. They could sense the real Logan’s shame and disgust with himself radiating through the memory.

During his rage, all Logan saw was red—everything became a target. It wasn’t Jean standing before him, just Summers’ woman in his way. Logan had nearly lost it when he’d decked Scott. It had taken every ounce of control not to pop his claws and gut the boy scout where he stood—leave him bleeding out like he’d left Morph to bleed out. There was more to Cyke than any of them knew, but in that moment Logan didn’t give a damn. If the X-Men had just gone back, they could’ve saved the shifter.

He’d needed to blow off steam, so he’d torn into Summers’s car with his bare hands. Ripped the doors clean off. It hadn’t been enough to kill the rage in him. Not enough to stop him from thinking about how Morph had—

“Is that what you really think?” Jean demanded, hands on her hips. “Scott only gave the order after Xavier and I felt Kevin was gone.”

Morph could feel Logan’s mind snapping back to another time. He was on Team X. He was Weapon X again. Silverfox’s voice rang out as Sabretooth dragged him away, her and Maverick labeled “expendable” like they were nothing but equipment.

Jean looked at him with pity. Pity. The same look Heather had given him, and he’d loved her with everything he had. They both reminded him of someone else. Years and years ago. The memory always just out of reach—

His head throbbed as red memories clawed their way free

“I know you think we’re no better than Team X,” Jean said, voice quiet but cutting. He bristled like a dog with its hackles up. “Like the mission mattered more than our people. That we left Morph and Beast behind like they didn’t matter. And maybe you’re right to think it. But if we were really like them, we’d be using you the same way. The professor has kept this team together for a reason. You’re not the only one grieving Kevin.”

“Don’t,” Logan warned, voice breaking into something raw. “You don’t know what—”

“You hate us,” Jean stated, no warmth in her voice now. Her mind brushed against his thoughts, asking for entrance. “But most of all, you hate Scott. You hate him because you still need him to give the orders. You hate that you can’t just be the animal.”

“You think you got me figured out?” Logan demanded. “You and the Boy Scout are still kids playing dress-up. You got no idea what the world’s really like, what people do to each other when there ain’t no cameras—”

In that moment, Logan yanked Jean deep into his mind. He didn’t ask permission, didn’t ease her in gentle—he forced her to see it all. The fury that had been simmering under his skin like an infection. It was like standing on a frozen lake and watching the ice crack beneath your feet. His grief pulled her under before she could take a breath, and his pain tore through her like claws. In his red ocean she burned, and he’d watch every second of it until there was nothing left but ashes.

Jean pressed her palms against her temples like she could physically hold her skull together. Her mind scrambled, trying to find the right words, the right angle to reach him, to drag him back from whatever edge he was teetering on. Her thoughts were nothing but a thin wire against the storm. But Logan was already gone, lost in the tempest, each pulse of rage echoing in the silence between them. He poured everything he’d ever felt for Morph straight into her head without filter, without mercy.

Beyond the confines of the memory, the shifter pulled back hard. They could feel Logan’s embarrassment burning like acid. His revulsion at himself, at what he’d done to Jean. The rhythm of his heart pounded like war drums as he confronted this version of himself from the past, seeing nothing but red, red, red.

The first thing Logan had known about Morph was their laugh. Something about it got under his skin like a splinter he couldn’t dig out. Summers had introduced the shifter as Kevin Sydney—Logan hadn’t given a damn about names. But then their scent hit him like a sucker punch to the solar plexus, and his senses went haywire.

Rain, earth, and pine. Logan actually stumbled back a step as something in his chest cracked wide open. Their eyes locked, and Morph cocked a dark eyebrow at him like they were waiting for the punchline.

“You okay?” they asked.

No, he wasn’t okay. How the hell could Logan be okay when some random stranger walked into a room and knocked him on his ass without throwing a single punch? Not knowing what to say—and Logan was never good with words anyway—he just grunted and shoved past them hard enough that their shoulders collided. For the briefest moment their hands touched, skin on skin. Even after he’d bolted to his room like a coward, the kid’s scent stuck to him, driving him half-crazy. He spent the whole night pacing back and forth like a wolf in a cage that was three sizes too small.

The kid had looked him dead in the eye and hadn’t even flinched. Hadn’t backed down. Logan didn’t know why he thought of them as “them” instead of “him”—the kid presented male most of the time. But something about it felt right, felt true. It was part of their identity as much as that damn scent of theirs, as much as the way they moved.

Days passed, and the kid kept driving him up the wall. Was named Kevin Sydney, but everyone called them by their mutant name of Morph because of course they did. Preferred Morph the way Rogue preferred Rogue—mutants and their names, their identities worn like armor.

Most people with any sense kept their distance from Logan. Survival instinct. But Morph was always reaching for him with casual touches—a hand on his shoulder, a bump of elbows, sitting too close on the couch. It was just how the kid operated. No fear like with Rogue, who couldn’t touch anyone without hurting them. No hostility like Storm had for him in those early days, all ice and judgment. And sure as hell no pity like Heather’s, which had cut deeper than any blade. People who knew Logan, really knew him, kept their distance.

But then there’d be a gentle hand on his shoulder when he was wound too tight. Dark eyes full of genuine concern, looking at him like he was worth something. There was no fear. Logan couldn’t smell even a trace of fear coming off Morph. Just that smell of pine and earth and rain that he wanted to wrap around himself like a blanket and never let go.

Logan wanted it so badly it physically hurt, like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

It was a peace he knew damn well he didn’t deserve, not after the things he’d done, the people he’d killed. But it gave him something he’d been missing—a sense of purpose. He was there when it mattered for someone who mattered. Logan had to keep the animal on a leash. If Morph ever saw what Logan really was underneath, saw the monster, they’d run.

They always did.

Yuriko, Silverfox, Heather—they all turned away when they glimpsed the monster lurking beneath the surface of the man. A rush of memories from his days in Japan with Yuriko washed over him, the moments blending together in a haze of past experiences. He could easily recall the serene times spent in the rugged Canadian wilderness with Fox, chopping wood and pretending to live a life of normalcy. Those memories felt as fresh as if they had happened just yesterday, long before Weapon X ensnared him and transformed him into a relentless weapon. But it was perplexing—how could someone lead two entirely different lives simultaneously? There had to be one identity, one narrative. He could still hear Yuriko’s heart-wrenching cries when she discovered that her own father was the one who had infused his bones with adamantium. Fox had stared him down, claiming that their entire relationship was a fabrication, false memories implanted by Stryker, Thorton, and anyone else who fancied themselves a god. Heather had walked away, returning to that arrogant Vindicator who belittled, assaulted, and betrayed her. She understood that Alpha Flight was monitoring her every move and would not withstand the weight of their judgment.

It was simpler to endure shame in solitude than to face it in public. And even if she felt a pull toward Logan, she ultimately chose to remain with James.

But there had been someone real. Someone before all of that. Thorton had tried to take them from Logan. And when that had failed, when Logan had fought back, they’d tried to replace them with manufactured copies.

He remembered hair. A cascade of black hair like spilled ink, like midnight given form. He remembered running his fingers through that hair, the silky weight of it. A playful grin that danced across a face Logan had loved more than his own miserable life. A love that was way too good for trash like him. Laughter that rang out sweet as any song he’d ever heard. Hands shoving him onto the ground, playful and rough. A hot mouth crashing against his lips. His lover’s hands running over his body greedily, no shame, no disgust, just want—leaving Logan feeling desired and desperate for more.

Then without warning, gone. Ripped away. Alone in the dark with blood on his hands.

But this kid. This absolute idiot had waltzed into his life with that stupid grin and suddenly all that pain, all those years of loss and grief, didn’t cut as deep. Morph would pop out of nowhere to crack some dumb joke that actually made him huff out something close to a laugh. Late nights in the mansion’s kitchen when Logan couldn’t sleep, and Morph would shuffle in and pass him a beer without asking, without making it weird. They’d just sit there in comfortable silence, or Morph would ramble about whatever movie they’d been watching. Despite being a shapeshifter who could literally be anyone, Morph was painfully easy to read. Their emotions were right there on the surface. Too busy maintaining their body to maintain their emotional walls, Logan figured. Or maybe they just didn’t believe in walls.

And somehow, in all that chaos that was Morph, there was a kind of clarity Logan had never found anywhere else. Every time he felt the weight of everything crash down—the memories, the violence, the loss—Morph was just there. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. Pulling him back from whatever edge he was about to throw himself off.

Logan’s heart felt like it was being crushed in a vise at the realization. How could he let himself care this much for someone who mirrored him in the worst ways but was fundamentally different where it counted? Logan was all darkness and jagged edges, a creature shaped by pain and rage and violence. But Morph was something else—light and shadow mixed together, a shapeshifter who could be literally anything but kept choosing to be themselves. They were a reminder of the humanity Logan was sure he’d lost somewhere between Japan and Canada and the Weapon X facility, carved out of him along with his memories.

To Morph, Logan was just Logan. Even “Wolverine” was just a codename, nothing special. That acceptance was enough to make him forget about the beast clawing under his skin. Being around Morph made it too damn easy to forget the self-loathing, the certainty that he was nothing but a weapon with a pulse. Because for the first time in his long, miserable existence, someone looked at him and believed he could be more than that.

Maybe he could actually do this. Stay with the X-Men. Be something other than a killer. Not for the team—half of them still didn’t trust him. Not for himself—he’d given up on that a long time ago. Xavier saw potential, sure, but potential didn’t mean jack shit in the real world. But for Morph? To keep being whoever Morph thought he was? He’d stay for that. He’d try for that.

Months passed, and it was no longer an unknown love reaching for them. It was Morph Logan was dreaming and aching for.

Then they’d lost them. Lost Morph.

What was the goddamn point of living, when everything worth living for was gone?

“You think you’re the only one who’s lost someone?” Jean’s voice cut through, sharp as glass. Xavier’s golden child, an Omega-level mutant who could tear minds apart, lashed out with her own memories. She showed him the loss of her best friend as a child, the psychic scream that had nearly destroyed her. Death experienced from the inside. But the thing that actually cut through Logan’s defenses like they were paper—

She’d been mentally linked to Morph when they died. Morph’s last thoughts, their final moments of consciousness, had been of Logan.

His knees gave out from under him. He collapsed into Jean’s arms as the dam inside him shattered completely. Logan held on for dear life, his whole body shaking, lungs heaving like he’d been gut-shot. It was the closest to crying Morph had ever seen from Logan—would ever see, probably.

The connection between Morph and Logan pulsed stronger, more insistent. Ancient memories threatened to claw their way to the surface—visions so old they felt more like myths than actual recollections.

Outside the memory, in the strange space of the psychic limbo, Morph reached for Logan, who had withdrawn deep into the recesses of his own mind.

‘I didn’t know,’ they confessed, their thoughts tentative. ‘I never knew you felt—’

‘How could you?’ Logan’s thoughts pressed against theirs, rough but intimate as any touch. More intimate than anything physical. Morph melted into it despite themselves. ‘Never told you. Couldn’t find the damn words. You were the first one who made me feel human, made me believe it, and I didn’t want that.”

A chaos of thoughts—too much to say, not enough to express. But feeling human made Logan real. It meant he could be more than Thornton’s creation. And he only began to believe it when someone like Morph had seen it.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

How could he not love that person? Want them? 

‘But the Professor and Jean—’ Morph started.

Logan pushed back harder against them. If they’d been in the real world instead of this mindscape, Morph imagined this would be kissing—desperate and hungry and maybe a little obsessive. Heat and passion rolled off Logan in waves. A need so desperate it crossed the line into obsession.

‘I was just another stray they took,’ Logan thought, the words bitter. He pulled them closer in this space that was all thought and feeling. ‘Didn’t have anywhere else to go, Morph. No one else would have me.’ The X-Men might have become family eventually, sure. But only because Morph had been the first one to make the mansion feel like anything other than another facility, another place he didn’t belong. ‘You had a real life before this. A family who loved you. You were just some kid in way over your head, a wiseass with more mouth than sense, playing hero. And you were still better than any of us. Better than me.’

Logan pressed in close again. So this was how it felt. To have someone carve out a place in your heart, make it a home , then—

Visions suddenly engulfed Morph’s consciousness—memories so ancient they felt like they belonged to someone else entirely, like dreams half-remembered.

Across an endless expanse of white that stretched to every horizon, caravans of survivors marched in a long, weary line. This domain of winter had wrapped the entire world in its cold embrace, with land and seas buried underneath sheets of ice and frost that never melted. Yet, despite the brutal climate, or perhaps because of it, the survivors had learned to thrive.

They crossed the frozen landscape that connected the old world to the new, following the path their ancestors had discovered. For days and days and days they had marched, following the migrating herds of mammoth and bison. The biting wind howled around them like a living thing. Each footstep crunched through the hard-packed snow, taking them further and further from the home they once knew, from the bones of their dead. The sun hung low in the sky, never quite setting, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts across the ice.

Beneath them, the earth suddenly let out a deep, resonating groan that vibrated up through their bones. Then it fractured violently, catastrophically. The once-solid tundra splintered apart like the shell of an egg hatching something terrible. They plummeted into the gaping void that opened beneath their feet, spiraling downward into the endless dark, screaming—

‘No!’ Morph’s mind screamed back at the vision. They couldn’t let it end like this. Wouldn’t. They pushed back against the Other, harder than before, harder than they’d ever pushed. The shifter focused everything they had on Logan, on finding him in the dark currents of this psychic limbo as it cycled and spun. Nearby, cutting through the cold and the dark, something radiated fierce heat—a presence that felt like hope, like strength rekindled. Fire that burned brighter than before. A gentle flame brushed against both mutants’ minds, driving away the creeping shadows and the ancient ice that threatened to freeze them both.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Jean.

Desperately, she tried to free Morph from Logan, but the shifter clung with the fervor of the drowning. The Other had embedded hooks—barbed, burrowing things—and they could never release Logan. Morph felt its tendrils invade them—violating and septic, the contaminated caress of something that fed on trust. It burrowed deeper into the shifter’s disintegrating mind. Logan thrashed against the parasite, but though it spawned from him, it would not relinquish control. Even Jean’s telepathic onslaughts proved futile as it plunged within Morph, excavating a truth they had desperately buried from themselves and reality.

Kevin Sydney had died years ago, not from a blast that suppressed mutants’ powers. They regained consciousness bound to frozen metal, condemned to endure torment that made the shifter beg for oblivion.

Sinister wielded his scalpel with surgical ecstasy, prying open Morph’s skull. The suffering transcended comprehension, even for Morph. Enraged by Morph’s struggling consciousness, Sinister drove the scalpel deep into their brain while Morph convulsed against unyielding restraints. Desperate to seal the violation, Morph attempted to shapeshift, but their concentration splintered with each penetration of Sinister’s instrument. As the lunatic continued his meticulous butchery, Morph felt the core of their body—the one they had occupied this lifetime—begin evaporating into nothingness.

Morph surfaced in a body that rejected them. Opening their eyes, they witnessed another corpse positioned beside them. With nauseating comprehension, Morph recognized it as themselves. The body they had been born inhabiting.

That was all it was. But it had been stripped naked for Logan and Jean to witness. Logan strained to physically obliterate the phantom of Sinister and disembowel him. Yet nothing matched the telepath’s devastation—fury so corrosive it would corrode the heavens themselves. Boiling, incinerating white-hot rage at existence’s core.

‘I know this place.’ And Morph felt her wrath at this desecration. ‘This is where we were unmade and reassembled.’

Madelyne, Morph understood. This was the place Madelyne Pryor had been manufactured.

But their chronicle persisted. Sinister laughed maniacally, the deranged architect exultant as his abomination achieved sentience.

“With prose to eclipse Mary Shelley’s nightmares! You, of an alien wrongness that would shatter even H.P. Lovecraft’s sanity! Immortality! Genuine immortality! Changeling, identity-thief, corpse-puppeteer! All identical in a singular entity. Like a parasite that migrates from carcass to carcass, this thing persists! The answer festers in its nervous system, which detaches itself from its host should the flesh sustain catastrophic damage. It then hunts a new host, preferably deceased, before infiltrating the fresh vessel, reanimating tissue, and spontaneously generating new matter!”

Morph had no comprehension of who the person had been—someone elderly or juvenile, human or mutant or some other variety of meta-human. The shifter barely inhabited that body a day before the madman, Mr. Sinister, ejected them into another corpse.

This new vessel felt wrong and repulsive, its limbs cumbersome and unnatural, yet there was a disturbing sensation coursing through the veins of their stolen body—untapped potential. They could sense the remnants of life before, echoes of consciousness and identity abandoned like evidence on a murder trail. This was different; they had only commandeered bones and skeletons before fusing and becoming the Sydneys. A surge of panic threatened to annihilate them as they comprehended what they now wore.

“A fresh cadaver, child,” he mocked, his voice saturated with perverse joy. “You are the culmination of my obsession! The ultimate abomination! A vessel for my ambition. This subject you inhabit is an Omega-level mutant whose physical potential remains unknowable to me. I would witness what you can become. You can change, evolve, and metastasize. But every time you flee into a new body, you contaminate a piece of your old vessel with you.”

The madman’s eyes flashed crimson, and he smiled, exposing rows of predator’s teeth. “In your blood, I discovered multiple traces of genetic codes. Bloodlines of mutants and humans alike. More than I ever could have conceived! An entire archive of genetic material spanning across millennia. How? How can you exist?”

They genuinely craved to make a difference in the lives of others. Their extraordinary mutation allowed them to manipulate every molecule within their own flesh.

If they could alter their physical form, what would prevent them from applying that skill to others as well? By intertwining their molecular makeup with another, they could merge the essence of two individuals into one.

Morph had the extraordinary ability to alter physical forms, repairing any damage that had been inflicted. Unlike ordinary people, who possessed autonomy over their bodies, Morph felt a profound alienation. Yet, too many misinterpreted their motives, responding with revulsion and terror whenever the shifter reached out to assist. In past lives, Morph had struggled to comprehend this rejection. All they did was place a hand on someone, then reorganize their molecules to fuse with the wounded. Morph’s unstable molecules mingling within others could transform the individual’s flesh, erasing pain, healing injuries, and eliminating ailments. The shifter had the power to reconstruct shattered bones and restore dying organs. Yet, fragments were exchanged between Morph and the person’s body whenever a shift occurred—primarily cells, blood, and tissues. Their flesh would absorb these new elements, cataloging genetic codes of others, making the shifter stronger and more contaminated.

While others dedicated themselves to helping those in distress, Mr. Sinister remained fixated on his delusions. He relentlessly tested Morph’s shapeshifting abilities, stretching the limits of their unstable form. The transformation became increasingly agonizing with each successive host, yet Sinister was undeterred. He believed that by deciphering the intricate corruption of Morph’s genetic codes, he could lay the groundwork for his master race.

“What are you concealing?” he would whisper into the shifter’s ear. “What are your secrets?”

Morph had no intention of weaponizing their abilities against anyone. Determined to prevent harm, the shifter sought to end the situation permanently. Their fist transformed, revealing jagged claws and osseous talons extending from the back of their hand, reminiscent of Patch’s features. With bone-like protrusions erupting between their fingers, Morph focused intently on reshaping their form into genuine flesh and blood. They could hear the rushing of blood in their ears—the pounding of their own heart beating loud as a funeral drum. With a trembling hand, they raised the two talons to their neck and drove them through—

When they next opened their eyes, they found themselves inhabiting a different corpse. Sinister had claimed another life, forcibly merging Morph into the new vessel just before it succumbed to death’s embrace. Now, the deranged man was sliding his scalpel along the side of Morph’s skull, inserting his device without any concern for the consequences it would unleash on their mind. He remained oblivious that this would catastrophically damage their nervous system, rendering Morph’s shifting abilities worthless. The device would eradicate all remnants of their former selves, obliterating the identities and connections they once possessed. The essence of who they were had evaporated, leaving no trace of the lives they once lived.

Exiled.

“It’s worthless,” said Sinister, looming over a cowering Morph. “The genetic network inside you has disintegrated. All of it is gone. How could you, you pathetic waste, after everything I have done to preserve you? I gave you existence and meaning, and this is how I am repaid?”

The man flipped the scalpel between his fingers. His eyes met Morph’s before plunging the scalpel into their right eye—

The Other shattered the memory, hurling the three back into that psychic void. It surged forward, ignoring Logan and Jean to coil itself around Morph, constricting them like a serpent. They felt barbs driven into them. Jean launched her psychic assault on the Other, but it was futile. Its grip on Morph constricted as its starvation washed over them.

Morph floated in a spiraling abyss of nothingness, the Other tightening its stranglehold. Fear gnawed at their insides, a relentless predator that whispered corruption and fed on their insecurities.

Images flashed before their minds’ eyes—Logan and Jean struggling against the invisible force. Still, their minds contorted in agony, doubt infecting their expressions as the Other struggled against them.

Morph felt their resolve disintegrating, the weight of the Other’s words pressing suffocatingly on their psyche. They tried to reach out, scream for Logan and Jean, and tell them not to surrender, but it was futile. As the darkness swallowed them, Morph could only watch helplessly as the shadows devoured their friends, their struggles growing weaker, their awareness dimming like the last flicker of a dying candle. The shifter was lost within the Other’s possession, and the realization hit devastatingly—there would be no rescue, no escape. They had tried to save Logan and failed. The sad truth was that Morph would never be capable of being an X-Man. They had only been deceiving themselves, their sense of self dissolving away…

Logan’s anger flooded the mindscape like a tsunami, obliterating reason and silencing all thought. The resonance of his rage pulsated through the vast expanse of his consciousness. He grappled with the Other, a reflection of his instincts. Morph and Jean were dragged into Logan’s maelstrom of fury and grief. It raged within him, swirling catastrophically and threatening to consume him. He was summoning the Other to him, Morph realized, in desperation to free them. It may have been attacking the shifter, but it was Logan that the thing craved.

They were trapped in Logan’s mind in a white-hot room of Jean’s creation, but Morph could still feel that intense, searing heat that made the sun feel frozen. The Other released the shifter to target Logan. They fell from its grip to watch the Other descend upon Logan like a plague of locusts. Where it had held Morph captive, it instantly began to devour him.

Still connected to Logan, they sensed the black mass enveloping him, assimilating into its being. His rage’s raw, primal energy clashed violently with the suffocating darkness. He summoned every ounce of his willpower, every fragment of his indomitable spirit, to fight back against the Other. Logan clawed at the thing—strikes reverberated through the void, but the Other absorbed the blows, growing denser as its starvation grew.

‘Wait!’ shouted Jean. ‘She—I had it wrong. Fighting it only makes it worse. Resistance only gives it more power over you. You have you—‘

The telepath never finished.

That’s when a fourth mind entered the fray—an anchor to the world outside, hard and unyielding like a diamond. Morph sensed Jean’s surprise just as the other psychic joined her.

No. Not joined. Usurped.

Jean’s presence flickered, then vanished entirely as if extinguished like a candle. The new mind was crystalline, frigid, and utterly merciless. It cut through the psychic space like a blade, pushing Jean away from the connection with brutal efficiency.

Relief flooded from Morph as they felt the change. This telepath was far more powerful than Jean, but something felt wrong about the intrusion.

‘Not quite, darling,’ sent the newcomer, her mental voice crisp and commanding. ‘My partner here was taking far too long with her gentle probing. We need to take more drastic measures now.”

The psychic landscape exploded into fragments. Weapon Plus, the columns, the younger Xavier—the glass of mirror splintering and shattered into a hundred more pieces. Logan’s consciousness reached for Morph even as they were torn apart, desperate and grasping—

But the golden thread held firm.

“No,” came a voice—sharp as cut crystal, cold as diamond. Not Madelyne. The other one. “You’re not leaving yet.”

The shattering stopped. The fragments hung suspended in psychic space, trembling but not dissolving. Morph felt themselves pulled back, not gently but with inexorable force, like being caught in a riptide.

“What—” Morph started.

“My partner is holding this little room of hers together. But it won’t last long. She can’t maintain the concentration needed to keep the two of you linked and fight off your rage at the same time. It is as psionically impossible for her to do both anymore than it would be possible for you to swim in a pool while jumping from a plane to skydive.”

‘Well the fuck aware!’ Logan growled.

‘Then you should know,’ said the fourth voice. ‘To survive this, you must assimilate your instincts. Process the trauma. Remember what has happened.’ 

For a heartbeat, Logan froze. Panic sending the mutant into a spiral as his attention focused on Morph. No, he couldn’t do that. His friend would see who he really was, the animal—

Morph slammed their consciousness against Logan, forcing him to feel what they felt. Their thoughts becoming one. The mutant had seen the worst in them, and had never run. Morph cradled Logan, and in their embrace he trembled. He couldn’t lose them. Not after waiting so long for them to come back.

That was when the shifter realized should they leave now, it would break something in Logan there would be no coming back from. So they revealed the one truth they had buried down deep. The one thing they had been so scared for the world to see. More than anything else they had ever run from. 

‘I don’t have any courage,’ they confessed. ‘I’m not brave. And I’m not strong. I didn’t fight off Sinister. He won… I just… Thinking of you was the only thing that saved me.

With that single admission, the mind-scape around them shattered and reformed. 

And then Logan remembered everything.