This is just one of those little spur-of-the moment things. Treat it as fluff. Father Knows Best I sat there, on the edge of my bunk, and frowned at the picture. It didn't go away. There we were, me, my wife, and our darling little baby girl, sitting in the sunlight in Central Park. I ran a hand over my short red hair and set the picture face down on the dresser. I didn't mean to make her go. It was the chance of a lifetime, a huge promotion out of the fieldwork that she hated, and away from the deskwork that I hated. All I had to do was work to keep normal people safe from the SPBs. 'Normal People.' It wasn't until I read her letter, left on the mantelpiece like in some scene from a TV show, that I learned how much she hated that term. I didn't know. How could she not have told me? And then they were gone. My wife and daughter, out on the streets of New York city, looking for sanctuary. I looked. I bent all the considerable power my new position as NSA Specialist on Mutant Affairs allowed. I had tracked them, and was almost ready to send in the troops to bring them home when I got the call. My superiors were not pleased. They suggested I find other, more productive, less personal ways to spend my time. After all, did I really _want_ to find them, considering their "condition?" I did. Oh, God, I wanted to find them, to save them from the monsters that they would meet. But I turned away, and then they were gone, where even I had no authority. I've seen the monsters mutants can become. Xavier's outlaws, the Avengers, any of the other "good" vigilante groups out there: They all believe that mutants can be trained to live a quiet, non-threating life. They're wrong. I've had to put down any number of adolescent kids who committed no other crime than having a particular, minor mutant power. David Oleans who sweated sulfuric acid. The Americans with Disability Act just wasn't designed to cover his situation, and he would have cost us fortune to design a containment suit. Brittany Petrovosik, who could transform liquids into crude oil. The Arab League warned us about her, and we, in the interests of the international economy, took care of their problem. I don't know how many technopath hackers have tried to hack into our systems, but they've all rolled away with certain key sections of their neurophysical control fried. It's easy to spot the drooling, limping hackers. Kenneth Brown, who could duplicate any object just by touching it. We've got him stored, sedated, on Sub level forty-three, next to the treasury. In these days of limiting budgets, an agency needs all the assistance it can get. And I know she's out there. My little girl would be about seven, now, had she survived. But so few survived the Massacre, and no one has reported a little Morlock girl answering to the name of Sarah. But I'd know if she died. I felt it when Jane died, almost if I had some long buried psi talent of my own. It was only a matter of time, once her money ran low, until she ran out of medication. After that, her heart would have given out, and unlike our daughter, Jane had only one. But Sarah would have survived, and would be tough. She had her father's stubborn streak in her, I could see that even when she was barely talking. Sarah Gyrich, with the little bald head and the wisps of purple hair that marked her as something different, a potential monster, that I was going to keep as an angel, to prove that mutants could be trusted. But Jane and Sarah left, and betrayed my trust. Someday, I'll find my Sarah, and we'll be reunited. We'll be a happy family again. Henry and Sarah. Father and daughter. ------------------------------------------------------- Fred Garber ------------------------------------------------------- Disclaimer: All Characters belong to Marvel Comics unless otherwise noted, I make no money from this. Permissions: Archive, MST, PopUp all OK as long as I get a copy or the url. Gods, I love my hobby!