Scott Summers feet were sore and the footing he chose was unreliable. Beyond simple discomfort--pain & exhaustion--he felt righteously indignant. He was stepping on the rocky shore of a media mogul's summer home. It wasn't that Scott simply hated everyone human or television. A little bird had told him of a mutant mill under the house where mutants are 'mated', born, housed, and sold after being kept completely incapacitated.

It's walls matched the length of a large urban apartment complex. Few windows were at ground level, there were roughly two dozen all around the second story, only a roof with a pressure sensitive parapet stood on top of it, prepared to execute a silent alarm and dispatch a troop of guards at any time of day. Sentries were posted on top of every exposed entrance. So Scott wasn't going through any exposed entrance.



He fired into the side of a dirt wall that stood above the beach, close enough that no one would see his crimson blasts and soft enough to avoid throwing the dirt into a flying horde. There was a bit of noise, but considering the distance, Scott found it unlikely that any of the hired door men would notice him. Taking a pause, he closed his eyes and concentrated, focusing on his words and thinking loudly.

<Jean, how's your end going? Can you sense the detainees?>