Finger-Painting With Fire (Part Four)

School settled back to normal with the start of the semester, with students populating the grounds again and full staff making the rounds. The odds of any hard-up solo bounty hunters attacking Xavier's had been low during the off-season. With everyone there, the chances were nearly nonexistent. The risk and number of resources that would have to go into an attempt while I was on campus outweighed the rewards by far.

It didn't stop Saberwolf from damn near sticking to my hip whenever I ventured outside of my dorm. It was kind of heartwarming. After all, his job was to serve as security for the whole school, not just me. When I brought it up, he said, "Until a more obvious concern presents itself, your security is the most pressing threat at the institute."

He could try to church it up to be professional all he wanted. For an AI with a sharp, metal chassis, he was a big softie.

That being said, the news didn't take long to get to my superiors. The first day classes started back up, I wound up being called from one of my classes for a quick word. Miss Frost greeted me in her office, swirling a glass of brandy in her hand at 11 in the morning. Day drinking – rarely a good sign.

"An honest-to-goodness bounty," Miss Frost commented, shaking her head, "I couldn't tell you why, but I can't say I'm surprised."

"I'm surprised you're not mad," I replied.

"At you?" She asked, getting a nod from me in response. She let out a huff before gracing me with her sarcasm, "Yes, darling. I'm absolutely furious with you. How dare you allow some mysterious psychopath to put a price on your head. You really should know better."

I snapped my fingers and pointed at her, "Yeah, that, but unironically," I could swear I caught the slightest hint of a smile.

After that quick moment of levity, Miss Frost appeared to get more serious, "Regardless, it seems we have a problem. We still have no idea who marked you for death."

"Deadpool didn't cough anything up?" I asked. For her to be unable to pull anything of use from someone was a rarity. She was one of the premier telepaths on the planet, after all.

Miss Frost's countenance twisted in annoyance and discomfort, "You try sifting through that mess he calls a mind," She closed her eyes and rubbed her fingertips at her temple, "Ugh. Trying to pinpoint a single thought from that man is like trying to keep track of a single flake in a shaken snow globe."

I gestured to her glass, "Hence the liquor?"

She slightly raised the glass in acknowledgment, "Hence the liquor," she said, taking a small sip, "Regardless, he insists he had not been lying when he said he didn't know anything else."

"You're not restricting me to campus, are you?" I asked. Veritable house arrest was the last thing I wanted, whether there was someone gunning for my head or not.

"No," Miss Frost said, "You already traveled through the heart of New York City when the bounty was at its freshest. Unless it goes up and attracts bigger fish, I don't think that will be necessary."

The thing about bounties was, they only tended to attract attention from a certain level of dangerous people. If a top-tier threat was driven by money, the reward for my bounty wouldn't be high enough to get their attention. If the top-tier threat was driven by ideology or vendetta against me, the money wouldn't have mattered anyway.

It would likely be an annoyance until I could get rid of it, but I was being trusted to be able to handle it – better than I did the other day, hopefully. At least it didn't look like Mister Logan told any of them about that little adventure.

Thanking my lucky stars on that front, I left Miss Frost's office and headed back to class. In the hallways, however, I stopped when I noticed my former advisor heading my way, marching with a purpose. I didn't notice the damn near murderous expression on his face until he was close.

"Mister Rasputin! What's up-?" I tried to greet him, only to have to jump out of the way to keep from getting mowed over. Mister Summers wasn't far behind him, and seeing that he seemed to be in a much better mood, I turned to him, "What's wrong with him?"

"We received some troubling news the other day," Mister Summers said, "Piotr is... not taking it well."

It must have been why there had barely been any staff on-hand during Deadpool's escapades, "Is there anything anyone can do?" I asked, "Wait. What's it even about anyway?" There was a chance that the info was above my paygrade, but the worst he could say was nothing.

Mister Summers frowned in thought, hindsight suggesting that he contemplated telling me what the issue was or not. I could only figure that if I didn't hear it from him, I would have found out some other way, "Ever since the incident on Breakworld where we lost Kitty, we've reached out to any connection we had with the means to track the bullet she's trapped in," "The last time any of them had been able to locate it was a month ago."

I was wrong. The worst thing he could say to answer my question wasn't nothing; it was that. I could feel my heart fall into my stomach. No wonder Mister Rasputin seemed so pissed. I couldn't blame him.