The trials and tribulations of the teachers and students of the Xavier Institute. Originally set in the continuity of Marvel Omega, the series is now branching out on its own from New X-Men #10 . . . free from the constraints of continuity.
The Bostonian was sharply suspicious. "Who are you?"
The Irish beauty attempted a smile as her emerald eyes fell onto the stoic features of the wheelchair bound student. She had arrived at the school only four hours previously, having been manhandled by Sam at the bottom of the decadent staircase in the Institute's foyer and being tasked with the situation she was now dealing with. After a brief stint with X-Force and flunking out of the University of Miami, Theresa Rourke Cassidy had moved back home, as all X-Men did at one point or another. She adjusted the green leather jacket as she placed her hands firmly on her hips.
Her long ginger hair was drawn over her left shoulder, cascading in a series of waves across her breast. It was strange for the older mutant to have to play a role quite so maternal when she was equally, if not more, as lost as the student.
"I was gettin' to that," her brogue was thick. "Hope, my name is Terry and I'll be supervising your progress to–"
Hope frowned. "I don't want you. I want Mister Guthrie."
"Mister Guthrie isn't available for today's session," Theresa lowered herself to make direct eye contact with the girl. "Doctor Reyes has–"
"Don't do that."
Confusion was clear on Theresa's freckled face. Hope's face developed a fresher layer of coldness. The girl had had everything but her life taken from her when she had been injured at the hands of Harpoon and it was a constant struggle to get her out of the dark place that her mind had fled to for protection. Theresa had been told that Hope had once been very similar to the trait her name prescribed but she saw none of it. All she saw was a sixteen year old girl hiding behind the disability and the fear that regardless of the therapy, she might never be able to walk again. It was easy to pretend that her ability of astral projection negated the pain she felt by allowing that mobility but, in a way, Theresa saw that as worsening it.
The projections were a constant reminder of her loss. Not that the Bostonian had used her abilities since the attack of the Marauders.
"Don't lower yourself to me. Don't pretend that you know me. I don't know you from Adam and I don't want to. I agreed to do this because Mister Guthrie demanded it from me. You think I want to play this? To remind myself constantly that I'm the victim? They talk about be in the halls because I'm the girl that can't walk. I'm the girl that was fucked up by the Marauders. Jay gets all the sympathy because he's in a ditch somewhere and I get the pity. Well, fuck that and fuck you."
Theresa stood. "I understand yer angry but don't–"
"Don't what?" she snapped. "I'm not angry, Miss Rourke Cassidy. I'm reaching apathy. I just wish you people would leave me alone."
"Hope, please–"
"No, I want Sam."
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