Instead, I sent strings toward Laura's position. "Up."
She understood immediately, using my strings like climbing ropes to launch herself from the ground. Her trajectory brought her over Logan's head at the exact moment he closed distance on me.
She dropped, claws first.
Logan rolled, but Spice—back on her feet, Celeste reading the pattern—was already there. Her diamond fist caught his shoulder, the impact echoing through the chamber.
I wrapped strings around his wrists, pulling them wide.
For exactly 1.2 seconds, we had him.
Then his claws severed my strings and he was free again, grinning through cigar smoke. "There it is. That's what I wanted to see."
The simulation froze.
"You fought like a unit that time," Logan said, dropping from the observation deck to land beside us. "Not three weapons pointed in the same direction—one organism with three parts."
Laura retracted her claws, healing factor already closing the cut on her forehead. "The coordination worked."
"Because you trusted each other." Logan looked at Spice, who'd shifted back to flesh—Sophie's composed expression settling across her features. "And you're learning to work with... all of you."
"It's still difficult," Sophie admitted. "The transitions create tactical vulnerabilities."
"But unpredictability is its own advantage," I said, reviewing the causal threads from the fight. "Logan couldn't establish patterns because there weren't consistent patterns to find."
"Esme thinks that's hilarious," Spice said, and for a moment I caught the rebellious sister's smirk. "Turned our biggest weakness into tactical advantage."
"That's the art of it," Logan said. "Fighting ain't just technique. It's reading your opponent, knowing your team, adapting when the situation changes." He headed toward the exit, then paused. "Good work. Hit the showers."
Laura waited until he was gone before speaking. "I've never fought with a team before. Not really."
"Neither have I," Spice said—Celeste's uncertainty in her voice. "We were supposed to function as one mind, but that's different than... this."
I collected my strings, winding them back into stored potential. "We're learning."
The Danger Room cycled down, bamboo forest dissolving into metal walls and holographic projectors. We'd fought dozens of simulations over the past week, each one teaching us something new about coordination, trust, working as more than isolated weapons.
The cafeteria noise hit like a physical wall, dozens of conversations overlapping, the clatter of trays, someone's laugh rising above the chaos. After fifteen years of sterile silence broken only by combat and screams, it should have been overwhelming.
Instead, it was becoming... almost normal.
Laura and I claimed our usual corner table. Spice—Irma today, based on the contemplative way she held her tray—sat across from us. Three seats at a table designed for eight, surrounded by space other students unconsciously maintained.
"You know," a cheerful voice said behind us, "this table has like five empty seats."
I turned. Pink hair, pointed ears, wings folded against her back—Megan Gwynn, Pixie. She'd been in our Philosophy class, one of the few who didn't flinch when Xavier called on Laura.
"We're aware," I said.
"So can I sit?" She didn't wait for an answer, dropping into the chair next to Spice with enough energy to make her tray rattle. "Thanks! I'm Megan, but everyone calls me Pixie. Well, except Mr. Logan, he calls me 'kid' but I think he calls everyone that."
Spice blinked—personality shifting to Sophie's more analytical approach. "You're deliberately sitting with us."
"Yeah? Is that weird?" Pixie stabbed at her salad. "I mean, you guys seem cool. Quiet, but cool. Plus I heard about the rescue mission—saving someone from an evil facility? That's totally superhero stuff."
Laura's grip tightened on her fork. "We violated mansion protocols."
"To save someone's life," Pixie said matter-of-factly. "That's like, the whole point, right? Also that combat simulation you guys did yesterday was insane. I was watching on the monitors when I was supposed to be studying. Don't tell Kitty."
I analyzed her causal threads—open, genuine, without the undercurrent of fear or disgust most students carried around us. Either she was an excellent actor or actually meant it.
"Your secret is safe with us," Spice said—Esme's conniving edge creeping into her tone. "We have plenty of our own."
Pixie grinned. "See? Cool."
She launched into a story about her last training session with Storm, something involving accidentally pixie-dusting half the team and causing mass hallucinations of everyone turning into cats. Her hands moved while she talked, animated and expressive.
Laura listened with the intensity she brought to threat assessment. But I caught the way her usual hypervigilance eased incrementally.
"—and then Bobby tried to freeze the hallucination cats, except he just ended up making ice sculptures of nothing while Kitty phased through the floor because she thought the ground was lava. It was chaos."
"That sounds tactically problematic," Laura said.
"Oh it was super problematic. Storm was not happy." Pixie took a bite of her salad. "But it was also kind of hilarious? Like, nobody got hurt. Sometimes training is just... messy."
A shadow fell across our table. Douglas Ramsey stood there holding his tray, looking uncertain in a way that made his causal threads flicker with multiple decision points.
"Can I—" He cleared his throat. "Is there room?"
Pixie beamed. "Doug! Yeah, sit!"
He took the seat next to me, carefully not making eye contact. "Thanks. I just... I've been wanting to talk to you guys about something."
I waited. Laura continued eating with mechanical precision. Spice tilted her head—Irma's curiosity evident.
"Your communication patterns are fascinating," Doug said, words tumbling out quickly now. "Like, all three of you. Laura, you're incredibly economical with language but every word carries specific tactical or emotional weight. Adrian, you speak in precise analytical frameworks but there's subtext in sentence structure that most people miss. And Spice—" He looked at her directly. "You're five completely distinct linguistic patterns in one person. Each personality has unique speech markers, vocabulary preferences, even subtle accent variations."
"You've been studying how we talk," Laura said. It wasn't a question.
"I'm sorry, that's probably creepy—" Doug started.
"It's observant," I said. "You have omnilingualism. Communication is your primary ability and interest."
"Irma thinks it's kind of flattering," Spice said softly. "Nobody's ever paid attention to how we speak before. Just what we could do telepathically."
Doug's shoulders relaxed.