Katrina was trying not to think of the mansion's mailbox. She was waiting for college acceptance letters and staring out the mansion window to watch for the postman was just too nerve wracking to continue doing for much longer, especially since it could take up to two more weeks to find out.

Luckily Slate was a very good distraction.

Katrina didn't know how he had managed to get on the guest list, but they had breezed in the front door without any hassle at all. Everyone else here was an adult. Not that she and Slate weren't adults, since they both were technically, but everyone else was an adult adult.

She felt a little out of place at first, in her sparkly gold dress and a tiny heart locket when it seemed like everyone else was wearing black accented with giant diamond clusters.

The little pilot felt immediately more at home, though, when they rounded the corner past the cocktail bar where she'd only be able to get a Shirley Temple and saw the main exhibit of the brand new museum. There were airplanes. Everywhere. They had everything from a modern military stealth jet that looked like a flattened grey porygon to the old World War I single seaters. Red and gold banners hung from every surface, proudly proclaiming the grand opening of the New York Aerospace Museum.

She grabbed Slates hand and squeezed it in excitement, “Ooh! That's a P-4 Phantom! Oh oh! And a MiG-25!”

The previously nervous teen pulled her boyfriend directly through the formerly intimidating crowd, brushing past a startled looking gentleman with a prominent scar across each cheek to look at a P-52 bomber that stood as a hulking sentinel at the corner of the big atrium. While peeking at one of the engines, she caught a glimpse out of the giant wall of windows at the back of the atrium.

“They have their own airstrip!”

Someone chuckled behind them. The gentleman with the scars seemed to take amusement at her excited and childlike proclamations. Katrina had forgotten that he was there. She had also forgotten she was supposed to be acting like an adult here.

“Yes, that's the aerospace park,” he smiled in a grandfatherly way that made his scars pucker. She could see now that they ran all the way down beneath his chin and connected together. “They will be having an airshow shortly. At the ribbon cutting.”

“Wow,” Katrina breathed. She turned toward the window so she wouldn't make the man uncomfortable by staring at his chin. On the landing strip there seemed to be a large group of people gathering. Some even had some kind of protest signs out. She had to wonder who would ever have cause to protest at a brand new amazingly awesome airplane museum that was clearly exactly what the city of New York needed because airplanes were the most amazing thing ever and everyone should learn about them.

“This is just so cool.” She squeezed Slate's hand gently again, not having let go of it for a second. She hoped he wasn't bored with her. She felt like she was gushing, but she was so excited she couldn't help herself. This was officially the coolest date she had ever been on.

Slate was trying not to think of where the letter was. In an outbox at the college, waiting only to be picked up? In the back of a delivery van, coming closer by the hour?

Katrina was smart, beautiful, and talented. People gathered around her, and she made their lives better simply by being who she was. That she would get into any college she so chose was a given; her worry on the subject was simply part of the unselfconscious innocence that made her who she was.

Was it in a sitting at a sorting station in Wisconsin, paused between the legs of its journey? Had it arrived at the Mansion as they departed, giving them this last day together before it reached her hands?

She had applied to NYU, of course. Most seniors at the Mansion did; the ones who even considered a four-year degree as a possibility for their kind. NYU had a good reputation for liberal minded students and professors. 'Liberal minded' being the code words that college-bound mutants used to mean 'they might accept me.' She had applied to NYU, but it was not where she wanted to go. It was, as they say, her 'fallback' school.

Where she really wanted to go—where she dreamed of going as they talked about the future while sprawled on her floor, homework spread out between them; where she had been destined to go, since they had first found the Blackbird in the Mansion's basement, and since a young Americky peelowt had marched onto an airbase in Serbia—was the United States Air Force Academy. 2304 Cadet Drive, No. 324. Air Force Academy, CO 80840.

Colorado.

She would get in; of course she would. He did not need to know their other applicants to know that she was above and beyond them in courage, experience, and those leadership qualities which their application had so highly stressed. She was everything they wanted. They would accept her, and she would go. Four years.

She was everything he wanted; he would not hold her back. Maybe he would find a job down the road; assistant to a grumpy mechanic. Maybe he would find a little apartment to rent, and she would visit on the weekends. The four years would go by in a blur; she would move on and up, and he would move with her.

Or maybe she wished to move to Colorado for a reason. 1,800 miles was a long way from New York: from mutant gangs, from sewers and green-eyed men, from old boyfriends. Maybe a blank slate was what she wanted in her life.

He would not know until he asked. There was so little time left, to ask. The letter was on its way, and so was she.

"...Oh. Yes, the P-4," he said, blinking at the latest plane in front of him as she came to a breathless stop, his arm (and, by extension, the rest of him) in tow. "That came after the... P-3, did it not? I assume it was quite the improvement."

He did not know much about air planes. He didn't even care for them that much, truth be told. But Katrina did. This is what she wanted, so this is what he gave her. Acquiring tickets had been somewhat... ethically bothersome, but Katrina was in the alarming habit of not questioning too deeply when he did these things. She took it for granted that he could step up as the CEO of a company, and step down just as suddenly; that foreign nations occasionally had much different headlines after he visited them than before. Tickets to a museum opening where such a little thing in comparison; what need to question?

He frowned slightly at the demonstrators outside on the airstrip. There had been more and more things like that, since that young Mansion girl had been arrested by the police. Their concerns were valid; what had happened to her was a tragic misunderstanding. He could not help but think that their methods lacked in... effectiveness however. A demonstration at a museum opening? Yes, many of the attendees were high ranking in politics, business, or some other field; yes, 'high ranking' did tend to overlap with certain other connotations, as well. When someone in the public eye spoke on the subject of mutants, the media soon made their views known. Maybe some here did hold views that he, Katrina, and those protestors would find objectionable. That was not the point, however. The point was: a protest at the opening of a museum?

This was not a question of right and wrong; this was a mere matter of efficacy. If Slate had been in charge of the protest movement, he—

But that was rather a dangerous course of thought, for the former Kabal Leader. He had once told Tarin Brooks that he had changed his mind about changing the world. That had not been entirely true. He had realized that changing the world—how he had been changing the world—was something he could not share with Katrina. Not how he had been doing it. His methods had been quick, and they had been effective, but they had been nothing he could tell to Katrina Dumonde as she shared with him her own dreams of the future. That was how he knew he had been doing something wrong.

Her hand pressed against his. He looked down, and smiled. "I am glad that you like it."

They walked around the new exhibits further. That is: she pulled, and he followed contently in her wake. Everything seemed strangely new, and strangely old: each plane lovingly restored, repainted, and positioned under its own spot lights so it shone. The gold in her dress flashed as they moved between eras; now to 1913, now to 1979, and back in time again. A voice came over the new PA system, reminding them all of the special demonstration that would begin at 5 on the airfield. Slate discretely snuck the top of his blackberry from his pocket; 4:30. As he slipped it back in, his fingers brushed against the top of a velvet box which had spent several months sharing that space.

"Shall we go out early? See the planes. Before they take off." He knew he was nervous; his grammar was slipping.

They were not the only ones with that idea, but the airstrip was still a quieter place than the museum's inside. Not all of the pilots had even made their way to their planes, yet; many were still by the building's side, sharing stories. Slate recognized the gentleman with the scarred face from earlier, admiring an old bomber. He seemed too dignified to acknowledge the chants being thrown at him from beyond the air field's fence, as the protestors continued with their quaint and ineffectual venting.

Slate, too, did his best to ignore them. It was not perfect out here—but when was it ever perfect? He had spent so long waiting for that elusive moment to come, that he was close to missing it entirely.

"Isn't that the same model you used to fly?" He asked, for once being the one to draw her along, towards a small WWI era plane. "What is it called, again?"

That wasn't what he really wanted to ask her.

"Kat—" He cleared his throat, and began again. "Katrina, there is something I have been wanting to speak with you about. I hope you will consider my proposal—" His heart was beating at a most unpleasant pace; it was almost a roar in his ears. "That is, would you do me the honor of—"

His words were drowned out by a very real, very near roar, of the non-internal variety.

Katrina felt like she was walking on air. The whole evening felt like a dream. It wasn't just being surrounded by planes that made it so, either. It was being here with Slate that really made the evening perfect. Slate, who probably didn't care nearly as much as she did about inspecting all of these airplanes, except maybe to figure out how to take apart one of their engines. Slate, who had gone to such lengths to bring her here, who always went to such lengths to make her happy. Slate, who was always by her side and knew her better than anyone.

It wasn't too perfect, was it? Slate's hand in hers felt real enough, but she knew better than anyone how deceiving dreams could be.

This isn't a dream, is it?

No, this was 2013. The exact time and place they were supposed to be. Both of them were awake. This was real. Real and perfect.

Why was she planning on moving thousands of miles away, again?

Slate suggested they go outside and Katrina readily agreed. The noise of the gathered crowd was much louder out here. Now that she was up close, she could see what some of their signs said. “Embrace natural flight,” with a picture of a gargoyle, “NYPD = savage pigs,” with a very unflattering depiction of a cop, and “Stop the police brutality,” with a modified traffic controller sign were among the signs floating above the crowd.

So this was one of the protests for mutant rights.

Katrina was a little disturbed by one sign that stated, “The CoH supports this museum.”

Maybe things weren't as perfect as she thought, but just because the Church of Humanity liked airplanes, that didn't make airplanes evil, or airplane museums for that matter.

“What was that?” The little illusionist turned back to Slate just in time to hear the tail end of his question about the airplane, “Oh, yeah. It's a Blériot XI.”

Then Slate was holding her hand and looking deep into her eyes with a look of deep concern about something. He wasn't dumping her was he? He wasn't going to propose that they take a break while she was away at school was he? Katrina bit her lip, afraid to hear how he was going to end his sentence, but he never got the chance.

Something roared, and it was not a plane engine. The teen illusionist turned to look back at the protestors and saw a large scaly green thing rise up over the top of the signs. It had an elongated lizard face with glowing nostrils emitting wisps of smoke. It's eyes were slitted and yellow. Wings so dark they were almost black unfolded above it. In a blink, it was over the fence. Katrina wasn't even sure if it had jumped or simply taken a step forward. That's how big it was.

“Youuuuu,” smoke issued forth as the dragon breathed out the word.

Katrina looked over her shoulder to see who he was talking about.

“Church ssssscum.” This time a lick of fire like a candle flame could be seen leaking out the corner of the beast's mouth.

Not her and Slate then. She pulled him back under the scant cover the airplane provided. The gentleman with the scarred cheeks turned on his heel and fled toward the building. He wasn't the only one, though, so it was impossible to tell who the dragon meant.

“Youuu won't essscape that easssily Edward Shhhhhaw.”

The lizard charged forward after the fleeing gentleman. As it passed, the spiked end of it's tail knocked into one of the planes, leaving a fairly sizable dent in the side. Its claws left deep grooves in the concrete of the runway.

Edward Shaw, it would seem, was in serious trouble.

Katrina looked worried. This was not the reaction he had hoped for as he led up to this question, and it did not help his stumbling fluency. She bit her lip, like she did sometimes when anticipating unpleasant news--

The sudden introduction of a dragon to this scene was a welcome relief. At the least, there was no mistaking its body language. Anger rippled through its every muscle, and vengeance crackled between the spines on its back.

The relief did not last long. It was replaced by a flush of irritation: finally, he had been going to ask her. He really would have. Could the dragon have not waited five minutes more? That would have been sufficient to ascertain--

Katrina pulled him out of his irate thoughts, and under the shelter of the plane’s wing. ...Yes. That was probably wise.

Edward Shaw had nearly reached the building’s doors; or rather, he’d reached the press of people trying to fit through the doors simultaneously. The doors themselves were glass, like that entire wall of the building; it was designed so that museum goers could look out onto the airfield. They were double doors, but only one had been opened: the other was now sealed shut under the crush of bodies. It was a non-optimal solution to the door-passage problem, and it was stopping the gentleman from reaching the safety he instinctively sought.

A glass-walled building was hardly an optimal solution to his safety concerns, either.

If he gets inside, the museum will be quite destroyed, Slate could not help but think. Whether he was blaming the dragon or the man for this was for any hearers to decide.

Happily for aviation enthusiasts, the gentleman did not reach his goal.

The dragon caught Edward Shaw like a child catches an insect: one large paw reached out, and its small prey was trapped between fingers of steely snakeskin. The rest of the people who had been outside--minus three--made good on their escape. The dragon was not interested in them; the museum was safe.

Edward Shaw was not.

“Onccce, you wondered how ssssstrong my jaw pressssure wasssss. Sssssshould we ssssssee?” The dragon grinned.

The gentleman may have had a reply to that, but he appeared to be having some difficulty in voicing it, given the tight grip around his chest. And his waist. And a good portion of his upper legs. ...That was quite the impressive mutation, actually. Slate did not think he had ever seen a transformation so large.

The grin did not get wider; that would have been physically impossible. But the skin covering the dragon’s teeth pulled back, revealing several more inches of gleaming white than most people wished to find in the same mouth.

“Ooor ssssssshould I try an exxxxperiment of my own?” It unfurled its wings, and drew back from the building to give itself room; then, in a series of tornadic flaps, it gained the air.

“I did not bring my X-communicator,” Slate stated simply, after regaining his breath.. “Did you?”

The dragon’s experiment would involve gravity, he suspected. X-communicators would not actually be of any help. If they did not begin moving faster than 9.8 meters a second, and soon, it was not hard to hypothesize the result.