It ain't Walden Pond, but it'll do.

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At night there was never a traveller passed my house, or knocked at my door, more than if I were the first or last man; unless it were in the spring, when at long intervals some came from the village to fish for pouts—they plainly fished much more in the Walden Pond of their own natures, and baited their hooks with darkness—but they soon retreated, usually with light baskets, and left "the world to darkness and to me," and the black kernel of the night was never profaned by any human neighborhood. I believe that men are generally still a little afraid of the dark, though the witches are all hung, and Christianity and candles have been introduced.

Cain leaned back against the wall of the boathouse and marked his place in the book with a finger. Moira had given him this copy of Thoreau's Walden for Christmas, and while Marko had never been much for books, he found the words thought-inspiring on sleepless nights.

Looking out across the lake, Cain pondered the reflection of the moon on the water. There's Chuck's dream, he thought to himself, Looks pretty until you throw something at it, and then you see it's all just an image. It ain't real. That seemed to be his brother's way. Insist the empath kid isn't a prisoner, but make sure he's locked in his cell. Show the world on CNN the happy and fluffy parts of the school, but keep the ugly psychos locked in the basement, and kindly don't mention the black uniforms and the top-secret jet hangar. Send folks to go save lives when you need publicity, but when one of your own runs away and winds up tortured for months, don't bother to even look for him.

Cain spat out into the dark water, folding his arms over his knees as he glared into the night. He enjoyed the quiet of the night, even more so during this time without the students around. Despite the solitude, he found himself missing the previous week, and the memory of Miles falling asleep in his lap.

Alison trusted me to keep him safe, Cain thought. In a house full of ex-spooks and X-Men, the safest place was me. The very thought brought a laugh to his throat. He still hadn't been told all the details of what had happened to Betsy. He'd noticed the calm British woman changing from the personable next-door-neighbor he'd met in November to the cold, calculating figure they were calling "Kwannon". Of course no one figured it out, he mused. Goddamn telepaths, can't trust a one of 'em.

If it were up to him, of course, he wouldn't be giving someone a second chance after screwing with people's brains. Messing with their free will, making them do god-knows-what. That Sefton kid may have made that love drug, but Betsy was the one who used it. Anywhere else in the world, that'd land her in jail waiting to be called an accomplice to rape, or whatever had gone on in that house.

But not here. Because she was special. Acts like a sociopath for months, but gets off blame-free because the devil made her do it. All because she's one of Chuck's special ones. And the de la Rocha kid. Everything's fine and dandy when his little puppetmaster act is funny, making everyone laugh and dance. But push it another direction, and suddenly Chuck's "love and trust and acceptance" policy becomes "shove him in a box until we can make him what we want".

Cain bet to himself that after his "therapy", Manuel would be wearing an X-Men uniform within the year. He wondered idly how many others had come to Charles looking for help that he promised, and wound up enlisting in his little mutant army.

Pointless, Cain thought finally. You can't help them, you can't chase them off, and you can't do a damn thing about them.

Leaning back into the light cast by the bare bulb on the back porch, Cain opened the book again, reading another passage.

Sometimes, when I compare myself with other men, it seems as if I were more favored by the gods than they, beyond any deserts that I am conscious of; as if I had a warrant and surety at their hands which my fellows have not, and were especially guided and guarded. I do not flatter myself, but if it be possible they flatter me.

THAT was Charles to a T, Cain thought. Better than everyone. Special. Gifted. Knows better than you what you want and need, because after all, he can decide it for you.

Cain grimaced at the chastisement Charles had given him earlier regarding Manuel. I try and play your game, he thought. I try my damnedest to keep this place safe and sound. I let you play your Professor games, run your school, while I fix what they break. But when I try and extend, give one of your precious ones back some shred of the freedom and dignity you're stealing from him - then I'm not welcome.

"Fuck you, Chuck." Cain growled through his teeth to the dark night. "Fuck you, and your arrogant little dream, and your hypocrisy, and your holier-than-thou attitude."

I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.

The passage jumped out at Cain, and he nodded, slowly closing the book and walking inside. And for the first time since moving into the boathouse, he locked the door.