Disclaimer: Mine is mine, while Marvel's is Marvel's!

The wind blew through Sam Guthrie's hair as he shot through the air, like a cannonball. He twisted into a three hundred and sixty-degree spin, laughing out loud. The sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon, and the air smelled of morning dew and spring floors.

The newborn rays of the sun fell on the dew that covered all of the greenery, making it looked like they had been dipped in diamonds. Sam watched all this with glowing eyes, a happiness and peacefulness that he rarely felt anymore descending on him.

It was so hectic being an X-Man. It wasn't like being on X-Force, where all his friends were, and he knew why he was fighting those that he fought. Not that, he amended in his mind quickly, that he didn't know why he fought the X-Men's foes, it was just a little harder to get his spirit up to fight.

Sam knew that fighting wasn't really his cup of tea, but he did it because he believed that helping people was. And that's what he told himself he did, that he helped people, helped keep them safe.

His mind shied away from the memory of a young girl, screaming as her house burned down and all her toys still inside. From the memory of a father sobbing when he found out that his son was still trapped in the collapsing building. From the memory of the small child that had died nearly at his feet as she tried to run away from whatever villain-of-the-week had decided to attack.

He suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

Sam landed quickly, dropping down to his knees before they gave out. He noticed that he was kneeling in front of a cliff, the sun rising directly in front of him.

He sat back, and crossed his legs Indian style, watching the sunrise. But even the warmth from the sun couldn't penetrate the sudden chill that had taken over his heart and his soul.

Do we really help people? Are do we hurt them as much as the "villain" does, even if it is unintentionally?

The answer to his questions eluded him, dancing away like leaves in the wind. Sam shuddered again, the memory of the crying woman who had just lost her lover leaping to his mind.

How many people die due to the damage to cause?

How many people could we save if we stuck around after the fight, helped clean up the mess we made?

Sam swallowed, and clenched his fists, blinking back tears. "Do we really help people?" He asked out loud, echoing his thought from earlier. "Do Ah really help people?"

He shut his eyes, and felt a tear leak out. Reaching up his hand, he wiped away. Try as he might, he couldn't get rid of the feeling, down deep in his gut, that he didn't help people, that he just hurt them.

"That's why we ain't making any head way." Sam realized, a flash of inspiration hitting him like a bolt out of the blue. "That's why mutant-human affairs are shot to hell."

"We don't do anything to help. We just make things a bigger mess then they already are."

Sam swallowed hard, and rose to his feet. Triggering his mutant powers, Sam shot into the air, the wind once more in his hair. But this time he did so with a much heavier heart.

So what if he walked in the clouds?

He didn't help anyone on the ground. Darkchilde's Stories