As I hung there, pinned against the wall by a bezerk homocidal Kodiak, I found myself thinking of my ex-wife, Moira MacTaggert. I realize there has been some confusion as to whether we were actually married or not, given all the various retellings of the X-Men story over the years, but I can assure you, inconsistant fictionalized accounts aside, Moira and I were in fact married for three glorious months and four years of shear hell.

Our courtship was wonderful. Full of romance and youthful passion. We shared a dream of human and mutant unity. We also achieved it in the form of our own relationship. Moira is merely a human, you see.

I don't mean "mere" in any kind of condescending way. She always thought I did. She was also constantly whining that I never listend to her or valued her. Even on those rare occasions when she wasn't saying it, she was thinking it and of course I, as a telepath, could always hear her.

Why did she pop into my mind now, as I was facing death? Because when I think of her, I'm not afraid in the least little bit of death.