Monet St. Croix grew older.

(Not wiser, she'd never needed to grow wiser. And certainly not less reckless, because she was built to take the hits for those who couldn't.)

X-Factor still existed. Quietly, underground where nobody could find them they didn't want to, but their doors still remained open for business. A different kind of business, these days, and Monet made sure that it was her in the crosshairs. Rictor and Shatterstar were susceptible, could be killed by a sniper or a bomb. If there needed to be a visible face, she wanted it to be her.

She dabbled on the side sometimes, worked with a group of children who did the things no one else wanted to. She'd always known what she was capable of, and she found no great surprise in it. Perhaps a long time ago she would have been proud of that, but these days she was more often tired than proud. Still cutting and sharp and every bit herself, but more withdrawn. Her energy she reserved for her work.

Those who knew where to find her could find her. Anyone else who came looking wouldn't enjoy the results.