Mock Me
05.29.07 - 06.02.07
an X-Men:Evo FanFic
Author's Note (09.02.12) - Oh my stars, stop right where you are! As one lover of the fandom to another, I feel the need to warn you that this fic is so old, and was written when I was (figuratively speaking) really young and dumb. If you feel brave, know that you'll have to overlook the following crimes in writing fanfiction (and fiction in general) to get through this story: mary-sue-ism, incomprehensible accents, holier-than-thou narration, dubious quality of characters, an annoying OC who is central to the story, confused rising action and climax, failing grammar, wrong French, and I don't even know what else. I couldn't push myself to read more than the first handful of paragraphs.
It's really bad. Not all of it, but most of it. Maybe one day I'll go back and fix the really bad parts (dialogue, for starters). As much as I'd like to take it down, I won't. Some of my favorite stories and authors have vanished over the years due to feelings like these, and because it upset me to see them go, I can't ascribe to that behavior. This silly disappointment of a yarn is part of my past, and I don't ever want to forget what it taught me.
CHAPTER ONE - Pseudoscience
A morning, like any other, in a house, like any other. Don't mind the fact this house is more a mansion than a simple, humble domicile; nor should a body contemplate too deeply the manner in which its residents shepherd secrets with every darting glance of their eyes. Normalcy is commonplace, and though the lavish gardens and high-tech accessories are far from mundane, there is a familiar rhythm to be found. The melody the walls would sing (had they lungs instead of insulation) is as fundamental and typical as one discovered in the corridors of the most learned libraries and mellow playgrounds. The Xavier's Institute for Gifted Children stands with both a professional and intimate air, welcoming to all yet fiercely protective at the same time.
Bound in brick and marble, the facility boasts an elegant and contemporary connotation by architecture alone. Beyond the great, clean glass doors and wall of windows lies the foyer and paths like labyrinths throughout the sanctuary. Many a vagabond, misfit, or runaway has past through only to falter against the sublime sight inside. Dark, solid wood- perhaps maple or cherry?- blankets the halls and steadies the winding staircases leading to the second story. The expertly crafted chandelier hanging from the high ceiling has provoked dozens of marveled looks in its time. More importantly are the chambers within, accommodating each occupant of the institute with amenities fit for kings and queens, some would say. Not only a haven, but a school too, evident by the classrooms and forums furnished with cutting edge, as well as wisely ancient, material.
However, for all the beautiful background that could be given, all but the blare of six AM alarms were lost on the institute's students at this very moment. The bustling rush of youths preparing for their day added a, how should we say, extraordinary flavor amidst a sea of normal. A play of light on the eye? No, that girl had just slipped through the door in lieu of wasting another five seconds swinging open the port by its useful handle. And the redhead- that hairclip had simply floated across the room into her hand! Was that steam rising off that one's bare fingers as she combed through her hair?
So maybe this house, this still place in the whirlwind of racism ripping through the city of Bayville, is not so much like any other. You know what they say about first impressions.
Shouts and calls outside the still closed door wrestled one epitome-of-the-adage out of bed with better success than her alarm clock had. Her pale, lithe body clad in conservative orange and green pajamas slid out from beneath the twisted covers. Utter dread for the coming day showed in every slow bend of her joints. The overhead light and fan had already been switched on, and a grumbled groan spoke the teenager's dislike of both. No care was given to tangled russet and white-streaked hair, nor attention to the assortment of makeup waiting on the vanity dresser. Even grace that came in time with ginger, diligent rehearsal showed in the stride that carried her directly to the door. Unlike her roommate, she was obliged to throw it open before proceeding to the washroom down the hall. Through a river of like peers the girl traveled before finally pressing through the floppy, waterproofed door. The transition from soft, trim, blue carpeting to unholy cold, white tile sent unpleasant tingles over her skin. That feeling was amplified as that ghost-like girl insisted past her, and the former shoved herself against the washroom wall to allow maximum breadth between she and the passer-by. That method became a tedious annoyance as others refused to wait for her more-than-leisure pace, and that eventually inspired some will in the girl to get a move on.
Fifteen minutes later, and wet-headed, the dissociative girl (referred to as Rogue by many a hurried, irritated housemate) marched back to her shared room and slammed shut the door. As a mountain of huff and fatigue, the girl slouched against the closed threshold and knew that the relieved feeling bought was only temporary. A hoarse hiccup of a gasp illustrated her surprise as her emerald-green eyes stumbled upon the sight of her roommate. After a split second and a hand flat to her chest, Rogue shed the look and made up a new, less wary one. "Kitty," quietly complained her southern accent, "ya' godda quit sneakin' around lahk ya' do."
The petite teen, who was hunched over on her made bed slipping on casual high heel shoes, jerked her head up as her name was called. Brunette locks gathered in a ponytail whipped around, emphasizing the likely possibility Rogue had surprised her, too. A playful expression prepped for a reply to the ring of 'same for you' softened to permit the furrow of her sharp brow. "Wow, you don't, ...like, look so good. Did the newbie keep you up all night?" Her profile came together as the light, valley girl voice fled her pink-painted lips.
Rogue shifted her weight back to her own gray-striped sock-wrapped feet with intent to cross the room and dress. A sustained groan was all she gave in the way of a reply to the bubbly brunette's question. At any rate, the disgruntled girl didn't get more than an inch away from the door before it bellowed open and popped her in the back of the head. The blow wasn't too hard but definitely had enough force to stir up Rogue's bitter spirits. The door stilled while she spun around, slightly bent with one hand to the back of her head. Taking the silvery knob, the girl threw open the port to behold the assailant.
"Speaka tha devil," she growled, sour-faced. There in the hall beyond the room stood a lad with a very figurative foot in the threshold between young man and too-old-for-high school. In more literal terms, he too was frazzled with the indications of sleep but carried the look as though hours of effort had been put forth. Earlobe-length, caramel-brown hair was tousled with one wide, tanned hand to present an impression of garish bewilderment.
"Sarry, sha." Like an experienced actor- or liar- he pressed impromptu sincerity into the apology. "T'ought dis waz de way to de cahbin."
A faint, squeaky, "say what?" rose from the still seated Kitty in the background.
Wild, large green eyes rolled in doubt of the excuse. "Tha cabin?" Rogue retorted impatiently.
Laughingly, he translated half-awake slang and bothered to enunciate, "de bat'rum."
A rigid hand leapt from the confines of the room to point a lavender nail-polished finger down the corridor. "These're dorms. Gerl's dorms. Go back ta yer own hall, idiot." And with that, Rogue swung back inside the room.
The Cajun got out all of, "but where's de-" before the door slammed shut in his face. A defeated sigh brushed over his well versed lips, and the young man turned to trek back down the hall. Such an air was unfitting of his tone and lanky stature, and as another group of girls strode by him, he resurrected a perfectly debonair demeanor.
Meanwhile, beyond closed doors, Rogue trudged to her wardrobe and changed clothes behind a modest standing screen. Her silhouette danced in the dim glow from the window on the adjacent wall as conversation was picked up.
"As if it's naht enough he's godda keep everyone up all nigh' movin' in, now he's bargin' inta arr bedrooms." She took her aggression out on a finicky zipper refusing to affix vest to torso.
Off-handedly, Kitty returned, "what, like, accent is that?"
"Junior hah school dropout," Rogue quipped.
"No, really."
"I dunno, whaddaya askin' me for?"
Apathy, probably incomprehensible to its user, tainted her bubbly laughter. "Of all the people here, you guys have, like, the closest sounding voices!"
"What?! We do naht sound alahk. Naht even a li'l. He's way more.. Ah'unno, southern Louisianan."
"Oh, yeah, definitely!" Perhaps a light bulb had gone off? "Like, New Orleans. I mean, Na'linns." A chipper grin brightened her features just as sudden realizations and recollections tended to do.
"Cajun?" Rogue reflected, straightening up behind the dressing screen. She drug her combat-boot clad feet to the long mirror and vanity to make up her face for the day. With eyes downcast in search for the right shade of purple eye shadow, Rogue stifled a light-hearted chuckle. "Ya, that sounds abou' righ'. Ah think Professor X said somethin' about tha bayou. So, he'sa swamp rat." That last part was uttered more to herself than to her roommate, but nevertheless Kitty burst into cheery giggling. The thought was cut short with a glance to the digital clock at the latter's bedside.
"Oh man, I'm late!" After grabbing up a few choice items, the valley girl darted out- no, through the door. Rogue put a slight rush on her morning routine with Kitty's words for inspiration. While the institute did offer a full repertoire of classes for children restricted to the estate, those able to attend the nearby public high school were obliged to leave around seven AM with older students able to drive. A good thirty minutes stood between then and now, but calculating in the stampede of hungry teens tearing apart the kitchen that still had to be tangoed with, Rogue anticipated a photo finish.
Right on track, Rogue shuffled down the steep steps of an obscure stairwell unused by most of the morning rushers just as a large group departed the breakfast dining area and headed for the nearest mansion exit. For those adventurous few who actually wanted to walk to school, leaving by any way other than the garage was just fine. For the porcelain-complected Mississippian, however, skipping about under an unforgiving sun was just stupid. There was the option of toting a parasol over one shoulder, but frankly she feared that'd look even worse than a tomato-red sunburn. Regardless, she was still quite sure she could bum a ride with the usual company Scott Summers took to school. That hope was smothered from a lively fire into a few glum embers upon realizing the popular senior wasn't in the nook nor the kitchen. In fact, it seemed just the nefarious Breakfast Club kids remained, along with the newest Xavier institute resident. How did fifteen minutes slip by just descending the stairs?
"Heeey, Rogue! You're up late. Or down late," energetically observed an older blonde girl perched quite unladylike on a stool at the kitchen counter. Her voice in particular stood out amongst the general ruckus mostly due to its tawdry pitch and content. One could easily speculate she grew up in a very stereotypical trailer park. Quite obvious from their position, she and the Cajun had been caught up in some kind of gossipy conference. Therefore, when her attention turned, so did his.
A fish out of water, Rogue slumped into a general, withdrawn and introverted state. When she spoke up it was with the pristine, expectant politeness used when addressing unpredictable strangers. "Uh, Tabitha, did Scott an' them leave already?" She specified the name to keep the second of the pair from piping up.
Impish contemplation was evident on the blonde's animated expression. One eye squinted and maroon-colored lips bunched up was the look she held for all of five seconds before drawing out, "I... thiiiiink soooo..." A pause gathered due to the malcontent caused. Before the goth could spin around and stomp off, Tabitha raised her voice again. "Hey! There's an open seat in the jeep, Rahne's out sick."
"When'da you guys leave?"
Sheepishly, Tabitha replied, "uhh.. seven thirty." Rogue's hapless nice-girl act dissolved with one unhappy huff. Reassuringly, the blonde tacked on with a flashed smile, "oh come on, one tardy slip ain't gonna hurt you any, girl."
Out of the blue, the Cajun interrupted, "Remy'll take ya'."
Rogue made a face. "Who?"
Promptly then, Tabitha collapsed onto the counter and buried a thoroughly painted face in her tanned, bracelet-covered arms. No one was able to speak while she howled with laughter. At length, when she'd composed herself and wiped comedy-provoked tears from her black-outlined eyes, the blonde provided airily, "he talks in third person, isn't that hilarious?" Residual, intermittent guffaws still shook her shoulders.
After weighing the pros and cons, not to mention lightly rolling her eyes at Tabitha's over-the-top amusement, Rogue reciprocated in an untrusting monotone. "Do ya even know tha way?"
With a mischievous brow quirked and a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, the young man replied, "Not far, no? It'z de leas' Remy can do to make up for earl'r." His dapper baritone complimented the girls' lighter pitched exchange, true to-the-rescue style. On second thought, the jauntiness he exuded had a lot to do with his ability to snatch up the hero's role in one fell swoop. A further demonstration of out-and-out confidence came in the form of his shoving off the kitchen counter, where his six foot or more self had been leaning over, to swagger out of the kitchen. In passing, a hand was prepped to nudge Rogue around but the girl swiftly dodged to the side. That same hand was held up, as though surrendering to the authorities without any remorse (and likely accompanied by a cheeky smile) as he proceeded toward the stairs. "Remy git de keys, den we off!"
Before he could dash away, Tabitha called after, teasing, "she's too young for you!" In the meantime, Rogue folded her arms tightly over her chest and watched narrowly as the young man disappeared. The clunk of his heavy, polished metal boots signaled his swift pace thereafter overhead.
"He doesn' plan on geddin lost in Bayville, huh? Ah bet it takes him thirdy minutes ta find his own room agen." At least no one else seemed to realize Rogue spoke to herself like this a lot. Tabitha sported more, this time controlled, snickering.
Gladly, Rogue's prediction had not become reality and five minutes later she was trailing the Cajun out the main doors. As if the risk of being late to first period didn't have her power-walking already, the shorter girl had to practically jog to keep up with Remy's quick stride. Her trek, however, soon stopped dead on the front walk. Her hesitation unnoticed, the young man pulled a batch of keys from his khaki trench coat and approached an impressively decorated motorcycle parked on the rim of the circular driveway. It was only after he'd shed that coat, stuffed it in a saddlebag, and kicked up the stand that he realized he was no longer being earnestly followed.
Remy's expression was now hidden behind a set of sheer black sunglasses to protect his disparate, red on black eyes from an unfeeling world. Still, when he turned to look, it was more than obvious he was searching for the girl as though she could have vanished into thin air. When her position became evident, he chose a simple phrase for encouragement. "You not afray, are ya?" His suspicion was genuine; if, that is, it could be estimated by voice alone. Even if she was, the self-described southern belle didn't even want to think what kind of stupid stunt he'd pull to slake her concerns. So, with a dramatically heaved, discontent sigh the girl trudged on over. As she did, Remy gave a breathless chuckle and straddled the black, leather seat. Selectively gloved fingers took the handlebars with casual prowess, and he steadied the bike so she could climb on.
More hesitation (as she stood imposing on his willfully shared personal space) was masked with a slightly furrowed, pale brow. To her benefit, the bike looked to be in good, working order. No matter how much time was spent on scrutinizing, though, the girl would feel no better around hanging onto the Cajun over the mile or so to school. "I've ridden bahkes before, swamp rat," she sniped, throwing a leg over the remainder of the elongated seat. Her balance was flawless. She managed to seat herself without laying a finger on her escort's tightly clothed body. True to her projection, however, the drive couldn't stay hands-off.
Begrudgingly, her covered hands fell over his shoulders. It seemed a little less outrageous than wrapping arms around his waist. Half-lidded eyes, meant to look uncaring and indifferent, swerved away from the driver and out onto the empty lawn. Simultaneously, Remy quietly laughed off the name calling and retaliated by releasing the reigns, seizing her hands (much to her surprise,) and pulling them around, what else, his waist. With some tooling, the girl eventually adopted a grip on his belt. It was all she could do to make him let go. "What kine'a bikes you ride, sha?" He taunted playfully over one shoulder, re-gripping the handlebars. "O' are you jus' not use to playin' passenja?"
It became apparent in the following seconds that Rogue didn't care to carry on the argument, so the engine spurred to life at the practiced turn of the key, twist of one hand, and press of the peddle. By no means was even the initial lean gentle. If he hadn't re-sorted her hands, Rogue likely would have been choking him by accident. The jolt to straighten up and then the subsequent jerk forward bargained a closer hold by the girl's cautious hands, and a less tentative lean into the driver. In the back of her mind, Rogue wondered whether or not he'd actually made it to the shower before. The flirtatious spice of his cologne overpowered the bike's unpleasant exhaust.
The actual road trip came in suit with its awkward start, although the lack of passive aggressive banter did make things a little easier. Only at breaking intervals, such as the main gate and stoplights, was there anymore conversation, and most of it had to do with which direction to take. Upon pulling up to the school, though, all those potholes and bumps they'd managed to avoid rapidly caught up. The roar of the motorcycle's approach and later purr of its idling attracted every pair of eyes on the lot, many of whom would spend the rest of the day gossiping about the devilishly handsome driver and whatever in the world he was doing giving rides to a weirdo sophomore like Rogue.
Speaking of, the southern girl was eager to dismount and reestablish her personal bubble. Her eyes never even flickered once to the courteous Cajun, instead they contented in a focused stare as she smoothed her trademark gloves and disheveled hair. As she turned on her heel, her away was interrupted. "Don' Remy gitta t'anks?" Without waiting, he tacked on reminder-style, "he drive all dis way jus' for you." It earned him a glimpse of her eyes, even if they were emphatically unimpressed.
"Yeah, whatever, thanks." And off she went, hastily, not daring to look back when the luscious hum of the motor cut off. Lucky for her, Remy wasn't in the mood to duck through school security merely to toy with her. Instead, he crossed his wrists and propped elbows on the bike's grip. Leisurely bent over the bars, he watched the girl stomp off. No one could see his devious eyes squint mirthfully as a lopsided grin crept across his face.
She wasn't late to class; nor did she risk missing anymore of Scott's carpools for the next few weeks. Time at the institute was spent as typically as possible, although a growing amount of tension was witnessed whenever the two southerners were in the same room. It became a game of cat and mouse, no matter how nonchalant or rubbery the mouse tried to be. Pent up emotions found their way into the world usually in the Danger Room. That is, extreme gym class for what the world had come to call 'mutants.' Here was the origin and credit for the Rogue's explicit equilibrium and grace. When it could go unnoticed, the harmless-looking southern belle used her physical talents against Remy. Several DR sessions reported 'INCAPACITATED' for 'Gambit' due to 'friendly fire' or 'cover fault,' much to his chagrin. Counterpoint to her strategy, it was Remy that leapt to Rogue's rescue faster and more willingly than anyone else in the war against holographic robots, lasers, and all-out apocalyptic disaster. While this plot did capture her undivided attention on several occasions, it also had the drawback of lengthy after-session lectures by institute staff. This was especially the case after placing either trainee on opposite teams only to have the young man abruptly defect and save his enemy from an attack she could have easily dodged! Despite insistence from Charles Xavier himself, the situation was only remedied by scheduling their classes separately; and moreover, purposefully CO-OPing them when entire team sessions were called.
The attention the two seemed to demand, they were given. Choice couples throughout the manor were hazed and mocked, and certainly enough Rogue and Remy got their fair share. If anything good came out of her relationship with the young man, it was the girl's envy and ensuing mimic of his insouciance in the face of relentless jokes, jingles, and general testament to how terrible kids can be. So many of the staff had told him to 'grow up,' it had surprised Rogue when his age had officially come out. In any case, she attributed all that self-esteem to experience and maturity and thoughtlessly strove for the same transcendence. She smirked, she narrowed her eyes, and it all rolled off without her appearing stuck up or snobbish. Of course, when Remy noticed the absence of her sullen frowns and disgruntled expressions, that nonchalant tactic didn't save Rogue from his smug, wicked eyes.
Spring showers, may flowers, and a really crowded recreation room. A wide television perched on a rolling cart stood (an undeniable magnet for youthful, impressionable eyes) in front of hazy windows. Light played across the darkened walls as the screen switched from one channel to the next, or fluxed between scenes of a particular show. Popular opinion stationed the frequency on cartoons the majority of the time, which Rogue found very little enjoyment in. Regardless, there she sat, slumped into a chair before the set with her knees bent up and head leaned in the crook of the arm and backrest. The sound of crisply shuffling cards was like nails on a chalkboard.
Wood and metal crafted together made a sturdy table, lucky for the group gathered around it as Tabitha persisted in leaning, shoving, or sitting on the thing. Other rambunctious teens carried on the same way, sitting backwards in chairs surrounding the surface, waiting for the next deal. Every once-around the table, a hoopla rose from that corner of the room as the players hollered unnecessarily loudly for Remy's attention. Accidental distraction was probably far from the truth. Rogue refused to look his way, but surely she heard the commotion and knew whyfor the group became rebellious when the dealer's chip landed in front of the Cajun.
"Dis a good show, no?" He poorly, shamelessly excused.
"You ain't watchin' the cartoons!"
"Get your mind out of the gutter."
"Get your hand out of your pants!" They fought amongst each other, played off each other's punch lines, and eventually the game went on. After the tenth round, though, it became obvious the concept was no longer abating their boredom. Therefore, when a pleasant hush fell over the crowd, the explanation was far from predictable.
"I.." A voice unlike the rest. It didn't conform and melt into the din, it split the soundscape down the center and divided it into separate, refined parts. "I am supposed to find a tour guide?" Masculine yet alto, for a boy anyway, an undeniably clean of drawl, lisp, or taint. He spoke the language woodenly, like a narrator on audiocassette that struggles to deny the twist put on words by various dialects and accents. Contrary to the sound, his look was quite outspoken and personal, as several house-dwellers judged the young man standing in the rec room's wide threshold. A soft gray, like that of an old man, colored his long, emo-styled hair, but the youth could be no older than sixteen given the immature look of his pallid face. Matching eyes stared into the open room littered with lazing kids. Most glaring, however, was the assortment of baggy, grayscale, flamboyantly patterned clothes, mesh fabric, and plastic and metal accessories- including polished, long fingernails.
While most of the room was muttering 'new freakzoid on campus' there was but one amiable hand reaching out. "At yo' service, mon ami." The grin he offered was ruined by some unbelieving spirit that had the gall to flick a poker chip at the Cajun. A fluttering of thrown cards and monopoly money was, again, interrupted by the stranger. (my friend)
"Tu t'appelles comment?" (You are called how? What is your name?)
Some smartass chimed in, "voulez vous coucher avec moi?" Cue uproarious laughter. (would you like to sleep with me? - lyric from the song Lady Marmalade.)
"Qu'est que tu fais?" (What do you do?)
"Fais?" (Do?)
"Pourquoi es-tu ici?" (Why are you here?)
"Co faire pas?" Remy's flippant reply was lost on the gray kid's understanding. (Why not?)
"You guys are talking about me, aren't cha," Tabitha broke in and ended the foreign conversation, and she was praised for it by numerous on-lookers.
"I am Minus," announced the newcomer to the room after a brief pause.
"Tabitha," submitted the babbly blonde with two raised fingers for regard.
"Plus," came from some other teen at the table. They were promptly jabbed in the side. Sputtered laughter and an off-shoot dialogue picked up in the background.
Meanwhile, the Cajun, who had gone silent, pressed a bare index finger to a poker chip and slid it across the table toward himself. With a sideward glance to affirm Minus' attention, a translucent, magenta flame burst up around the plastic disc. Wrestling teens stilled for all of five seconds. Careful concentration stared down at the chip from all angles, especially Remy's. Then, fluidly, he drew back his hand and let it fall on limply on his knee. Silence. Then pop! the chip hopped nearly a foot in the air and then fell, charcoaled, to click and flutter on the table's top before gravity rendered it motionless again.
Eyes like saucers and thoroughly dazed, Minus replied, "awesome."
"No powers in the house!" One of the teens shouted tauntingly. The fake tattletale was then tackled and the scuffle-game continued. Further damage was done to that chip in the following minutes. First frozen, then thawed and melted into an ambiguous puddle, the utterly destroyed by one of Tabitha's smaller, demo bombs. A feral growl was contributed by a shape shifter, a sparkler's worth of firelight splayed from the snap of one girl's finger and thumb, and another levitated in empty air for a few seconds. Indications were given about more volatile abilities, such as one boy's split-able visage, another's solar power; and various, exaggerated descriptions were provided for the extraordinary traits of the institute's staff. For each, Minus voiced brave wonderment and admiration.
Of all the people in the room, there was but one that hadn't spoken up yet.
"Hey you, what do you do?"
Rogue, who had been watching since the first lull in chaos, gave a bitter, devious smirk. With legs swung out, the girl pushed herself out of the chair and sauntered to the table. On her way, she removed one glove, and that bare hand was held (at a safe distance) threateningly at the new kid. "If Ah were ta touch you, you'd black out and prob'ly go inta a coma."
Minus didn't even flinch. "Wow," he droned, completely star struck and punch drunk. When he moved, it wasn't to steal a few cautious steps back but rather to glance back around the room at everyone. "Man, you guys are so lucky. I would sell my soul to do anything like what you all do."
"It's naht lucky," the latest demonstrator snapped.
Minus spun around and practically glowed with all the jealousy in the world. "But you are! My gift is so lame, I will never be able to do anything really important with it. It is absolutely useless."
"You should be grateful though," Tabitha cut in. "There are a lot of people here that would give up their powers just to be like everyone else."
Not willing to dwell on a topic like that, Rogue dismissed the subject and pressed another. "What is yer power anyway?"
Minus leapt on the chance to prove his point, and the ego for it showed. "May I?" He asked politely, although he didn't exactly wait for a reply before lightly pinching Rogue's re-gloved index finger. Then, swinging around (still holding onto the southern girl in that dainty way,) the young man's lively gaze darted around the room. Decidedly, he reached to grab a water bottle on the edge of the table. Probably due to guilt of its tainted contents, Remy attempted to intercept, and succeeded. Prying at the Cajun's hands with his one helped Minus none, but soon after the younger was able to touch the plastic with one flexible finger. Bafflement blossomed over the gray kid's face as he glanced between Rogue's glove and the taken bottle. Impatiently, Rogue jerked her hand back. "That is odd... I-" was all Minus got out before a frightful scream shattered the peace. Every pair of eyes in the place shot to Rogue.
Her straight posture was ruined by a slight, tense, forward bend that angled her emerald-colored eyes downward. The girl's arms were turned up with her elbows at her sides, the perfect poise for staring, horrified, at her own hands. Those gloves. That magenta aura.
Chairs fell violently back and to the floor as students stood and scrambled away from the table. Minus was frozen in his place not two feet away from the girl while Remy stood at attention, leaned over the tabletop, with one hand outstretched instructively. "Concentra', Rogue!" Of course, collective shouts and screams chewed away at his voice. A quick, booming, "shut up!" drove enough shock into the surrounding kids that they did as were told. Again, "Focuz an' slow down. Pi'ture cold. Dark. Still." He went on with various euphemisms until, thankfully, the flickering, ghostly flame evaporated. She was shaking, and though some good, noble hearts stood in the audience, no one dared embrace her lest they suffer the fate her hands nearly had. The only person who had risked life and limb for her, at least virtually, before had other things on his mind. The sudden jolt of movement and sound was like an earthquake to her already rattled nerves, and the girl sunk to her knees and rear end on the carpet. It was a shame she was so preoccupied- seeing Minus dangling from his collar two feet off the ground probably would have lightened her spirits a little.
"You nearly kill ev'ry person in dis room, you know dat?"
"It is really hard to take you seriously when you talk like that," Minus tittered.
"Das all you have to say fa' you'self?!"
The gray kid waved his hands in emphatic forfeit. "I only meant to turn her glove into plastic and the bottle into fabric! I am a catalyst! It is not supposed to happen with people!"
"Jesus, Remy, let him down!"
Instead, the Cajun demanded, "fix her!"
By then, Minus had processed what the blasphemer had and he ceased his mild struggling. At least someone had paid attention during chemistry. If the gray kid could have gone paler, he would have.
"Remy, if she has your powers, then you have hers! Put him down, don't touch him!"
And so, responsibility fell on Remy as it had on Rogue moments before. Slowly, though his sharp, demonic stare never relented, he lowered the shorter young man and released his hold. It was lucky there'd been no skin-to-skin contact in grabbing him up.
"Fix it," Remy repeated caustically.
"Fix it?" Minus echoed whilst straightening his shirt. A glance swung to the severely startled girl on the floor before pinning fiercely back on the demander. "I do not even know how it happened in the first place, how am I supposed to fix it?"
"The professor," rasped someone, and then they sprinted out of the room and down the hall.
Those eyes, so unusual and now so uncharacteristically hateful, could have burned a hole through anybody, but Minus stood strongly. "Den you bedda figure it out, quick."
"Are you kidding? I cannot do anything right now. It would be like trying to hold onto a heated-up frying pan with your bare hands! Too many molecules jumping around way too fast, I just cannot do it!"
"Are you okay Rogue?" Tabitha finally ventured. The goth was wobbling to her feet.
"Peachy," was growled in return. The malice was for the ashen young man at whom she stared. "Yer lucky Ah'm use' ta gettin otha people's pow'rs." And just like that, Minus became public enemy number one in the eyes of all present.
"You are?"
"Duh, why do you think people black out when she touches them?" Someone spat. Minus' gaze wavered between that speaker and Rogue.
"That is probably why it got messed up, then," he explained calmly. "You should have told me that, I would not have used you."
Remy would have none of it. "Don' go shovin' de blame on her, dis your fault, Tee."
"Did you just call me Tea?" Even if the remark hadn't been mumbled, no mind would have been paid. A faint sound was whirring in the background of their conversation, and now it became undeniably obvious that a new presence loomed in the rec room's archway.
"Might I speak to you three in my office?" Though voiced like a question, the humbling insistence in the institute founder's tone asserted solid obligation. At first glimpse, the man (likely over fifty years old, though remarkably healthy-looking) seated in a polished, metal, motorized chair did not seem much of a power. In this case, as was the same for the whole mansion, appearances were deceiving. Minus took his cues from the other residents and showed the utmost respect. "As for the rest of you," Charles Xavier went on to say in a composed, stern voice, "house rules are to be upheld. You're all to go, now, to the atrium to meet with miss Monroe."
A collective sigh of "yes, professor," was breathed, and then the majority of the room shuffled out. After giving the remaining Rogue, Remy, and Minus an equally firm look, the older man's hand pressed a key on the arm of his chair. That gentle whirring kicked up again.
There was yet one more facet of the newcomer's mutation to surprise the institute, and it was discovered during the lengthy lecture upstairs. He was an unchangeable middleman through and through, and evidentially invulnerable to Xavier's mental probing, or at least most of it. Therefore, it was only the sixteen-year-old's doggedness that assured he was telling the truth.
"I am really, really sorry! I am sure I will be able to fix it.. someway!"
Somehow, it took the other two residents aback when Xavier replied, "calm down, it's alright. We are not so unused to people with trouble controlling their abilities. This is a school, after all."
"Professor!" Rogue and Remy yelped in unison.
"You are not going to throw me out?"
"No, that would be a very terrible thing to do," the founder declared. "This place is a sanctuary, and its doors are open to any and all. That is, as long as they adhere to our rules and put no one in danger. Things could have ended very badly downstairs." His sweeping glance tapered off between the two southerners. "It's a good thing teamwork prevailed in this instance." In the awkward silence thereafter, Rogue passed a scrutinizing glance on the Cajun, huffed, and threw her gaze back on the floor. Perfectly white bangs curtained around her pale face.
At the conclusion of the meeting, Minus received a very official, very meaningless warning. Since he was already on probation as a new recruit, there wasn't any higher for him to be placed on the spectrum of wary rankings. He was then dismissed to locate the other delinquents where ever Ororo Monroe had sent them as penalty for their misbehavior. The remaining pair of young mutants stayed in the office for psychic evaluation and a spontaneous training session to ward off slip-ups with unpracticed powers. Lastly, they too were stacked with additional chores to make up for their misconduct as per using violent abilities in the house.
One couldn't describe the rest of the day in the house as difficult, per se. It was different in a familiar way- or the same in an unfamiliar one.
Remy LeBeau, as the Xavier file called him, had his mind made up not to be disheartened or fearful of what the near or far future would bring. This led to a lack of caution, or at least the over-the-top prudence people were used to seeing from Rogue. Once the socialite centerpiece to practically all raucous fun in the mansion, the Cajun found himself sporting a ten foot (in diameter) void around his person. No one dared get too close to the usually very physical young man, despite the fact it hadn't even really been proven he'd obtained the Rogue's indiscriminate powers of absorption. Bonds and friendships weren't broken due to the change, but some were strained over the distance (the Xavier girls, especially) kept. More chummy comrades avoided touchy subject matter, too. It was becoming painfully obvious that, even if he was the most determined, self-assured male on the face of the earth, this annoyance was not going to simply bounce off a steely resolve. Bottled frustrations flared around the image of the Catalyst, as Minus had come to be codenamed. In short, Remy's decided plan was to avoid the boy altogether.
On the contrary, the Cajun's feelings toward Rogue, as she practiced and toyed with Gambit's kinetic influence, were mixed. There was something discomforting about watching someone else use something of one's own without asking, particularly since Rogue didn't need to ask. However, it was Rogue. That sulky girl that didn't even know the feeling of a simple hug or the shake of her hand now, though flinchingly, tapped fingers with peers infected with the southern belle's contagious excitement. Shuddered laughter tickled each participant's throat as they contacted, and then they'd quickly jerk back their hands as bravery waned. A second or two was added each new go until the other students became confident it was for real. Rogue was much more hesitant to believe, and that resulted in her being chased about the front parlor in the midst of disciplinary cleaning. Even when Ororo drifted by the door to check on the progress, the sight brought a warm smile to her face.
"Maybe.. de girl needda break," he remarked quietly. No, he wasn't referring to chores. For this reason, Remy was doubly diligent in appearing unfazed with the sudden turn of events. After all, how long could it last?
Off-putting, though, was Minus' enjoyment in Rogue's newfound freedom. It would seem the doer of deeds didn't have the right to smile as silver-linings made themselves apparent, but he did anyway. In fact, he carried on as though nothing had even occurred. Obviously, anyone in his shoes would want to put a mistake like that in the past and leave it there. The majority of institute residents didn't hold a grudge that long, fortunately for him.
Usually Rogue wasn't lumped in with that bunch of live-and-learners, but how could she be mad at him? What'd she expect him to say: 'sorry for giving you what you've always wanted?' The only bad spirits in her stirred when her eyes slipped over Remy's lonesome self. She felt, disgusted to admit it, sorry for him. This is what the world calls empathy, but Rogue refused to let a few feelings of ridiculous guilt change her perception of the smug, incorrigible Cajun.
By contrast, dinner was quite awkward. Normally Rogue was in no hurry to make it down for mealtimes, but tonight she found herself breezing into the cafeteria with a group of housemates. It surprised her to see the place temporarily empty. She'd never been first to dine. In any case, this is what started the trouble. In the southern belle's neglect of routine, she gave up her choice of who she wanted to sit with- or rather, who she preferred to sit with her. Remy stole the chair beside her not five minutes after she'd settled down with her plate. The towering, dark wall rising just behind their chairs hung a pressing, almost claustrophobically trapped sensation over the girl's head.
"Mo cha-" his hand moved fluidly over his mouth to wipe away an automatic, incomprehensible language. "What happen' to dat merry face o' yours, sha?" Well, that did nothing to earn said 'merry face' back. Rogue pressed her lips and studied the young man over, contemplating being nice for once. In the end, she resolved to compromise.
"Wha' does that mean, anyway? Sha."
"Sha?" He took up a deeper, cleaner accent. "C'est chère." (It's)
"Like the singer?"
"Say-Ach-Ih-Air-Ih." He traced invisible letters on the tablecloth.
By this time, other nearby students were curiously eavesdropping on the crude French lesson. Someone produced stationery and scribbled the word. It was offered to Remy and he sternly shook his head and demanded the pen. The helpful peer balked initially at the Cajun's out stretched hand, but at length (and before Remy's red on black eyes could glance up at the delay) he was handed the utensil. After scratching out the first spelling, he scrawled in his own bold, curvy, tall lettering: C-H-È-R-E. It was tried on several tongues while Tabitha inquired, "what's it mean?"
"It is a term of endearment," Minus announced as he placed himself adjacent to Rogue on the other side of the table. With a precocious look of half-lidded eyes and an arched brow, he explained, "like . . . precious, dear." The audience sniggered all around, Rogue loudly huffed and centered a dismayed stare on her plate, and Remy's suave, unabashed expression pinned on Minus. "You are not from France, are you?"
"How'd ja guezz?" It was practically an insult, as though that fact had been blaringly obvious from the start.
"Canada?"
"Louisiana." His voice formed the word rather musically.
"Oh," Minus observed with a plain, understanding nod. "That explains a lot." The table fell silent for a second after the boy's not-so-polite (if one read between the lines) comment. That was, until Rogue failed to contain her laughter any longer. The rest of the kids quickly joined in, sans Minus, and Remy propped an elbow on the table and twisted toward Rogue.
"Mais, at leas' you're smilin' again."
"So, what does Tee mean?" interrupted Minus expectantly.
"Petit," replied Remy sharply, enunciating the last syllable: 'tee.' (little/junior)
"Touché. You are Acadian, huh."
His patience was impeccable but wear-and-tear was beginning to show. "Ouais." (yeah)
Thankfully, Tabitha cut in, "where are you from, Hoary?"
"Jersey," Minus replied humbly without looking up from where he twiddled with his silverware.
"New Jersey?"
"De isle," Remy corrected. Eyes alight like tinsel, he observed, "das why he talk so rigidly."
"English is a difficult language," he submitted with a meek grin. "I am not so great with informals. Je préférerais parler la Français." (I would prefer to speak French.)
"Aucune chance, Remy, il est le seul l'un." (No luck, Remy, he is the only one.)
"Nous devons enseigner une classe!"(We should teach a class!)
"Stooooop it," nearby Tabitha whined. "Speak American!" Taunting of her choice of words followed fast. The ensuing pandemonium only, briefly, faltered when one student pushed out her chair, stood, and marched off. Remy, who had neglected fetching food in the first place, leapt up and trailed her into the main hall after the girl had left her plate in the respective cradle.
"Don' folla me, swamp rat," Rogue called over her shoulder.
He excused flawlessly, "Remy jus' happen' ta be headed dis way, sha." A few quick, long strides and he'd caught up to her; at which point he tapped a bare finger on her covered, right shoulder and dodged around to the girl's left side. She had to do an entire about-face to find him again.
"Are you crazeh, Cajun?" The girl barked, cupping the offended shoulder with her opposing hand. "Yer not suppose' ta touch enyone, remembah?! Put some gloves on fer cryin' out loud."
"Don' worry sha, Remy's carefu'. No harm done, eh?"
Apparently so. "Ah waz careful an' still a lotta people got hert. Ah lived with those pow'rs fer years, therefore Ah know what Ah'm talkin' about!"
"Okay, okay," he surrendered, weaving his hands behind his back. "Since de fille iz so adama't."
"Wouldja quit with tha French already? It's rude when nobody knows what yer talkin' about."
He grinned. "Remy give you private lessons if ya like." In response, vibrant green eyes were rolled. Rogue huffed loudly, spun, and stomped off toward the stairs. "Pour marcher! Monter! Partir!" He narrated her leave brokenly. "Mon Dieu. Whadda har'breaker." (To walk! Climb! Leave! My God.)
Author's Notes - Some things I wanted to comment on upon retrospection.
Before the goth could spin around and stomp off, Tabitha raised her voice again. "Hey! There's an open seat in the jeep, Rahne's out sick."
Does Tabitha even have a jeep? She stole Lance Alvers' a few times during the series, so I'd think not. However, in Day of Reckoning she drives the jeep to Xavier's institute. In the episode previous (The HeX Factor) Mystique ousted Tabby from the house and she was observed walking away. As far as the jeep being at the Brotherhood house later, I have no idea. Anybody?
Thankfully, Tabitha cut in, "where are you from, Hoary?"
"Jersey," Minus replied humbly without looking up from where he twiddled with his silverware.
I don't think anybody'll catch me on this, but I'll come clean anyway! In Jersey, the "native" language (becoming extinct now, as I understand) is Jèrriais, "Norman French." Given modern-day standings, a person coming from Jersey would probably speak fluent English, including informals and slang. And they might not even speak French like Minus does. Heh heh. I'll allege that Minus grew up in the rural countryside to keep things straight, though that's really got nothing to do with this story.