The Second Origin
Trigger warning: for bullying, including homophobic/misogynistic slurs and unwanted sexual advances.
1: Lost
For Rogue, the problem was everything. The way he talked, the way he moved, the space he occupied. One day he was "too feminine" and the next he was "overcompensating." His hair was too long; he stared at other boys too much; his red eyes were creepy. Shadow magic was strange and evil, and dragons didn't exist.
Rogue was just a problem to other people.
Mostly they jeered at him across the guildhall—the other kids waiting to be old enough to join Phantom Lord. Master Jose only let those sixteen and older into the guild to maintain its reputation, but the young wizards who dreamt of joining could sit in the hall and stare in awe at their betters.
Rogue was always staring at Gajeel Redfox. Nobody ever told him dragons weren't real: Gajeel would beat their face into a new shape. He had respect, and power. Rogue wanted to be like that one day.
Untouchable.
But Rogue never drew Gajeel's attention to himself. Especially after he witnessed what Gajeel did to those who bothered him. Rogue was more comfortable in shadow anyway, out of sight, a wallflower.
Unlike most people, darkness never scared Rogue: it was out in the open that things went wrong.
The first time a kid shoved him for being different, for instance. Middle of the guildhall, middle of the day. Rogue shoved back, someone else pushed him from behind, and then Rogue was getting knocked around this way and that.
Before he could process what was happening, the kids moved on, laughing.
Gajeel glanced over at the boys' noise. His eyes locked on Rogue for a split second, lip curling down in a bored sneer.
Rogue couldn't have been more humiliated.
Later, Rogue found the other kids' leader and challenged him to a fight in the back alley.
Followed by all his friends, the boy came. He had a cocky grin before they started, squaring off with fists raised, ringed by jeerers telling Rogue he smelled, he dressed like a freak, his hair was an eyesore.
Ignoring them, Rogue aimed, lunged, and punched the gang's leader in the jaw. The boy flew backward into the wall.
He got up to retaliate, but Rogue hit him again, and a third time, cornering him against the brick. The young Dragon Slayer knew how to throw a punch: those bruises would hurt for days.
But as Rogue tried to step away, a fist crashed into his shoulder. The other boys mobbed him: someone took him to the ground, where someone else kicked him so hard he heard the bones in his arm break. Kicks dug into his stomach, his nose, his legs.
Rogue curled in a ball with his hands over his face.
It finally ended, the kids leaving Rogue to huddle wordlessly in the alley cradling his wounds.
From then on, they pushed him whenever they saw him. They'd be crossing the hall, always in their little group, and pass Rogue on the way, surrounding him for a brief moment and shoving him hard before continuing on. It was never an all-out fight—never enough to get reprimanded: just a shove, or a foot slipping out to trip him.
If anyone else saw, the boys claimed it was an accident. They smiled innocently. Nobody knew.
Nobody ever saw Rogue. As a person, he was invisible, not worth the time.
Though he still lurked in the Phantom guildhall religiously watching the Iron Dragon, he was smarter about avoiding the gazes of his peers. Sinking into corners, going in and out through back doors, blending into the scenery. Rogue was an alley kid, and fitting in like a chameleon came with the territory.
When the other kids did notice him and brought their inevitable tortures, he never pushed back, afraid to escalate things. To be accused of causing the ruckus. It was his fault for existing. His fault for being this way.
He knew if he didn't fight back, it couldn't get any worse than the insults and bruises. If he didn't fight back, he couldn't get in trouble.
And he wouldn't have to fear losing control. Skiadrum always taught him to be calm and let go of his ego if he wanted to be one with the shadows and use their power. When he'd tried to without control once, the shadows had devoured him. He couldn't see and couldn't breathe and couldn't hear, even though he knew he was screaming. There was pain, but he had no body. Finally the darkness spat him out, cut up and bleeding, and he remembered nothing until waking up curled between Skiadrum's claws with the dragon's breath ghosting over his face.
It wasn't til later he found out his father had ripped him out of the shadows by force. Skiadrum had almost seemed scared when he told Rogue this. Rogue never again acted out of uncontrolled rage.
Even though he had plenty to spare.
Anger was his constant friend, present when he woke up behind a convenient dustbin and present when he left Phantom Lord in the evening with the day's taunts curling through his mind.
Redeyes. Stupid. Clumsy. Demonic. Do you see the way he stares at that older boy? Homo. Troublemaker. Nasty. He wants people to put their dicks in his mouth.
One day, he would be strong like Gajeel Redfox. He wouldn't need anyone to see him, or save him, or stand up for him. He'd be a force to be reckoned with.
No one would treat him like this. He'd live alone and scare off anyone who came near.
Rogue faded ever more into the background, became a master at slipping away from people. His time at Phantom Lord became something fraught with anxiety; it was okay he couldn't find enough food most days, because he couldn't eat much anyway.
Secretly, he began following Phantom's older mages out on missions. It got him out of the city and took him to new places where he could steal without being recognized.
Watching the guild wizards, he memorized every move. The timing of every attack. Later, alone in the woods, he practiced on trees and bushes, wanting to be like them, to be lauded for helping the weak and saving whole villages.
As he wandered back from one such training session, sun fading, exhilaration had him smiling for once, despite the hunger gnawing at his insides. He'd tried something new with his magic and succeeded—first try.
He almost dared to hope he'd gotten better in the years since Skiadrum's passing. He could hardly remember those days, but this was proof he'd improved at least a little.
The smell tickled his senses with familiarity and his head jerked up. Them. Only a few meters ahead—he'd been too distracted to notice.
Glancing around, Rogue sought an escape route, but they'd snuck around and surrounded him, the whole group of eight or nine kids. He couldn't punch his way out.
He prayed he didn't have to. Prayed they only taunted him and moved on. If he took it without fighting, they might not try to hit him.
"You're not going to ask what we want?" the leader asked.
"Don't bother. He never talks back," another kid answered.
"He's too stupid to understand."
A few laughs.
Fists shaking, Rogue tried to keep his hands at his side. They outnumbered him. He could not. Could not start a fight. Back here in the dirty streets of Oak Towns's ghetto, nobody would come if he screamed.
"Rooogue," the leader said, singsong. "Sounds like a freak name. Like your parents didn't love you; they knew you'd turn out the loser type, and here you are. Living up to your name, Rogue."
Titters of laughter. Rogue didn't look up, couldn't meet those brown eyes. He was shaking too much. Breathing deep, he watched their feet, waiting for one to lunge.
"Rogue, Rogue."
"Sounds kind of like a girl's name."
More laughs.
"I bet he's actually a girl."
"Yeah, I bet she only dresses like a loser-boy because she doesn't know any better."
Someone stepped toward him. Rogue's spine tingled, body shaking. But nobody took a swing at him. They were still just talking.
"That would explain the weird clothes. Always in black," their leader sneered.
"You don't have fashion sense either, Yuichi," one of the kids pointed out.
"That's because I'm not a fag!" Yuichi took a step, everyone else following. They were closing in now, closer, inside Rogue's space. Warning constricted over his skin. "Wanna see if Rogue is really a boy?"
A few laughs, but nobody answered. Rogue chanced a look up through his hair: Yuichi was looking around the circle with his lazy grin.
"I mean, it's easy to check," Yuichi said.
"Yeah," someone spoke up, catching on. "Yeah, better check, Yuichi."
As the herd affirmed him, Yuichi snickered and moved closer. Rogue was ready to duck. Everything in his body was stiff with fear. His brain seemed to process every moment at high-speed.
He was so focused on Yuichi, he didn't noticed the arms grabbing him from behind. Nails dug into his neck and arm and Rogue struggled, staying silent on instinct from so many years avoiding attention. His thrashing earned him a free arm, but someone was already leaning forward. Reaching.
He had a horrible moment registering what they were about to do.
Yuichi seized his junk through the front of his pants and yanked hard.
Rogue shouted as agony burst over him. Going weak in his captor's arms, his body begged him to make it stop, gods, please. He was only vaguely aware of someone slipping a hand down the back of his pants to pinch his buttocks. His balls felt like they'd been ripped in half.
The hands let go and Rogue curled in on himself, falling to the ground dry-heaving. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. Pulsing, throbbing, the world white with pain.
"Guess you are just a fag," Yuichi said above him. "Too bad you're not a girl. I like girls, you know? You wouldn't be a total loss."
Rogue swallowed down the cries in his throat. He was in too much agony to do anything. Best not to cry. Don't let them see him cry. They would end him if they saw any sign of emotion.
"Next time," he heard someone mutter, "let's get him hard before we do that."
"Ew, you think I'm some kind of homo? I'm not touching another guy's junk that way."
"You don't have to touch him. He's a fag: he's probably hard just staring at us. Probably had all sorts of dark, creepy dreams about you, Yuichi."
"That's disgusting!" Yuichi spat back.
There was a scuffle, the half-hearted kind, but it was followed by a vicious kick to Rogue's side.
Rogue gasped. He was lighter than air. If it was possible to be outside one's body, then that's where he was. He couldn't feel anymore. There was so much pain that his mind shut down and the only thought in his head was the detached question of whether he would fall unconscious before the pain in his balls shredded him into tiny pieces.
A few more lazy kicks knocked him back and forth, one jarring his head against a dustbin. They laughed at the crashing sound it made, joked about his hollow head.
Then they were leaving, voices receding down the alley as Rogue's ragged breaths sawed in and out.
"Yuichi-san," someone said, and the honorific made Rogue sneer, "where are we going for food tonight?"
"First," Yuichi replied, "we find Master Jose and tell him we found the punk who tore down the sigil."
Tore down the… No! Gods, no. Someone had vandalized Phantom Lord last week and ripped their symbol off the front of the guildhall. Who was that stupid, Rogue had no clue. Gajeel had terrorized the town looking for the culprit.
If they told Master Jose it was Rogue's doing, he wouldn't just be barred from joining Phantom Lord: Gajeel Redfox would personally beat the shit out of him. Rogue wasn't sure he would survive. Usually he was confident his magic could keep him out of trouble, but against another Dragon Slayer, older and more skilled and, well, Gajeel, he might as well slit his own throat. Master Jose might even order Gajeel to kill him. A lesson to others.
It wasn't like anyone cared about him.
Rogue wished he'd never tumbled out of whatever womb abandoned him to this world. But survival was an instinct. He wouldn't let them turn Gajeel on him.
"No," he croaked, as the boys' footsteps reached the end of the alley. He could not let them get away. As loudly as his raw throat could, he shouted, "Come back—fuckers!"
The footsteps halted.
It took everything he had to move past the pain in his genitals and stand. It made him feel sick and dizzy and he would've vomited if he'd eaten lately. Dragging himself up against the brick wall, he glared at Yuichi with all the venom he could muster.
What did Rogue have? Nothing. Nothing to lose.
"Look at this cocksucker, begging for more," Yuichi said, ambling back to him as the others crowded around the alley mouth.
Rogue's nose was bleeding, but the real problem was that one of his ankles was twisted. He wouldn't be able to stand on his own.
Hands on the wall, Rogue felt the shape of something long and angular behind him and grabbed hold. A stick of wood.
"You look awful," Yuichi said, stopping a couple meters away. "Although I guess that's nothing new."
Laughter. Rogue knew the sound of those jeers by heart.
"You really want more of this?" Yuichi asked, forming a fist. His expression was regretful, like he was offering Rogue a chance and Yuichi didn't want to hurt him.
"Just try, bitch," Rogue coughed, with far more strength than he had.
With an incredulous chuckle, Yuichi lunged.
Rogue brought the piece of wood around and drove it between Yuichi's legs.
The boy shrieked, shattering the silence into agonized sound. Crashing sideways, Yuichi curled around himself just as Rogue had done, howling and cradling himself. While he writhed, the other kids started down the alley.
Mindless fury taking over, Rogue hefted his stick.
He tripped the first one and got the next in the head. The piece of wood was like any attack: stay loose, aim, control your body.
On the other hand, that assumed your body was fully-functioning. When a third kid's fist swung for his face, Rogue barely managed to bash his side. On his next swing, he put magic behind it despite the risks. With the strength of shadows, he managed to knock the kid hard into the dustbin. The kid stayed down.
The world was spinning around him now. His body couldn't handle this: he was too beat up already, blood leaking from his face, his balls screeching at every move.
"You little shit." There were two—no, three?—closing in together. "You think it's funny to get other guys in the nuts? It gets your little faggoty prick off?"
"You are never living this down, Rogue. Never. I hope you know that."
The boy's repulsed sneer embedded itself in Rogue's brain: the face of hatred.
Rogue tried to swing his makeshift sword, but had it wrenched from his hands instead. That jerked him from the wall and he fell to his knees. His arms flew up—knowing what came next. He caught a glimpse of his stick coming for his head and tried to ward off the blow, but the wood crashed into him and pushed jet-black pain through his face.
It knifed through the bridge of his nose; searing pain exploded through his right eye and his nose pressed back into his brain. Liquid slid over his tongue. Breathing became difficult, like his airways were collapsing. Rogue was yelling and the pain wasn't stopping.
He had to get away. Had to, or they would kill him.
When a fist collided with his skull, Rogue dropped into the shadows.
Disappearing felt even easier than normal: his body wanted to sink down and vanish. Peace settled over him as he flew away down the alley. Maybe this was what dying felt like. Soaring and tranquility. It reminded him of flying tucked up between Skiadrum's horns.
As he slid over the stony ground, the boys vanished from his senses. He would go far, far away. The shadows would devour him. He would join Skiadrum. Dragon souls and human souls surely went to the same place at the end. Maybe death was the shadows; maybe he'd be here forever, unified with his element.
Sleep crept into his brain like the inexorable march of twilight. He was exhausted from pain. He didn't even have a proper body and everything hurt. The world looked flatter than it should: he couldn't see out of one eye. Terrifying sensations pulsed in his broken nose, threatening to split his face in two.
The shadows, like everything else in his life, rejected him. They spat him out under an unfamiliar hedge, and Rogue surveyed the narrow, deserted street where he lay. Nothing but rubbish and debris and one other homeless kid further down, curled asleep under the bushes. They looked grimy and malnourished, just like him, which meant they'd have no interest in him.
Greenery poked his ear and pricked his skin as he crawled under the hedge, but he was too worn down to care. At least the plants provided shelter.
In the stillness, the weight of his limbs dragged at him. He could feel the blood sliding down his face. Warm; viscous. His nose pushed backward into his head, and this was bad, bad.
He didn't remember anything more.
A/N: The Dragon Slayers don't get motion sickness because they're currently too young.
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