A/N: This is wildly AU. As in: The X-Men don't exist. There was a strong anti-mutant movement, which resulted in a war, which resulted in a decimated America. Rogue survived the war, but she's not sure at what cost. Now, she's headed to the West Coast to find out.

No accents here—I hope that's not a deal breaker for anyone. I figured it'd definitely be a deal breaker to try to get through my horrible attempts at apostrophes and dems and Ahms. So. Anyway. Review if you make it to the bottom?

-x-

When everything was said and done, most of the mutants who were left headed west. Rogue went, too, after a while, not because she really believed that new beginning tripe everyone else seemed to be swallowing without a thought, but because, well, she had nothing better to do. There was nothing left for her in New York—her old life was gone. No family, no friends, no house, no anything.

The war had taken a lot, both from her and from everyone. Between the bombings and the fighting, so many had been killed. Or worse. Although the government claimed any prisoners taken during wartime had been released, Rogue knew better than to believe that. She knew better than to believe a lot of things now.

And perhaps the worst part was that nothing had been resolved. A treaty had been signed, sure, but it was mainly because there was almost no one left to fight. All that remained were the small number of survivors and the horrible tension between mutants and non-mutants that had started the war in the first place. To have continued would have meant destruction for everyone. Even now, she secretly thought that was still where they were headed. Treaties, at the end of the day, were just paper, just promises that could broken, and Rogue wondered when they would all find themselves back in battle.

But in the meantime, no, there had been nothing better for her to do.

Her current destination was just outside what had once been Los Angeles, but was now mostly rubble. It was a new community for mutants called Cedar Hill. That was the norm now: separate communities set up as safe havens for mutants and normal humans alike. She'd been told about Cedar Hill by a mutant she'd fought with in the war. She'd been draw to it partly because of its isolation, but mostly because of its distance from New York. She was fairly sure that the closest mutant settlement nearby was a place called Mourning nearly two hours north. Whether there would be tension between mutants and non-mutants there was something Rogue didn't want to think about now. And if she didn't think about it, she could almost convince herself that she would be living the rest of her life peacefully in Cedar Hill. Because really, if she never had to use her mutation again, it would be too soon.

Her mutation. Even now it left a bitter taste in her mouth. Rogue had never taken the Cure, even though the government offered immunity to the mutants who did so willingly. When it was offered like that, it felt less like the escape she wanted and more like giving in. So she'd kept the damn mutation, using it to fight back against the prejudice as best she could. Trying to protect other mutants. Trying to protect her friends. Herself.

But it hadn't worked. It had just left her with too many voices in her head, too many whispers of nothing left now and should have died, too.

She shook her head and told herself sternly not to think of that. She settled back against the bus seat and glanced around. She'd been lost in her own head for most of the trip, and she hadn't given much thought to the people who had filed on and off at each stop. No one was still onboard from when she'd first stepped onto the bus, and she was glad for the lack of familiar faces and what felt like complete anonymity.

Rogue sighed softly. She'd been traveling for what felt like forever. It was slow going getting across the country—mutant or not. Most airports had been destroyed, and the ones that had made it through weren't exactly doling out rides to civilians. Rogue had bummed a ride from a friend of a friend of a friend as far as Chicago, and from there, she'd scraped together enough money for a bus ticket. Thankfully, her mutation was anything that could be seen, and if she pulled her white streaks back into a ponytail, she didn't draw too much attention to herself. Her route had been indirect—full of transfers and stops—but it didn't matter. All that did was that she kept moving. Staying in one place always seemed to mean either her past or her guilt would catch up with her.

The bus she was on now was the one they had transferred to in Flagstaff, the last switch before they reached Cedar Hill (according to the bus driver, they'd be there in less than an hour—Rogue didn't know if she believed that). The bus was old and dingy, and the fabric on the seats was faded and stained. She traced a finger along ugly blue material, wondering absently about the other passengers onboard.

Right now, the bus wasn't too crowded, although it had been at times. Currently, there were two kids, two women (including her), two men, and the ancient driver. Rogue was just glad for the space to spread out. No one had tried to talk to her—let alone sit with her—and she was glad for that. She didn't know if any of them were going where she was going—or even whether they were mutants or not—but she figured all of them just wanted to be left along until they got wherever they were going. The only noise came from the little boy and girl at the front who whispered to each other occasionally, mindful of their sleeping mother beside them.

Rogue had just started to drift off to sleep herself when the bus suddenly slammed to a stop, brakes shrieking. She was tossed into the seatback in front of her, and her eyes sprang open at once. It had been weeks since the treaty—longer since the fighting stopped—but she was still jumpy, still ready for action at moment's notice.

She heard muffled yells from outside, but she couldn't make out the words. She was too far in the back to see what was going on, and the people who could see in the front weren't doing anything other than staring slack jawed out the windows. There was scuffle by the door and what sounded like a knock. Maybe the stop was just for people here to check the bus; random checkpoints were exactly unheard of now. Maybe they just—

The bus driver opened the door. "Now, see here," the old man said, a furrow creasing his brow. "What's the meaning of—"

A gunshot rang out, and the bus driver's body jerked back. Blood dusted the windshield in front of him. Dead, Rogue knew.

She shoved that image from her mind and looked at the people who had boarded the bus. There were three men in total. The man with the gun, plus two others who were probably armed, too. All wore dark clothes that obscured their features.

Everyone else on the bus seemed frozen. Not mutants, she decided. Or, at least, not ones who ever fought with their mutations. They didn't look like they'd fought on the other side, either. They were probably just regular human passengers looking for a new start. Well, that might be a little unhelpful, seeing as no one looked like they'd done much fighting.

"We don't want any trouble," the first man said, stepping past the lifeless bus driver. Mr. Snow, Rogue remembered. The bus driver's named tag had said Linus Snow.

"No trouble at all," the second man sneered, a horrible grin twisting his features.

The third man let out a laugh, then swung a gun out from behind his back and fired at one of the men sitting on the bus. Rogue didn't need to look too closely to see that he was dead, too. That, if nothing else, would convince everyone else on the bus to stay seated and quiet until the men had gotten what they came for. Even if that happened to be killing them all.

So, no, Rogue thought, these people probably weren't here to check the bus.

The men began making their way down the aisle, each stopping at a different place. She watched in horror as the other passengers were struck over the head, or were told to put their heads between their knees and not dare to open their eyes.

It was the man who had shot the bus driver who ended up at the side of Rogue's seat. He was tall and broad, with dark hair and dark eyes. He threw her a predatory look. "Now, darling," he man drawled. "Something tells me you don't quite belong with the rest of these fine people."

Rogue bit back a laugh—that might have been the understatement of the century. She slipped off a glove and let it fall to the seat behind her. She hadn't been sure what she wanted to do until that moment, but she knew then that she couldn't sit here and watch this happen. She would fight back as best she could; if the war had taught her anything, it was that she was a survivor—whether she wanted to be or not.

In one quick movement, she vaulted forward toward the man. He raised his gun—whether to shoot her or warn her to back off, she didn't know—but she was faster. She dragged a hand down his cheek and braced herself for the oncoming memories. To her credit, she'd gotten better during the war at controlling the amount of information she absorbed. It was now more of a slow trickle in, as opposed to the uncontrollable avalanche it had once been.

But she could still drain someone pretty fast when she put her mind to it, she thought wryly, watching the man slump to the floor in front of her. No, not just a man—his name was Hal Reston. She shoved the memories to the side, ignoring flashes of explosions, of a little boy crying, of the overwhelming feeling of suffocation. He wasn't a mutant, but that didn't mean the others weren't. It would have been uncommon for the two kinds to be working together, but not unheard of: Sometimes mixed gangs formed just to wreak as much havoc as possible. Not giving it much thought at this time, Rogue dragged the unconscious man to the seat in front of the one she had been camped out in, not wanting his body to block the center aisle.

But before she had much time to plan her next move, there was shriek at the front of the bus, as one of the other men grabbed the little girl. Rogue couldn't tell what he was doing, but the girl had started to shake, a look of terror fixed in her eyes. The mother, now painfully awake, and the little boy watched on, too afraid to intervene for fear of making things worse.

Rogue stepped toward them, aware of the stares from the passengers who hadn't been subdued, but was cut off almost immediately by the second man. Like the first man, he had a gun. And also like the first man, that gun was pointed at her. She sighed. All she had wanted was a peaceful bus ride. All she had wanted was to make it to Cedar Hill and to have a quiet life away from the destruction left in the wake of the war.

"And where do think you're going, missy?" the man growled.

Apparently not to save the little girl and her family. Rogue raised her hand toward the man, but he seemed almost ready for her. He caught her across the cheek with the gun, sending her sprawling to the floor. Her vision flickered, but she focused her attention on the man in front of her, refusing to lose consciousness.

Then, from the corner of her eye, Rogue saw someone else walk onto the bus. He was too far away for her to see anything but a trench coat—not to mention that she was a little preoccupied with the gun in her face. She struggled to get to a position that would allow her to touch the man; his gun and determination to kick her a few times while she was down was making that a little difficult.

"You might be more trouble than you're worth," the man hissed. The gun was now aimed at her heart, and Rogue didn't think she'd escape with just a blow across her face this time.

Still, despite the seriousness of the situation, she tried to keep from laughing because, well, wouldn't it just the funniest thing to have survived the war only to die like this? A sound halfway between a chuckle and a sob snuck out before she could stop it. The man didn't seem to find her amusement amusing. As he cocked the gun, Rogue shut her eyes—and maybe, just maybe, she was tired of fighting, so worn out and exhausted and ready for this to end—and waited.

But the shot never came. Instead, there was a loud thud as the man toppled sideways into the seat, his head cracking against the window. The fourth person who had boarded the bus—the man in the trench coat—was staring down at her. He'd apparently made it past the first man, the one who was still tormenting the little girl and the other passengers, and had come to the back of the bus to help her. God only knew why.

Rogue stood shakily, met the man's gaze, and bit back a noise of surprise as she got a good look at his eyes. He just grinned at her.

"Well now, chère," he said, tone light, like he was about to talk to her about the goddamn weather or something. "Looks like you could use some help."

The man turned back around then, and Rogue didn't have a chance to reply before the force of an explosion knocked her back to the floor.