Chapter 1 – Shadows and Dreams
Towers of black smoke billowed above the city's scorched grass and ashen sand. Despite the rather early hour, everything seemed veiled in shadow, from the nearby buildings of shrapnel-torn walls to the wide expanse of monotonously flat desert beyond. Clouds of dust and sand undulated endlessly in eye-scratching dances of wind. In the evacuated city sector, gunshots blasted and wounded men cried in pain.
A group of U.S. Marines clustered behind a severely damaged Hummer while trying to fend off an unexpected attack. Several suffered bullet wounds; one had a broken leg. Fusillades of bullets rained upon them while they endeavored futilely to fight back.
The Captain gritted his teeth, angry at this unprepared-for attack, knowing any moment the fuel tank could be hit and all of his men die—but there was no way for them to retreat, no visible end to their trap. A bullet rebounded from nearby rubble and the Captain ducked while uttering a curse, not wishing to test the Kevlar of his helmet.
His corporal was still trying to establish a radio connection, fidgeting about his comm. unit and shouting into its mouth piece—but to now avail. Help would not be coming.
The Captain adjusted his desert goggles, trying to see through the hazing sandstorm that had settled upon the city. The patrol had been routine, an attack unexpected. They should have known better. These Iraqi insurgents were desperate when they were so close to losing.
The Captain looked around at the devastation while reloading his automatic rifle; he wondered if the enemy despaired at killing their own people in the crossfire. He drew a breath and prayed they wouldn't acquire more grenades any time soon.
Bullets ricocheted off the armored Hummer like the constant droning of a metronome, counting off the seconds of his demise. He steadied his breathing, forcing calm, vowing that if he was to die, he would die with honor, valor, and not without a fight.
Gripping his gun tightly, he gestured towards the only two of his men with weapons. At his signal, all three shot to their feet, unprotected and ready to face imminent death or astounding victory.
It was neither.
"Uh…Cap'n?" a private said, confused and lowering his weapon.
He risked sand in the eyes by removing his goggles to see better. "What the…."
Gunshots still rang in the air, but the firefight had turned away from them. Through the hazy clouds of sandiness little could be seen except shadows and small sparks from minor explosions. Bodily shapes moved in a flurry, some flying in strange directions, others simply falling from injury. But there was one in the melee that remained surreally poised and steady.
The Captain squinted.
Cries could be heard from where the insurgents were no doubt situated. Their shouts ranged from ejaculations of surprise, awe, pain—
And fear.
Lightning suddenly lashed the ground from nowhere, striking in places they could not see. With an ear-splitting crash, an enormous ball of fire exploded so near to the soldiers, they could feel the heat. The boiling, tumultuous tower of flame rolled higher and higher into the air until it finally began to dissipate. Without further prelude, an armload of automatic weapons flew out of the smoky area, landing in the sand within arm's reach.
The Captain signaled his unarmed men to quickly seize them. Once the able-bodied Marines were fully armed, they stood ready for onslaught. There was no guarantee that whatever had attacked the Iraqis would not attack them, and in such a mutated, crazy world, they prepared themselves for the worst.
Silence had settled over the area. All movement had ceased. The aftermath smoke began to clear and the soldiers could soon make out a solitary figure walking towards them.
The Marines raised their weapons.
"Hold," the Captain ordered. He could hardly believe his eyes.
The hazy figure drew nearer, coming into view as slender and nubile, wrapped in a black, full body-hugging suit. Twin streaks of dark silver crisscrossed over the chest and knee-high combat boots. It was a young woman, one whose mere appearance rendered each well-trained, well-fought Marine slack-jawed and gawking. Her auburn hair was tied in a pony tail, white bangs fluttering around her face. But her eyes were glowing, white and cloudy like a soulless demon.
The Captain clutched his weapon tightly, still uncertain.
She raised one arm and upon lowering it, the winds calmed and the air became free of sand and dust. Slowly, the white clouds over her eyes receded, leaving behind a pair of lushly bright emerald-greens.
The Marines removed their goggles to attain a better view. A few drew in their breath as she came within speaking distance. They watched as though she was a beautiful mirage that might any moment disappear. And then she spoke:
"Ah didn't exactly come here ta rescue soldiers." A smirk played across her divinely stunning face.
All the men were frozen in shock. This had taken out all their attackers? By herself?
The Captain was the first to recover. "Ma'am, I'm going to need some identification or clearance of some sort. Civilians…." He said the word doubtfully "…aren't allowed to be wandering around—"
"Ah'm no civilian, hon," she cut him off. "And Ah wasn't wanderin' around either. You're just lucky my mission brought me here."
"You're one of them, aren't you," one of the soldiers suddenly asked, "a mutant?"
Rogue remained silent, affirming the conjecture. She wondered what their reaction would be and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Much to her surprise, nobody recoiled in fear or disgust. In contrast, they all seemed relieved that she was there. It was not a reaction she was used to, especially after years of experiencing the exact opposite.
"We're grateful for the help, ma'am," the Captain said. "Don't know how you took 'em all out but I'm impressed."
"Yeah, well, maybe next time ya'll be more—aak!" She jerked forward as a bullet tore through her flesh. With a spray of bright red blood, she fell motionless onto the sand.
The Marines immediately scattered for cover as another assault came their way, makeshift armored vehicles approaching rapidly from alleys and around buildings. The Captain fired his rounds and found that he furiously wished to pummel whatever brute would shoot an unarmed woman. In the back, no less.
This time they had a grenade launcher. The Captain watched as two of his men were blown away by an explosion that put several others on fire. Luckily they rolled upon the sand to stifle the flames. And then, to his utter and complete shock, the woman began to get up. The wound at her side had ceased bleeding, had disappeared altogether, leaving behind only a tear in her uniform and a splotch of red on the road.
Rogue stood to her full height, green eyes narrowed. All bullets and projectiles suddenly stopped in midair, hovered in a surreal, discontinuous wall on the vertical plane she occupied. Then without warning the wall broke away, every bit of metal flying in the direction of the attackers.
Screams and yells broke out among the insurgents, their own bullets and grenades assaulting their ranks.
Rogue slowly closed her eyes, sifting through the psyches within her for the one she wanted to use. When she opened them, a crimson beam of laser heat lashed whichever way she gazed. The optic blast seared the ground, cut through vehicle armor, and burned flesh beyond third degree. She tried very hard not to do too much damage. X-Men never killed. But these bastards deserved every bit of hurt they felt….
All the while the Marines watched in complete awe. Every one of them had heard of mutants and their special powers, but none knew that one of them could possess such variations. Was she a mutant among mutants?
Rogue stopped the optic blast as easily as she started it, peering around at the remaining fighters. They were natives to the country, guerillas fighting for a cause they believed righteous enough to die for. She had to admire that sort of conviction, even if these were the exact fanatics that were broadcasting executions of their own people unfortunate enough to be discovered mutant. That had been the very reason she and her team had arrived in Hadithah, while Iraq struggled to reconstruct itself and the Americans fought to remove insurrectionary threats.
The ground beneath her began to shake, knocking the remaining guerillas off their feet. Rogue floated off her feet, looking around. When she spotted him atop a nearby building, she cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted, "About time!" She was sure he didn't hear.
Avalanche held his arms outstretched, curling his fingers in exertion. Cracks erupted in jagged patterns along the desert ground. The insurgents shouted in fear of doomsday, some falling into the fissures.
The sound of an approaching helicopter mingled with shouts of men and rumblings of the earth.
From the skies flew a streak of flame, a red and black figure soaring towards Avalanche. It hefted him off the building, just as the chopper neared the vicinity.
Avalanche eased the earthquakes away for the helicopter to land. He and Sunfire reached ground beside it and began securing the few remaining threats in the area.
Out of the chopper ejected a medical team and rescue squad that rushed immediately to the wounded Marines. Following them came a tall mutant whose very skin comprised of impenetrable organic steel. His metallic-white eyes stared into an unfortunate guerilla nearby, striking terror into the man as he effortlessly lifted him off the ground.
"Leave him be, Colossus," a Scottish voice said wearily. "No use scaring the wits out of the lad."
"As you wish, Banshee."
The Iraqi, once released, fainted on the ground.
Rogue was already some ways off, scanning the area for the target. She had not located him among those she previously debilitated, but his scent was now very near. The tattered Iraqi street was littered with rubble and abandoned vehicles, but one of them hid exactly what she wanted. Her use of Wolverine's power magnified the criminal's stench to a very unpleasant potency.
Landing gracefully on the ground, she followed her nose and moved towards an upturned cargo truck. A faint blue glow surrounded the vehicle as she drew nearer. Thoroughly hexed, the truck began to shake and rattle frighteningly. A shout erupted from underneath it, followed by cries of alarm.
Rogue abruptly waved her hand and the cargo truck flipped backwards twice. It rolled along the sandy road, throwing up clouds of dust and debris.
A smirk played across her face. "Not really good at hide-and-seek, are ya?" she called. She approached with deliberate and steady steps, eyes never leaving the huddled figure on the ground. Behind the diffusing cloud of dust, the target coughed and rubbed his eyes.
Rogue stretched her fingers, readying herself to cast a hex and paralyze the target until the others arrived. She poised her arms, palms cackling with glowing blue energy. The golden dust around settled and gave her a clear view. She moved to strike as the man stood, turned to face her—
And she froze. No…it can't be…. A thousand thoughts dashed through her mind; her mouth fell ajar, her eyes widened, brow corrugating in distress. All her hexing powers drained away, arms dropping to her sides in utter, horrified shock.
"Chere," he said, that lighthearted smirk—as unchanged as the last time he had teased her with it—playing across his face. "Been a long time gone, non?"
Rogue blinked several times, feeling as though a cloud had settled over her senses. It was outrageous; it was unprecedented; it was impossible. "R-Remy?" To say his name… She felt a sharp pang in her chest, not sure whether it was longing, sadness, anger, resentment, despair…or hundreds of other things that now resurfaced after years of burial.
He brushed dust off his clothes—a derelict insurgent uniform—and ran a hand through his rich brown hair. "Must say, awkward situation t'meet." When he looked at her his crimson-ebony eyes twinkled with that playful mischief she knew all too well. "Y' go'n' turn me in, chere?"
Rogue struggled to steady her breathing, the hammering of her heart. After so long, after so much, this was what he said? This was how he acted? It was all so wrong, so wrong tears welled in her eyes despite how much she hated herself for it. Weak. She had always been weak around him.
"Don' go doin' dat, now," he groaned. "Chin up, eh? Dis ain't no problem we can't solve."
"How can you say that?" Rogue exclaimed through a pained hiss. "You—you're one of the enemy!" How could he be the target? Unless it was his alias, his cover. But she had smelled the man and…. It hardly mattered at the moment. Her senses were a muddled mess.
He shook his head, "Dat your opinion, chere."
Rogue shook her head, clutching both sides of her skull as her composure began to crumble, as the psyches began to reel. She took several steps back, staring at him in disbelief. How could he act so apathetic towards her now, after all that had happened, after all that had been said—no matter how long ago it was. "Remy, you….Ah can't believe this. You're not here…. Ah've lost it."
He chuckled—chuckled at her expense—and said, "M'as much here as you are, p'tite. Now, if y'aren't go'n' help me escape, might s'well get out o' m'way."
Rogue deliberately blocked his path, suddenly hell bent on resolving the mystery. She knew whatever happened to him in the past few years to lead him down this course, there had to be viable explanations. The psyches in her mind returned to caches of usable energy as she regained her composure through determination. With a surge of telepathy, she shoved him backwards a few steps, "You aren't going anywhere until Ah get some answers."
He sighed in exasperation, "Don' make dis difficult, chere."
"Ah let you leave once, Remy. Ah've learned a lot since then."
He scoffed disdainfully and shook his head, "Obviously not enough." In one swift movement he pulled a gun from inside his uniform, purposefully cocking it. "I know y'got special powers, girl, but dey won' save y'from a hole in de head."
The barrel of the gun hovered a few inches from her face. Rogue stared at him, shocked beyond reaction, wretched beyond description. Remy was going to shoot her. She would die at his side, by his hands, at that moment. And as ridiculously impossible as it seemed, she realized that if he wanted her dead, there was no reason to stay alive, to fight. There was no other hope, even if he had saved her life before—in so many ways no one else could—he wanted her gone now. She slowly closed her eyes, feeling hazy and miserable, never more confused.
He hesitated a moment, and Rogue felt a shadow fall over them, blocking out the sun that beat upon the deserted city.
"What de…."
The ground began to shake. And the gun went off.
Rogue felt the bullet whiz by her ear, barely missing her head. With a gasp of relief? disappointment? she lost her balance and collapsed to the quivering ground. She felt brief gusts of wind against her face as a pair of angelic wings flew by. Her eyes saw Remy tackled by a golden-haired angel and the two were soon rolling upon the sandy, rattling road.
"Rogue! Rogue, snap out of it!"
"What has happened to her?"
"It's Seyyid—I think he's a mutant. Cut the quakes, Lance!"
Without forewarning, a scream erupted from her throat. Avalanche, Colossus, and Sunfire were all thrown aside as a burst of energy ignited around Rogue. Breathing hard, she rubbed her eyes and looked around, feeling as though she was crawling out of a dream.
"Lass!" Banshee landed beside her. "Are ye injured?"
Rogue didn't answer him, occupied with gaping at Angel's opponent. "No…he was—he was…." He was not Remy, but a lanky Iraqi with curly black hair and angry eyes of dark pits. A cold chill crept into her stomach and she suddenly wanted to heave.
Angel tossed Colossus the handgun, who crushed it in his hand, and jerked the prisoner to his feet. Cuffing his hands with a brace, Angel said, "Naaman Kashif Seyyid, you are under arrest for terrorist leadership and publicized crimes against humanity."
Rogue allowed Banshee to help her to her feet. She stared at Seyyid as Angel and Colossus dragged him past; the man looked exactly like in the snapshots the team had been debriefed with only days ago. She had also been given his scent from his former Iraqi Republican Guard beret. And still he had fooled her.
"Lass, how are ye feelin'? No one knew Seyyid was a mutant. He pulled an illusion on ye."
Illusion. Nothing but her mind. Like it always was.
"Rogue?"
"What—Ah mean, Ah'm fine, Sean. Ah'm fine."
"Ye don't look it, goirl," Banshee said. He watched her steadily as they moved back towards the secured area. More U.S. helicopters were landing, picking up wounded Marines and ejecting fresh soldiers to continue area patrol.
Rogue used her hand as a visor against the sun. The chopper gusts blew sand everywhere and stifled sound with the loud fanning of their blades, adding to the frenzy. Her eyes sought out Naaman Seyyid, secured by Colossus while Angel administered a strong sedative to keep him from using his powers during the flight. She shivered noticeably, remembering how real the illusion had seemed, had felt, how it had rendered her a muddled mess.
"Listen Rogue, I've been meaning to have a talk with ye for a while now."
She cocked her head towards Sean, frowning. "About what?"
"Yer…performance."
"Have Ah messed up or somethin'? Is my work shoddy?'
"No no no, nothing like that." She watched the immutably composed Banshee scratch his head in discomfort as he searched for the right words. "I've noticed…a change in ye these past months, since Psylocke left. Ye've been acting reclusive, always daydreaming and off in yer own world. And all these stunts ye've been pulling lately, ditching the team, going rogue all the time…well, it isn't safe, goirl. Look what almost happened today."
Rogue crossed her arms, returned to observing the detainment of Seyyid. "What are you tryin' to say, Sean."
He watched her carefully, "I think you know. Two years is a long time to be away. Ye need to be…regrounded, if ye will."
Rogue nodded, acknowledging his words with complete understanding of their meaning.
Naaman Seyyid was successfully detained and placed on a departing helicopter with Angel and Colossus as his guards. Rogue followed Banshee aboard the jet, strapping herself in beside Avalanche and Sunfire. She ignored their questioning looks, focusing her gaze out the chopper window.
As the helicopter rose from the ground, she watched the figures below grow smaller and smaller until they were no longer visible. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. It felt as though she, too, had just decidedly left something behind.
Manhattan Island, New York City, New York – Ten Days Later
Cameras flashed relentlessly everywhere, blinding his eyes in fleeting instants to the droves of people before him. He tried to keep the smile upon his face, but it was becoming increasingly difficult as the press room of City Hall seemed to veer closer and closer towards ecstatic chaos. The people's excitement, their eagerness, was near uncontainable.
That day's events had caught the attention of municipal, national, as well as global media. New York City was abuzz with activity, talk of the mutant who had uncovered something essential to the advancement of modern science, to the understanding of the trends in evolution that had spawned the very existence of his kind. It was a day to be reckoned, a day that would be marked in history. And it was also a day the now-famous mutant wished would quickly expire because it had been very taxing to his peace-loving, gentle persona.
"One at a time!" the moderator shouted into the microphone. When the noise level had decreased considerably he added, "Dr. McCoy will be more than happy to answer as many questions as possible in the allotted time, in a civil manner." He moved away so that the hairy, ape-like figure could return to the microphone-littered podium.
Dr. Hank McCoy adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses upon his blue-furred face. He smiled pleasantly and clasped his hands together, trying to differentiate between the so many reporters that swarmed the floor before him. They waved hands and notepads and microphones in their eagerness to extract information for a story. All the cameras were rather perplexing, Hank found, and all the eyes turned towards him, all the mouths shouting for his attention. Squelching any thoughts of regret at accepting such public praise for his work, he drew a breath, pointed at a familiar, dark-haired reporter in the front row, and readied himself to answer her question.
Scott Summers adjusted the rose quartz glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. He leaned towards the pretty redhead seated beside him and asked, "What's that reporter's name?"
"Tilby. Trish Tilby," she replied.
"Have you noticed how her questions are leading Hank on?"
"Making mutants sound like natural progress rather than freaks of nature? Yeah, I have, and I'm not unhappy about it." Jean Grey smiled minutely, ignoring the feeling of wariness growing in the back of her mind. Despite the rather pleasant occasion, there was something she couldn't quite put her finger on, something elusive.
"…so what you're saying, Dr. McCoy, is that mutants have developed an extra gene on their chromosomes that grants them these extraordinary powers?"
Cameras flashed. Hushed voices, oohs, and ahhhs echoed around the crowd.
"Yes. As I have explained during the presentation earlier, I have entitled this gene the x-factor. Though its precise characteristics, unique attributes, and exact origin have yet to be determined, I have no doubt that its growth within human DNA is the first step in enabling the extra abilities that mutants possess. As the Neanderthals eventually metamorphosed to homo sapiens, mutants were birthed."
"By what you say then, Doctor, the presence of mutants in human society is inevitable. This x-factor is the next, necessary step in the evolution of our species? Perhaps even for our survival as a single race?"
"She's brave to say those things," Scott noted, "especially now when…." He sighed, frowning.
Jean glanced at him worriedly. She reached over and gently squeezed his hand. "Things can't stay like this forever." She tried to squelch that annoyingly potent feeling of hopeless melancholy that usually came whenever she contemplated the future of mutants. Things did not seem to be getting better, only worse. The Professor's dream seemed less and less like a possible reality.
"And how long will that take?" It was evident that Scott struggled to keep his voice low and under control, though that hardly seemed necessary in the busy atmosphere of the press room. "I thought it was just bad in the U.S., but I never even considered other countries. Mutants are getting attacked everywhere, Jean, you know that better than anyone—you feel it happen sometimes. If the public turns against us, what chance do we have?"
"It hasn't turned against us…."
"Not completely maybe," he huffed.
"Scott, don't talk like this. It isn't like you to…." Jean felt her last thought slip away as something else filled her mind, a presence that had long been absent. She felt it as clearly as she felt Scott's mere inches from her. Everything else around—sounds, people, voices—faded as she concentrated all efforts on locating the source.
She looked around the crowded room, eyes following the presence she felt almost palpably because of the strong emotions it radiated. She felt its doubt, its fear, its longing. And its sadness, however suppressed. Where are you?
"Jean? What's the matter?"
There, standing in complete seclusion near the press room's large double doors, completely oblivious to Jean's attention, but plaintively observing the scene of reporters and imminent city leaders.
Only noticed by few, a cell phone went off, and was quickly silenced.
"Jean!"
"Sorry, Scott. I'll be right back." She stood without further explanation and, apologizing for herself, inched down the row for the aisle.
"Ow!" Sam Guthrie exclaimed, when she stepped on his foot.
Jean whispered a quick sorry and moved past without noticing the empty seat between Sam and Kitty Pryde. She made her way off the main floor and approached the double doors, only to find them completely bereft of any sentient presence. Where are you? she projected, reaching out with her powers. She had learned a few tricks over the years, having become more empathetic and skilled with her telepathy. Like a web her powers branched throughout the area, every strand sensitive to feeling, to a specific mental signature, until she finally located it. The effort was exhausting, beads of perspiration forming on her brow. She wiped them away and took a deep breath; the end result would be worth the exertion.
"So did you find it?"
"Find what?"
"The meaning of life, your place in the universe, the purpose of existence—whatever it was you went hunting for."
Rogue rolled her eyes, "Lance, Ah find it fascinating that ya speak so eloquently at times and have no idea what you're talking about." She moved the cell phone to her other ear so she could better watch a pair of squirrels poke about the crabapple trees.
"Whatever man. Where you at?"
The crabapple trees' pink and red blossoms fluttered as a breeze blew past. A few ethereal petals broke from their stems, no longer fresh as spring came to a close, and danced in the air until touching ground. One landed on Rogue's shoulder, and she picked it up, caressing its velvety surface with her thumb and index finger. This setting was much more enjoyable than the overstuffed press room, even despite its lack of old friends. "City Hall," she said into the phone, "picnic area."
She heard a huff on the other end of the connection. "You flew all the way around the world just to sit by yourself. And here I am in this blazing hot desert, trying to get info out of a punk who's more stubborn than you."
"At least ya didn't have to deal with his mutant powers," Rogue muttered. Through her entire preparation for departure, during the tediously long flight back to the States, she had thought of nothing but the illusion. How it had felt so real, so devastating to finally see him, no matter how false his presence was. The experience had somehow put things into perspective. Was that how their first reception would be after all this time, her behaving like such a weak, blubbering invalid?
Lance sighed, "You're still beating yourself up about that?" When he received no reply, "Seyyid had a dangerous power, you know. Like Sean said, he makes people see what'll have the greatest impact on them—good or bad."
"So what's going to happen to him?" Rogue asked, deliberately changing the subject.
"Same as the others, 'cept I think Seyyid's the first mutant terrorist we've caught. Sean wants the most brutal thing prosecutors can come up with. How much does that suck, a mutant organizing public executions of his own kind?"
"He doesn't believe in peace," Rogue said, bitterness in her tone. "He's just an opportunist that uses his powers for self gain, though Ah don't see how killing mutants does anybody any good in any way."
"Frost is going for life servitude in a Mexican prison or something."
Rogue nearly laughed, "What?"
"She doesn't think Seyyid deserves the comfort of death."
"Ah always knew Emma had a sadistic side."
Lance chuckled briefly. "So you talked to them yet?" he asked.
"Who?" Rogue knew she was stalling but didn't care. She had never liked discussing sensitive subjects with anyone, least of all Lance. Even despite how he had grown on her like an annoying brother over the past two years. "Ah haven't talked to Kitty yet, if that's what you mean."
"It…isn't…."
He wanted to say more; he was merely restraining himself. Even after all this time he still cared about Kitty, Rogue was absolutely certain. She decided not to milk the issue further and was about to ask him about Shiro and Piotr, when a familiar face rounded the building's corner.
He walked with the sauntering gait of youth, dressed in baggy jeans and a loose T-shirt. He no longer appeared like a light-hearted joker, but sullen and of a bad mood. Rummaging through the many pockets of his pants, he took no notice of Rogue as he approached the picnic area. He only looked up to light a cigarette, and started abruptly at seeing the young woman between all the blossomed trees. "Whoa—you're back."
"Ah'll call you back, Lance," Rogue said into her phone. "Something urgent's come to my attention." She hung up without waiting for a reply, slipping the cell into her blazer pocket. In four quick strides she approached the intruder and snatched the cigarette right out of his fingers. "How many anti-drug commercials do you gotta see to realize smoking is bad, Bobby Drake?"
Now taller and leaner than the kid she remembered, he shook away his shock and shrugged listlessly. "Whatever man, I'm still young." He watched with mild surprise as the cigarette incinerated in Rogue's hand. "Hey, that costs money."
"That you're wasting on five bucks a pack," Rogue retorted.
"I have my reasons."
"Enlighten me."
His clear blue eyes, once bearing the light twinkle of a mischievous prankster, seemed clouded over by heavy experiences. They darkened as he looked away, "I wouldn't have to if you'd been around all this time."
Rogue stared at him expressionlessly, felt as though she'd been slapped. She released the cigarette cinders from her hands and watched them dissipate in the breeze, wishing she could disappear as easily. "Ah didn't mean to intrude," she said, and turned to leave.
Bobby opened his mouth to apologize for his harsh words, but then scowled when he realized he didn't know what to say. Shaking his head, he snatched another cigarette from his pack and commenced lighting it.
What was Ah thinking, comin' back after all this time expecting a warm welcome?
The corridors of City Hall were mostly empty, with only stray administrators and staff sparsely milling about. Rogue had reentered the building the way she left, walking inconspicuously through its elegantly designed halls towards an unknown destination. She could go back to the press room to watch Hank (she was sorry to have missed the award ceremony), but all the X-Men were there. What if they saw her, reacted with bitterness the way Bobby had? Her rental car was only a few corridors away, all her stuff still packed in the trunk. It'd be easy to just leave, go back to X-Corps, back to work helping to save terrorized mutants—
Why didn't you tell us?
Rogue froze, all her thoughts coming to a halt. She turned around to locate the source of the projection and saw her, Jean Grey, standing around the corner she had just turned.
The redhead looked well, wearing a muted grey skirt and jacket suit with her long locks tied back in an elegantly low ponytail. Her green eyes were as bright as ever, though glossed over by certain dampness. You should have given us word, she continued. If we'd known….
Jean shook her head in awe. The slender, young woman before her, standing there so aloof with hands within the pockets of a faded-brown vintage blazer, seemed like only a semblance of the girl she'd last seen. Rogue's hair, once choppy and short, flowed past her shoulders in sleek, stratified locks of auburn; her distinctive white strands had been cropped into face-framing layers that complemented her heart-shaped face. She barely wore any make up, but didn't need to because her face…it was nearly angelic, capable of fooling any stranger that the persona behind it was as peaceful and untainted as it tragically could not be.
Rogue felt unnerved under Jean's scrutiny, no matter how much closer they had become since two years ago. She brushed her forehead free of bangs and sighed, "Ah don't think Ah'll stay for long, just wanted ta see how you guys were doing—" She almost gasped when Jean hugged her, becoming ever aware of the satiny gloves over her hands.
When Jean pulled away, her eyes had dried and her mouth smiled. "You look well. I was worried after we lost complete contact, but I take it Betsy handled things all right?"
Rogue nodded, remembering the firsthand discomfort of having to work with a different telepath. But British agent Elizabeth Braddock had been more than understanding, more than willing to help. "She made it work without really getting into my thoughts."
"Without knowing the…details?" Jean phrased carefully.
Rogue released a dry laugh, "At least she couldn't think Ah was some pathetic, unstably heartbroken girl."
"I never thought that, Rogue."
A deep silence fell between them. Polar opposites, they didn't get along during the beginnings of their association, yet had slowly begun to reach some sort of truce through many trials of fate and fortitude as X-Men. But after a disturbed mutant girl entered their lives, picking off their friends one by one, Jean and Rogue had reached a middle ground, had become truer, unfaltering friends.
"Do you still think about him?" Jean asked softly.
Rogue said nothing. She didn't need to.
"The sessions? When was your last with Betsy?"
"'Bout eight months ago. She left the team to do her own thing, but didn't go without leaving me something that'd last a while."
"Hasn't the barrier faded after all this time?"
"Little by little every day…but Ah'm feeling better about…it all. Ah don't need it ta function anymore. But it does help, just to get through the days…weeks, months, life." Rogue laughed dryly at her own expense. "So much for bein' a tough girl, huh?"
Jean offered a consolatory smile, "You're too hard on yourself. Not many people can handle all that you've been through, all that you've done."
Rogue shrugged, not quite believing. She nodded towards the doors into the press room where voices and movement could be heard.
"Everyone's been really good," Jean said without requiring the question. "But we've missed you."
"Ran into Bobby outside," Rogue murmured. She looked past Jean down the hall, at a rather stout man wearing a baggy leather jacket and face-shadowing baseball cap despite the mild weather. He walked casually towards the press room doors.
"Oh, Bobby," Jean said, sighing forlornly. "You have a lot of catching up to do."
Rogue agreed, still feeling the sting of Drake's earlier words.
The man in the leather jacket entered the press room inconspicuously, but as he disappeared from her sight, an alarming thought suddenly struck Rogue: "Wait—why isn't there any security around this place?"
"And what will you do now, after receiving such an esteemed award, Dr. McCoy?"
"Continue my research. There is still much to learn about the x-factor, and the more knowledge we acquire, the more we may grow to understand the evolution of our species. With greater comprehension of these gifts, mutants will be able to better harness their powers for the betterment of humanity. Mutants possess the countless abilities of countless variations and elements. They can rewrite the laws of physics, fuel our energy needs…."
Jubilee yawned openly and received a sharp elbow in the ribs by Rahne. "Ow!" she hissed. "That hurt!"
"Don't you have any respect for Mr. McCoy's speech?"
"Tons. Just don't kill me 'cause it's boring."
"Jubes, you're awful!"
"What, Bobby walks around acting like an ass and that's ok, but I make one snide comment and it's a crime?"
As the two continued arguing, Kitty Pryde rolled her eyes and tried to refocus on Hank's speech. Beside her Scott continuously looked around the room in a state of perplexity.
Jean, Kitty thought. Where'd she go anyway?
"…I would like bestow much gratitude towards the honorable members of the National Science Association for granting me such recognition for my work and extend many thanks to the New York City Council and Mayor Thompson for making this event possible."
Thunderous applause followed Hank McCoy's last words, drowning out the last-minute questions of feisty reporters and newscasters' chatter. The furry ape doctor bowed slightly a few times, raising his hand to wave at the crowd.
"You have any idea how awesome this is?" Sam Guthrie said, clapping flamboyantly. Beside him, Kurt Wagner, true blue form concealed with an image-inducer, hooted in a cheer for Hank.
Kitty couldn't help smiling, "It is awesome, isn't it?"
"Hell yeah—look at that—everybody's going crazy over Mr. McCoy! Maybe the Professor was right; maybe people will eventually accept us."
As Hank stepped away from the podium, the resonant moderator once again approached to announce an end to the press conference.
The press room became even more chaotic as people rose from their seats. Those upon the dais were led away by a few security guards—the Mayor, various city council members, and representatives of the Science Association, as well as the venerated Professor Charles Xavier and his colleague Ororo Munroe.
Hank walked alongside the Mayor in order to engage in some sort of belated discourse, while the Professor and Storm followed at the rear. The procession forced its way through the crowd towards the VIP entrance-exit.
Kitty followed her friends, half-listening to Kurt's excited jabber about a celebration party back at the Institute, when a sudden commotion erupted within the crowd. She turned immediately towards the guarded procession.
Somebody screamed, bodies impulsively moving, heaving against each other in disorder—and a shout rang out in the air, "Here McCoy!" In the confusion the doctor caught something that was thrown to him, then immediately lunged towards the Mayor just as a small explosion echoed throughout the room. Panic ensued, someone screamed "bomb", and droves of people suddenly swarmed the doors.
Kitty phased herself past, moving easily through the crowd as her friends were swept away. She shrieked as another explosion shook the room and caused bits of the ceiling to collapse. Pushing a woman out of the way of falling stone, she fell to the floor and was nearly trampled by many panicked feet.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a large black bird fly into the room, landing to perch on a wobbling ceiling light. Kitty struggled to her feet just in time to witness something she otherwise would not have believed.
The bird hopped of the light fixture and fluttered down towards the quickly-thinning crowd. Its wings and feet elongated upon descent, feathers paling and stretching out to form a flawless layer of skin over quickly-expanding human arms and legs. Instead of a bird, a slender young woman with white-streaked auburn hair landed upon the crowd.
Rogue tackled the man to the floor, roughly pulling open his leather jacket to reveal strings of explosives, minor and devastating. He resisted, booting her unexpectedly in the jaw. Enduring the blow, Rogue fell back upon her hands and flipped herself backwards, kicking up her feet to pummel the man twice with her heels. She landed gracefully on all fours, quickly assessed the situation. There, right hand. The detonator flew from the man's grasp and landed in her palm. With a swift thought his jacket was torn from his body, flying into Rogue's outstretched fingers. Her telepathy, though not pure and inbred, lacked no efficiency as it hurled the attacker into the opposite wall. He fell unconsciously onto the evacuated dais.
The entire press room was nearly empty by then, only a few spectators and fearless reporters remaining on scene. Kitty stared in shock at Rogue, not believing her own eyes. She felt someone approach behind her and turned to see Scott who appeared just as surprised as her, and Jean who did not. The Professor and Ororo slowly approached Rogue, but the center of attention soon drifted from her to Dr. McCoy and Mayor Thompson.
The Mayor, prostrated upon the floor, remained motionless with a growing pool of blood forming near his head. Hank kneeled over him, a blaster weapon of some sort in his hands.
City Hall security suddenly barged into room, viewed the scene, and seized the ape-like mutant. Hank did not resist as he was roughly handcuffed, staring in confusion and bewilderment at the motionless Mayor and unconscious bomber.
"Please, stop! You are terribly mistaken." Ororo entreated the security guards to no avail. Even the Professor's arguments went unheeded. Scott tried to stop them from taking Hank away but was held back by Jean.
As an emergency medical crew carried New York City's mayor away, security ushered everyone out of the crime scene. Rogue moved like a shadow through the teeming crowds occupying the corridors. Pictures were snapped, reports immediately broadcasted through every available camera. The versatile Trish Tilby fought her way onto the front lines, shoving a microphone towards the X-Men. "What can you say about McCoy's arrest, Professor? Professor! Ms. Munroe?"
Ororo pushed his wheelchair forward, neither turning to acknowledge any of the shouts and calls directed towards them.
The rest of the X-Men followed suit. All they wanted was to return to the safety and calm of the Institute. Rogue moved among them though she felt so very apart. She could feel their eyes on her, forcing memories and feelings of a former existence to mind, thoughts of people she had taken for granted and ultimately hurt. She was afraid to meet any of them in the eye—Sam, Ray, Jubilee, Rahne, Scott, and especially Kitty, especially Kurt. How ironic it was that Jean would turn out to be her confidante.
The homecoming had not happened as she'd hoped.