Title: The Wreckage

Disclaimer: I don't even own the rights to my soon to be college degrees and will not for many, many, many years… It's called a starving student, and by the state of my fridge, I'm living the dream.

Pairing: Rogue and Remy

Rating: Teen/Mature

Warnings: Contains dark and adult themes

Summary: It's what happens when two sides collide. It's the explosion between what you want and what you need, what's right and what's wrong. It's the wreckage. And it could be so easy. ROMY.

The Wreckage

Chapter One

Bad Dreams Are Made of These

Green.

That's all she could see as she opened her eyes. Sharp, searing pains permeated her neck and ran throughout her whole body whenever she tried to turn her head. In her periphery, she could barely see the other side of the tank she was held captive in. Tubes were connected systematically around the glass, reaching into the box, connecting on various places in the body. The tubes where weren't as much tubes, yet claws, digging painfully into her skin. They were everywhere; in her arms, legs, back, stomach, neck. Within the numbness of the pinch, she felt yet another needle-like poke, as if a bee had injected its stinger into the area. On the ridge of her nose stood the tight air mask supplying her with oxygen.

Rogue looked up. The bright surgical light was refracted by the color around her. Through the top of the glass cage she could faintly make out the silhouettes of men. They moved around the confinement, pausing so often, looking at the girl as if she was a circus freak. She squirmed uncomfortably, but was silenced by the agonizing pain. Yet when she did move, she noticed the green almost jiggled in place, as if it was cheap gooey hair gel you would buy at a corner pharmacy. The green didn't slosh around like liquid whenever she made any slight movement.

Suddenly, the claw's pressure dissipated. Gone was the needle pinching her skin, the grasp gone, giving relief to the slowly sinking Rogue. She couldn't move, she was slowly sinking to the bottom of her imprisonment. Something pressed up against her back, lifting her upwards to meet the light.

Above the green gel, she looked around frantically to the sides of her. Surgical lights blinded her from over her; metal gleamed to the side of her. A snap of gloves grabbed her attention from the other side of the room. A figure decked in an operating robe, mask, and gloves approached the side of her. He motioned to the other side of the room, and out appeared more operators coming to his aid.

One fairly young looking doctor yanked off her old gas mask roughly, then pressed a new one upon her head, adjusting it, then turning on a knob from a tank next to her. The words on the cistern ran blurry on her mind, she could barely make out the figures that meant to stand as letters.

She willed herself to scream, to let the doctors know she was awake, but no sound came out as she opened her mouth. Instead, gas filled her nostrils and mouth. A drowsy sensation clouded her mind, giving her the fuzzy idea that what they had given her was sleeping gas, meant to numb the pain. The young doctor didn't turn up the pressure enough; Rogue could still feel the excruciating pain.

Intense twinge inflicted the girl's body. She tried to shrink way, thinking that the doctors would stop the slashing as she shifted; yet she was wrong, for more pain exploded. Instinctively, Rogue knew she was being cut open in long, deep slashes. Her eyes darted around frantically, meeting the glare of something metallic in her periphery. The pain occurred all over, she couldn't tell where exactly the slashes were pinpointed, or why, for that matter. Green was all she could remember seeing of this day.

Another jarring pain pressured her body. A slow and agonizing death was waiting for her from this. Each ripple grew stronger and longer with every slice. Her mind worked in overdrive, imagining after every sliver her skin being pulled open; her inside inspected, tweaked with curiosity. Pressure built everywhere in her bones; they were on fire. Something was being rammed into her skin, and then ignited like a match. It felt like a bolt was being twisted hard and squeezing her insides. It grew agonizing. The torturing feeling built up farther and farther until she felt she could not live any longer. She needed to stop the pain.

Her body twitched involuntarily and gave her the strength to try and move her arms and legs, but they were tied fast to the gurney. Dizzy and tortured, the Rogue lifted her head, gasping at the sight in front of her very eyes. Surgeons and nurses surround her body, each a metal part in hand. Yet, out of the army, only one surgeon was working on her arm. Blood poured out of the wound, staining her body and the bed. It stained not only around her arm, but the perimeter of her body. No longer was the bed white, yet a deep crimson red, the true color of blood. What were they doing to her?

At long last the surgeon stepped back. He announced something to all the nearby nurses. They all left the room, leaving Rogue alone and strapped to the table. The pain consumed her. Her joints, skin, bones, and hair even, felt as if scraped off brutally, burned to oblivion. She twitched. Something injected her back. The single touch of the needle end began another pained spell. Electricity zapped her, making her jump around mercilessly. Then, the pin slowly eased, diminishing into a faint remembrance. It took a while, but soon there was not a trace of the agony once endured by her.

She stopped twitching. Around her wrists and ankles, she could feel the straps that had previously held her down being loosened and opened. Rogue cautiously got up, wondering what the deal was. An odd feeling enclosed her skeleton, like she had been stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey. This feeling especially swelled around her wrists and hands. She looked down, blown away at what she saw.

Metal was poking out from each hand, positioned in the middle of her knuckles. They weren't attached to her skin; they were attached under it. What had they done to her? She stared at her hands in disbelief, slowly backing up into a wall. She screamed finally, letting out a ferocious roar so loud, she could feel the vibrations bounce off the metal room to meet her again. She ran around the lab like a mad man, overthrowing objects, using the metal to slash wildly, ripping apart everything. When everything was just about destroyed to dust, she stood in the middle of the dome and yelled a pitiful cry, only to fall to her knees in heap. All around her she heard a clicking sound, like millions of guns loading. She looked around. What she hadn't noticed before was how the lab she was in had holes, rather large openings really, around it, specifically aimed at her. Within a split second, the guns exploded.

With a shudder, Rogue jerked forward, lungs gasping for air, hair stuck to her sweaty neck and forehead. She looked wildly around herself, unable to identify where she was in the piercing darkness. Her chest heaving, she couldn't remember where she was. Was she in her own room or was she still back in that horrid lab? It was too quiet to tell. Rogue groped around, trying to find something to hold on to and help recognize where she was. Fear rose like a maniac in her mind. Panic made her heart race desperately. Where was she?

Rogue reached all around, trying to find anything useful. Something tangled her feet together, she realized, desperately kicking her feet. She kicked too hard while reaching toward her right… then promptly fell of the bed. Head first.

"Fuck," she hissed as her head banged something hard. Muffled running feet sounded and pulsed into her room. Light flooded into the room as someone flicked on the light. She closed her eyes quickly, unadjusted to the bright light. She timidly peeked out, almost fearing which reality she would have to face. Standing in front of the closed door stood Kitty, obvious with worry and concern crossing her delicate Valley Girl features.

"Oh my gosh, Rogue! Are you okay?" The valley girl attempted to whisper, but squeaked instead.

Rogue looked around. Black curtains adorned the windows, blocking out the stars and bright night sky's moon. Posters of dark, gothic bands covered the walls, almost making it hard to decipher the true color of the walls, which were a dark, romantic kind of purple. Tangled around her feet were the black comforters of her bed. She let out a sigh of relief. She was back in her room, not the disgusting laboratory. She glanced back at Kitty, who was giving her a puzzled look and still waiting for an answer.

"Yeah, I'm okay, Kit," she replied half-heartedly, while rubbing her sweaty forehead. Her head throbbed from where she hit her head on her nearby nightstand.

"Like, what happened?" Kitty implored. She moved closer to the fallen girl.

"The bed fell offa me," came the sarcastic remark. She untangled herself from her binds and plopped her covers on the bed.

"Okay, sure," she rolled her eyes. "What really happened? I was like, going to the bathroom and heard you talking all super loud, and then I came back and uh, here you are?" she explained, making a note to be quieter when her friend flinched at her loud tone.

"It was nothing, just a crazy dream," Rogue answered quietly. A migraine was rearing its ugly head again, and she needed a pretty pill. Bad. She began remaking her bed. Kitty threw some pillows onto the bed. She knew Rogue was done with this conversation and began to walk back to the door.

"Hey Rogue?" Kitty started. Rogue stopped what she was doing and turned around. "You would like, tell me if something was wrong, right?" Rogue gave her a ghost trace of a smile.

"Yeah, sure Kit," she lied, somewhat convincingly, somewhat tiredly. Kitty smiled at the answer.

"Good, because I'm totally here for you, you know." Kitty phased half of herself out the door before calling back a soft goodnight.

"Night Kit," she called out aimlessly. She turned off the light and waited by the door for a minute. After a safe amount of time had passed, she quietly opened the door and peered out. There was nobody in the halls and no lights were visibly turned on.

Taking one step, she quietly began walking down the hall. Logan's room was just ahead, around the corner really. Her quickened pace diminished to a snails crawl. With Logan's enhanced hearing, it would be harder than hell to get by unnoticed. He heard everything, from something a mile away to a mouse's fart.

It took forever to pass Logan's room. Small baby steps were all she could manage, and barely at that, she couldn't help but make the tiniest squeak. No doubt that if the Wolverine found her after hours, wandering the passages of the Xavier Institute, he'd either give her an awkward attempt at a heart-to-heart or a week of Danger Room Sessions. With her migraine building steadily, neither was really appealing. Finally, Rogue reached her destination: the kitchen.

Rogue looked around before she entered. Empty. It was dark and lonely, and since no one was there, it was somewhat creepy. Rogue placed a barefoot upon the cold tile and turned on one of the dimmer lights. She took delicate steps towards the back of the pantry and fumbled around boxes of cereal to find a container of aspirin. She quickly took out two tablets of pain relieving goodness, threw it to the farthest reaches of her mouth and drowned them with water. She swallowed the pills with a flinch and downed the whole glass of water in hopes to dissipate it all so she wouldn't feel the familiar lodge in her throat. She turned to refill it, and then downed another glass. About to gulp the rest, she was rudely interrupted mid swallow.

"What are you doing up?"

She nearly choked. She thought that when Logan didn't follow her out the hall that she was home free. Errrr! Wrong. She waited for the water in her nasal passages to clear before talking.

"Damnit, Logan! It's normal to make noise!" she gasped, still recovering.

"Normal doesn't exist here," was his lazy answer. He wrapped around the bar to the fridge, grabbing a beer, and popping it off with a flick of his wrist. He took a seat on the nearby stool. Rogue did the same; silently sipping her water while Logan stared at her with questioning eyes.

"What's up?"

"Oh y'know… just some good old nighttime reflection," she spoke into her cup meekly.

"Oh yeah? About what?" he asked, bored with her answer.

"The validity of studies on caffeine and their effects past 7pm," she replied quickly, shrugging, rehearsed. They both knew she was lying. Logan sighed. She knew that sound: it was the awkward heart-to-heart sigh.

"Them nightmares again?"

Rogue looked into her glass, somewhat queasy at the thought of her recent nightmare. Only the teachers knew about her nightly journey through the darker side of memories. Sure, the students residing knew about the incident where she had a nightmare about Kurt's past, but she was certain that's all they really knew.

"Whose?" Logan asked, taking a swig out of his bottle. Rogue inspected her hands. She had some idea of whose it was… but… please no…

"I… I don't know…" she started off, unable to find the words suddenly. She held her head with her hand, trying to think back. "It was dark...There was a lab. And when I finally opened my eyes, all I saw was green… Then, I was taken out and put on a table. They gassed me and started cutting me open… god, it was painful." Rogue unknowingly massaged her arms, wincing at the thought of it all. "I could feel the pain, Logan, even now…"

Her body involuntarily shook. Merely thinking about the pain drove shockwaves through her system. Each shocked her and lingered on until another shockwave feed it more power to pulse further. "It hurt so much. They were ripping apart my muscles and setting my bones on fire. I looked up and…god…" she diminished, remembering, but not wanting to say the rest. She felt sick.

"Ya look up and it looks like all your blood is on you, not in you. Then they leave…and the pain slowly stops, right?" Logan finished, unable to look at her, taking a long swig out of a second beer he magically produced.

She should have been surprised, but who was she kidding- it all made horrible sense. She pulled her head up, clearly tormented. He gave her a sad half smile.

"Don't look at me like that." Logan sighed and ran a hand through his unruly hair. "I'm sorry ya had to see that. A kid like you shouldn't be forced to relive people's memories."

"Wasn't your fault," Rogue responded, shrugging despondently. Of course it wasn't his fault. It was hers and her sucky excuse of a mutation. She rubbed her eyes. Her situation just wasn't getting any better.

"I'm… I'm going to head to bed right now. Night, Logan," she responded feebly. Quietly, she picked up her empty glass and stuck in the always-full dishwasher.

"Night," Logan called after her. Rogue made no response back. Instead she quickly sauntered off.

He took another swig and sighed. 'Of all the people who deserve a break…'

He could do nothing to help her and it sucked. At night he wondered what was really keeping her together. Hope, maybe? Hope for control, for a new beginning maybe. Either way, it wasn't coming fast enough; each day dragged on, taking the last thread of hope with it.

He finished the last of his beer and shook his head. It wouldn't be too long until she drowned in her life and hit rock bottom; Logan feared for that day, along with most of the instructors, feared what she might end up doing, willingly or not.

He walked back upstairs, patrolling the halls, stopping at her door, making sure he heard her breathing and rustling up the sheets. Such a parental thing to do, he knew and at any other point in his life, he'd be annoyed with himself. But Rogue… she needed this, the protective nature and the quiet, unnoticed checkups, whether she wanted it or not. And heck, maybe he needed it to.

Light.

She cringed and moaned. It was like a taunting joke to her. It was the end of a tunnel that she could never reach, it was the mocking shine of happiness and clarity. And as always, today it was another kind reminder. It told her to wake up. But she couldn't. She didn't want to. She wanted to stay in her self-created bed of darkness and silence and peacefulness.

She hated this cold light. Late afternoon light was okay in her book, twilight light too, even. She drew the line at the crack-of-dawn light though. Morning light meant another day she could never really enjoy. Another day to spend trapped in her crazy, lawless mind, drifting through the hoards of people who could never really understand.

Just another day.

A bright and beautiful one at that, complete with full breathless sunrise that assured someone else's happy-go-lucky day. She hated that.

Rogue popped her eyes open. Her head turned groggily towards the alarm clock with a pop. 6 AM. That time rang a small bell within the sanctuary of her mind. She thought about why that time felt so familiar…

Wait…

Didn't Logan's Danger Room Session start at precisely 6 AM? As in fully dressed, waiting with the rest of her teammates, and waiting for instructions?

And now, on this other goddamned beings blessed day, she was late. She hated that more.

Rogue flung her black covers off ferociously. Her room became a tornado of clothing as she ripped through her room trying to remember where she put her uniform. She applied her always-needed-always-present foundation and liner, taking less time than it did to put on her body suit. Her vanity drawer flew open and she dug in, recovering her training black gloves bitterly. She raced out the door, pulling taughtly as she flew.

'Wake up!' Rogue pleaded for her body to obey her for once. 'You're getting sloppy, damnit.'

Danger Room Sessions. Oh, how she hated them.

She understood the practical aspects of it, yes. There was always the "what-if" aspect of training: what if anti-mutant terrorists attacked the mansion, what if you had to rescue a fallen teammate during battle, or the one ever present during combat practice for Rogue, what if you were not able to use your mutation during battle?

However, this logic fell upon deaf ears so early in the morning. She had been trying for 2 years to get into this early morning routine, but apparently, she just wasn't the jovial morning type. This, compounded with memories and nightmares and the general annoyance being her, created a bit of an issues being awake. She had contemplated morning after morning just siphoning some of that morning "go-getter" attitude of Scott and Jean, except the thoughts that would surely accompany it just wouldn't be worth it.

So here she was, half asleep and confused, fighting the "what if your life was dependant on getting a small, red flag" game. In the light of recent events, she felt this was pointless- very pointless and very stupid. Dealing with Apocalypse a few months back had given the team, and especially Logan, a rude awakening as to how much more training was needed. Thus, they were training and training hard.

And it didn't help the situation that she was dead exhausted. After her heart-to-heart with Logan, her sleep was fitful and only an hour at most. She had firmly decided she preferred the ambiguity of her borrowed nightmares. Just the memory itself was terrifying- but putting a face to a memory? Especially your mentor, your almost father figure? Just the remembrance of Logan's memory sent shivers down her spine and her entire being was engrossed in fear and panic and heartache. Needless to say, she couldn't close her eyes without flashes playing in her mind, without her body twitching and shaking and covered in a cold sweat.

But instead of feeling the horrible dragging of her eyelids, she tried to remove herself from the exhaustion and force her tired body to carry on with mental exertion. During the entire training she had idly listened to the barked orders through her earphone and reported back as little as possible. Based on her mental tally of everyone on her team and the opposing team, only 4 students were left- Cyclops and Rogue against Jean and Kitty. Neither team had yet to capture the flag and there was only 10 minutes left on the clock.

Rogue leaned against a large tower of crates. The boxes were only stacked two to three high, next to each other to create a maze. There were some supposedly deserted warehouses slightly beyond the thicket of wooden boxes. It was no problem to get lost and create a full circle in this confusion. You always ran into someone, which is what most of her teammates did. 'Very creative, Logan,' she thought sarcastically. So stereotypical. What they really needed was an everyday re-enactment of Apocalypse – something that was practical and real.

Her communicator linked. "I'm out," came a breathy, groaning reply. Cyclops. She cursed back into the communicator angrily. She knew how that battle went. Cyclops ran into Jean, Jean kicked his ass because Cyclops refused to beat up his girlfriend. Way to take one for the team.

And now she was all alone. Against a telepath and a phaser. She groaned. This should turn out well.

From behind a large crate, she peered out, anxious to find something that would end the session. She crept down the long corridor listening for the sounds of "the enemy." After making another turn, she heard some creaking and the slow intake of breath. Shadowcat. She snapped back behind the cover of the crates and peeked out carefully.

On the other side of the wooden wall, Shadowcat's brunette head barely popped out from the crate, phased only until her neck. Rogue yanked her head back from Shadowcat's view, praying she hid in time as to not have been seen. She heard a controlled exhale. Shadowcat had fully left her phased state.

'You know what you have to do,' someone's unhelpful hiss spoke into her ear. Her mouth went dry and she felt slightly nauseated. She clenched her eyes and shuddered, trying to prepare herself. Off came the black glove off one hand; she stuffed it in her belt. Again she peered out. Shadowcat was walking in the direct opposite direction, cautiously too, her hands ready for a surprise attack… from the front.

"Jean, like, what's your status?"

Rogue made her resolve and forced herself into daze. She felt herself creeping forward quickly, deadly quiet from her training. She couldn't hesitate- Shadowcat could phase rather quickly. Rogue was behind her, her hand shaking as it snaked out quickly, finding the bare skin of Shadowcat's neck. A sharp jolt ran through her body and she yanked back as fast as she could, like she was burnt.

She felt herself catching Kitty and fell to the ground with her, trying to right her way back into awareness. She ignored the memories, the voices, the uproar, and just tried to focus on the power aspect of it- which she was sure she would need to take down Jean.

Kitty let out a glurgled noise and looked at Rogue with a confused expression.

"Oh, hello," she replied sleepily.

"Sorry, Kit," she whispered.

"S'okay," she slurred.

Kitty's communicator beeped. "I'm on of a pile to the right of you. Have you found Rogue yet? She's the last one." Kitty snorted a little, reaching up lazily to respond.

"I'm out," she forced out, taking out her communicator and turning it off. "Good luck," she smiled weakly at Rogue.

Rogue took one last sad look at her weakened friend. God, she really hated these battling session. She now had Kitty's power for the time being, and she'd better use it up. She propped Kitty up against the crate, and holding her breath, phased through an empty crate on the right. She walked into another pathway. Nothing. Again, she ran into more crates, and popped her head out. Still nothing. She propelled herself upwards, poking her head through the top.

Only a few boxes over stood the ever-so-radiant Jean Grey, facing the other way in perfect poise. Obviously, she searched for the one named Rogue.

Rogue dropped down, and started sprinting through the crates and pathways. Kitty's abilities were slowly waning, and Rogue needed them to finish this. It would last probably another minute at most Kitty's phasing power slowly ebbed away from Rogue's mental grasp. The rest of Rogue phased up soundlessly and stood behind her, close enough to smell the faint scent of Jean's perfume.

Hand still ungloved from her last attack, she swiftly made the last small step to the glowing telepath. She closed her eyes- this one would particularly hurt. She felt her body tighten and her arm snap forwards and ensnared Jean's partially covered hand.

And they both screamed automatically.

"Let go! Let go!" screamed Rogue's voice out of Jean's mouth.

They both fell to the floor, the impact jarring Rogue away from Jean's hand.

Thousands of voices exploded, each talking at their own speed, own pitches, own slang. They all pounded in Rogue's head. She pressed her temples, and then covered her ears in attempt to drown out the noise. She fell to her knees, crying at the pain still throbbing in her head. Rogue gripped the floor, trying to ground herself in the torrent of voices and thoughts and memories. There were so many more this time and she struggled to hear herself think and not be lost in the minds of everyone else. This is why Jean's powers hurt.

She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. Floods of memories flowed into Rogue. They all reeled in her head, like a silent movie gone too fast. She looked around her head; images played like a movie, each revealing something different: Jean's first kiss, being with Scott, her powers evolving. Everything was coming to her head at a rapid pace, cluttering her mind dangerously. She felt herself being swirled away, lost in her mind with the chaos.

And she knew it shouldn't have gone this far, the memories should have been gone by now. The last time she absorbed Jean, this did not happen. Jean's powers had certainly grown since before Apocalypse; obviously, so had Rogue's.

From the back of her mind, she willed herself to keep going, and find that flag. She watched as her body got up and stumble. She looked around, half seeing the warehouse, half seeing the inside tornado of her mind. She didn't know how her body was moving- maybe some automaticity-survival mechanism, but was she ever grateful. Internally, Rogue was slowly getting buried, even as she fought and screamed to get control of her own mind, while still searching around for that stupid flag.

And then she realized all the voices, all of them repeating Jean's and Rogue's name, all of them panicked and worried and ready to bolt, weren't just the psyches exploding- it was Jean's telepathy. Jean's telepathy was picking up on every observer in the control room and Rogue couldn't find the off switch.

She started to panic. She had been getting better with controlling and ignoring everyone that she absorbed, but this was too much. She was being drowned under everything, left unable to think for herself. Within her own mind she felt like she was being caged into a trap. It was all too much. The pain slowed her thinking to a dull murmur. Conscienceless, she could feel her mind go into unwilling shock, even as she screamed at herself to stay conscious. No, she would not fall victim to her damn mutation and its side effects, not again. She kept her body moving by the single thread of willpower still connecting her to the outside world.

From the back of her mind she watched as her world grew hazy and quiet. The voices were still there, she was just shutting herself down. She was watching herself dream. It was quiet, like a black and white movie. It felt like the quiet destruction of the world portrayed in movies- mass chaos with the pictures showing silent reels of toddlers crying and people screaming. All she realized that was she couldn't help herself out of her mental stupor.

Black dots danced in front of her face. She was in the Danger Room, flying over the boxes and crates, praying for this to end quickly. There was no sound but the dreary hum of her heartbeat in the back of her mind. It was the only thing there, the deep monotonous ticking. It went slow. It pulsed with the pound and throb of her migraine. It flowed with the rush of her blood. It swirled with the thoughtless mess. She wanted to fall over and sleep and just forget this ever happened- after she got that stupid flag.

Her body was flying, so fast- Jean's telekinesis had lifted every crate around them, trying to reveal where the stupid flag was. Through the black spots dotting her vision, Rogue could make out a red flag waving about carelessly, surrounded by boxes.

And her body was making a bee-line for it...

Even as Jean's powers started draining- rapidly. But out came her outstretched hand, grasping the flag mid air, crumpling it in her fist and holding on to it for dear life.

And she had done it, just as the last vestiges of Jean's power whispered away.

'Ugh, stupid perfectionist Jean. This so wasn't worth it,' she thought sleepily as she black out mid-plummet to the floor.

Hello all! Here it is: The Wreckage. It's taken a while to do this and a lot of complication on what to do with this. I've made somewhat of a coherent plan on where I want to take it and have a lot written. It's a matter of pushing past the writer's block and prioritizing (because I'm in the throes of applying for graduation in June and eventually getting an adult life with an adult job and adult hobbies…).

You'll notice that this is re-editing of some chapters and next chapter, re-editing with a CRAP TON of new stuff. You'll see I changed the entire direction and general idea of the story. I'm changing what I had originally (and unintentional) clichéd emo Rogue and overly-focused-on-Rogue Remy. I'll prob take down TS soon too (stupid ff rules…)

Also, I took a small inspiration from one of my favorite songs for this story motif. House of Blues pizookie to whoever figures it out. Anyways… expect the next chapter soon (within the next decade, I promise)!

Toodles! (and review me please! It's almost finals week and I need some motivation to be productive and a will to live!)