Hi all, chapter two is finally here! I've just started back to University full-time so my time to write has been pushed back to just before I go to sleep. The next couple of chapters will be quite exciting to write though, you'll see why at the end of this one ;)

As always, please review!


CHAPTER TWO


Rogue was aware she probably looked like a starving dog unleashed in a butcher's shop but she didn't care. She swallowed another huge mouthful of ham and chips and hailed down a passing waitress. "And I'll have another glass of water... No wait." She squinted at the fridge behind the counter. "Actually get me a Fanta Orange please."

The waitress looked down at the various empty and half empty plates on the table in front of her. Rogue forced a grin, knowing she had god knows what stuck in her teeth and smeared around her mouth. "It's one of those days. Could I get some ice with my Fanta too?"

There was a small television behind the counter which was bleating out some report on mutant relations. A giant blue hairy man she recognised as Dr Hank McCoy was being interviewed but she wasn't giving him any of her attention. She was taking the day off and she was going to enjoy it, and she was starting off by stuffing herself full of delicious cooked hams with chips and vegetables and breads with butter and jam. Afterwards she wanted to do something ridiculous like visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art or Central Park or something. Feel like a tourist for once and not a tramp.

The waitress brought her Fanta and she chugged half of it from the bottle in one go.

There was a grubby looking man in dirt splattered overalls sitting at the counter. He had been watching her since she had started eating, not looking away even when she had met his eye defiantly over a forkful of carrots. His tiny eyes were now thankfully fixed on the television.

Rogue pulled her map of New York out of her shoulder bag. It was marked with little x's here and there to denote the streets the men she had already robbed lived and an o for each of the red light districts she had already frequented. She marked a little x on the fancy street she had been the previous night, knowing it was probably a one in a thousand chance someone with that much money would be likely to pick her up again.

As she pondered the best route to take her to the Met, her ears picked up the drone of the news report.

"...now the Department of Mutant Affairs is reporting that the so-called 'Mutant Cure' released by Worthington Labs in the summer has reached a failure rate of 74%. Depending on the Class rating of the individual mutant, the cure may have rescinded as little as one month after application. Indeed many Lower Class mutants – between Classes One and Three – have reported their powers returning only under extenuating circumstances, such as periods of high stress or agitation. This is believed to have been the case two weeks ago when a woman was accidentally killed by a fireman during an arson evacuation in Milwaukee. The fireman, later discovered to be mutant who had received the Worthington Labs cure some two months before the incident, was apprehended at the scene and was reported to have pointed barbs protruding from his face, hands and arms. The Milwaukee police department..."

The man in the overalls snorted. "Bunch of fucking freaks," he declared, not bothering to keep his voice down.

The report moved on to a description of mutant Class systems. Rogue's stomach clenched. A photograph of a beautiful red-haired woman had appeared on screen.

"... the telekinetic mutant Dr Jean Grey who was a lead figure in the terror cell The Brotherhood of Mutants is believed to be the only known Class Five mutant in existence. She was responsible for the murder of thirty eight American soldiers and an unknown number of mutant terrorists on Alcatraz Island two months ago. Although she died at the scene, the circumstances of her death are..."

Responsible for murder? A lead figure in The Brotherhood of Mutants? Were they kidding?

Storm and Logan had appealed on Jean's behalf to the highest authorities. They had brought compelling evidence of her illness – reports from Professor X's lab and excerpts from his journals all about the dual personality, the instability. Those who knew Dr Grey, who had been so elegant and refined, couldn't be anything but offended and outraged that these accidental deaths were being stamped all over her name under the term murder. But Storm and Logan were rebuked, their evidence ignored. Why? Cause it didn't fit in with the government's agenda, which in her personal opinion was looking more and more anti-mutant day by day.

"...will recognise the face of the founder and leader of The Brotherhood of Mutants, Erik Lehnsherr, also known as Magneto. Lehnsherr, whose whereabouts are currently unknown, ranks as a Class Four mutant along with several of his accomplices, including Raven Darkholme and John Allerdyce. The factors that..."

Three photographs filled the screen. Magneto and Mystique's photos were mug shots that had been taken during their separate incarcerations. The other photo, which featured a young man with badly bleached blond hair, was a frozen still from surveillance footage of some kind. A caption underneath his image stated that he had died this year. On Alcatraz presumably. Rogue looked away quickly.

Feeling like her hams and peas were going to make a sudden reappearance all over the table, she threw what looked like an appropriate number of bills onto the counter and made a hasty exit. She bent over outside the diner, one hand pressed hard against her stomach, the other clutching the stair railings for balance.

She didn't hear about Alcatraz until she had returned to the X Mansion with the cure pumping through her veins. On the bus with her travel bag at her feet, her coat folded in her lap. Her gloves tucked away out of sight. She wore a t-shirt and when the bus turned at corners, her elbow would brush against the arm of the man sitting beside her. And nothing happened. No roaring of blood, no veins popping to the surface, no eyes rolling back, no silent gaping screams. She, for the first time since she could remember, was normal. She could barely keep the smile off her face, couldn't keep the various scenarios out of her mind. Kissing Bobby, touching his skin, making love for the first time...

And then she had walked through the door and shit hit the fan. Jean was dead. Logan was a broken man. Bobby was bruised and bloodied on the sofa hand in hand with an equally bedraggled Kitty Pryde. Feeling like it wasn't her place to walk in on them all sitting so sombrely in the wake of battle, she had slipped past them and no one had bothered to look up.

Later that day they had called an assembly with all the pupils to inform them of Jean's death. They briefly described what had happened. Magneto had ordered an assault on Worthington Labs, intent on murdering an innocent mutant child. His efforts had resulted in nearly fifty deaths of humans and mutants alike. After the X-Men had emerged from the fight victorious, Magneto had escaped alive but powerless, with several phials of the cure stuck in his chest. A promise that we would build on this setback to ensure a safer and better future for us all. Nobody mentioned John.

"Are you alright, dear?"

Rogue looked up. One of the waitresses had poked her head out the door.

"Yes." She cleared her throat, straightened up. "Yes, I'm fine. Just ate too much."

The waitress held out a ten and a five dollar bill with some change. "You overpaid us, dear."

Rogue waved it away. "Stick it in your tip jar or something."

The man in the dirty overalls pushed his way past the waitress and gave her a suspicious look as he pulled a hat over his head. "Why're you wearing those gloves?"

"It's cold."

"You were wearing them indoors."

She suddenly became angry.

"Why don't you mind your own fucking business?" she spat.

She had wanted a nice, normal day for once and it was being shit all over by this fucking ugly moron and that stupid fucking news report and stupid dead John Allerdyce. Like coming home excited about being cured only to be ignored by everyone she cared about. Feeling shamefully selfish, she sloped off down the street, all plans of visiting the Met chucked out the window.


The sun was low in the sky when she finally stopped wandering aimlessly through the streets and settled herself on a bench in a children's playground. She squinted up at its cold glare through the trees. Mornings seemed to fade into her dreaded nights so quickly, days merging into other days with nothing to set them apart. She didn't even bother to track what day of the week it was anymore.

A few families had braced the evening chill to take their children out to play. She watched for a moment as a little girl struggled to climb into a swing set and was hit with the realisation that, with the cure failing her so spectacularly, all her chances of ever bearing children had failed with it. While she had established some control over her power, it took an incredible amount of concentration. Even if she got to point where she was able to hold it off long enough to make love, how could she hold it off for nine consecutive months? It was impossible. If any potential child of hers managed to implant itself in her womb and she could focus on keeping her powers under control during the day, it wouldn't matter. The minute she'd fall asleep, her powers would take over and drain all the life from it in seconds.

The cure had offered her another path – one that looked a bit like her church back in Meridian, laden with fresh flowers, light shining down through the stained glassed windows, Bobby standing at the alter in a fine suit, so beautiful and wonderful and perfect that it had been worth it. Becoming what she'd both wanted and feared. A conformist. Someone who took the easy way out to fit in. But now all the flowers had withered and the glass shattered between the pews. That path had been shut off to her now, like she had won the lottery and then lost the ticket.

The little girl fell off the swing into the dirt and started screeching. Her older brother rushed over to scoop her up. Rogue watched them with a small smile. As their mother groaned and took the little girl off her son, he stepped back, and Rogue's gaze fell on a rather strange sight behind them in the trees.

At least she thought it did. She blinked and the trees were empty. But for a split second...

An icy hand seemed to grip her heart. She grabbed her bag and made for the park exit. When she got out onto the street, she broke out into a half run. Once she had cut through enough side streets and emerged onto a busy road full of open fronted restaurants and people smoking outside bars, she slowed down, a stitch aching in her side.

There had been a man watching her in the trees. And if that hadn't been foreboding enough, he had made a dash for it the minute she had caught him. That was a bad sign. That was a very, very bad sign.

Was someone following her?

She darted into a grimy looking bar with several letters missing on its sign. Inside was just as unpleasant. She ordered Logan's favourite – a scotch neat – and slid shakily onto a stool, trying not to panic.

Ok, if someone was following her, it was more than likely going to be one of the men she had knocked unconscious and stole money from. But how had he found her? Had he spotted her out on the street and recognised her? She hadn't been the most inconspicuous, wearing her trademark grey streak out in the open for all to see. But what were the chances that any of those men would ever run into her again? In New York City, where nearly eight and half million lived? Especially when she was moving around so frequently?

Another option was that the man had been a policeman. That he had been tipped off and had managed to tail her. Or maybe he was somebody looking to lock up streetwalkers. She tried to remember the guy who had been watching her on the street the previous night, but all she could distinguish from the shadows was his cigarette.

For a few silly hopeful seconds, she imagined it might've been someone from X Mansion – maybe Bobby or Logan – but they would never have let her get into a car with a man who was buying a blow job off her. The man who had been watching her hadn't been as tall as they were anyway.

She should just go back. To X Mansion. Try and make something work, even if it wasn't her pathetic excuse for a relationship or her shitty friends.

Rogue downed her scotch, screwing up her face against the burning trail it left in her insides, and ordered another. Fuck Bobby. And fuck Logan too for ignoring her for so long. Fuck the puny little prick that was following her around. Fuck Magneto and John and that stupid blue whore Mystique. Fuck everyone who she'd ever had the misfortune to meet.

In her misery it felt like she had been sitting around shooting the shit for hours. The barman eventually told her she was too drunk and she opened her mouth to politely protest and ending up screaming at him to fuck off. She had to make a break for it instead of suffering the shame of being thrown out, and when she teetered out onto the pavement, there was still some light in the sky. She can't have been there for more than an hour at the most. She staggered sideways and clung to a lamppost for support. The world was spinning every which way.

A man with a massive belly gripped her arm. "You're out of it, love." He leaned close to her face and she could smell his foul breath. Her stomach lurched violently.

"Get out of my way or I'll kill you," she said. He laughed, but let go.

The ground rose up dangerously several times as she stumbled along. Several people tried to intervene, get her help or whatever but she just yelled and they left her alone. She could hear their mean words – 'disgrace', 'shameful' and other insanely judgemental crap. But they didn't know her so how dare they? They didn't know anything beyond their piggy little eyes. They didn't know the isolation of her mutation and what she had sacrificed, or at least tried to, in order to avoid a lifetime of disappointments. They didn't know how she got the grey in her hair, or why she was carrying everything she owned in her shoulder bag.

At some point, she found herself crouched behind some dumpsters down a dark alleyway. She tucked her head between her knees and groaned. She was probably going to puke. Why did she have to 'do a Logan' and think that drinking away her sorrows was going to solve anything?

Her hands fumbled in her coat pockets. That was it. She was going to do it. Call him. Get him to rev up on his bike and whisk her away back to the only place she could call home. She'd had enough.

Almost as soon as the thought crossed her mind, a pair of lights blared at her from one of the alleyway. For a crazy couple of seconds, she imagined she had somehow contacted Logan telepathically and he'd arrived in his car to save her.

She recognised it – fancy, sporty, sleek. Cyclops's old car – the one they had used to flee X Mansion to Bobby's house in Boston. She felt the laugh bubbling up, got to her feet unsteadily. She couldn't believe it. Maybe she had developed some sort of telepathy over the last month, side effect of the cure or something.

She had taken just one step when the realisation hit her like a slap up the face.

She did know this car. But it wasn't Cyclops's. It was almost the same except for one thing – this one was black, Cyclops's had been blue.

This was the car that had picked her up last night.

With a cry of panic, she turned to make a break for it. Stumbled over her heels and came crashing to the ground. A door slammed. She had just wriggled one of her gloves off when a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her not so gently to her feet.

She lashed out, missed. Her assailant grabbed her other arm and twisted them both behind her back. Her bare hand groped desperately but it was no use. She was disarmed.

A breathless laugh gusted against her ear.

"Wow," the man said. "That brought a whole new level to the meaning of pathetic."

She knew that voice – but she was pretty sure it didn't belong to the man from last night.

"What do you want?"

"That depends. What're you selling?" His fingers were like a vice, enough to leave bruises even through the fabric of her coat. He was keeping her bare hand pressed against her back. He knew.

"That's very funny," she said. "Except not to me. So you're the one who's been following me about?"

"I had to check you out."

"Why?"

When he didn't reply straight away, she snapped, "Why have you been following me?"

"Not every day you come across a mutant whore."

"Who says I'm a mutant?"

He snorted. "Don't act like I'm stupid."

"OK." She tried again. "Who says I'm a whore?"

"Oh yeah – you must have been offering those forty dollar blow jobs on the street corner just for market research."

There was a short pause.

This guy had watched her get picked up last night – the strange man in the shadows – but how did he have the punter's car? How did he know about her mutation? And why did he have to feel the need to follow her around to... to do this? Attack her in an alleyway? Her mind shot back to her abduction by Magneto. How he had strapped her to a machine that had nearly killed her. This guy could be one of his men. And if he wasn't, the likely alternatives were worse. After Alcatraz, the numbers of human on mutant attacks were rising day by day. Unexplained disappearances, bodies in the rivers, burnt out homes and cars. And even if this guy wasn't anti-mutant, he could still damn well be a rapist.

Rogue contemplated how likely she'd be able to get a good kick at this guy's legs in her unstable state when his next words stunned her. His mouth had moved very close to her ear.

"I followed you last night – saw what you did through the window."

She grit her teeth. "So?"

"So do you always drain your victims right away? Or have you let any of them get to second base? I can think of better ways to make a fast buck than going back to guys' houses and making them think you're hard up for dick." The leer in his voice was unmistakable. "Maybe you enjoy it."

"You fucking pervert," she spat. She struggled against his grip but it only tightened in warning. "I have to get a roof over my head somehow – and don't you fucking judge me, you don't even know me!"

He laughed. "Apparently I don't."

"And let go of me! Do you get off on following girls around and dragging them down alleyways or something? Whatever you think you're going to do to me, do it and go to hell, I'll kill you before you even manage–"

He let out a loud, fake snore. "You're not going to do anything Rogue, so just pipe the fuck down before someone comes to investigate."

She stopped struggling. "How do you know my name?"

"For fuck's sake, I know you're drunk and everything cause you smell like a brewery, but you were never this stupid."

He loosened his grip. She wrenched herself forwards and whipped round, bewildered. He had never been tall for his age and he was skinnier than she remembered. The blare from the headlights did little to disguise the bags under his eyes and the pallor of his skin but he was completely and utterly recognisable.

It couldn't possibly...

"John?"