Chapter 4

Storm surveyed the assembled students as they milled around the Danger Room waiting for morning training to start. Scott and Jean were missing, but they'd been excused due to their late-night studying. The only other person missing was Gambit.

"Rogue," she called. Rogue turned, her hands on her head as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She held a hair elastic in her teeth. "Where is Gambit?" Rogue generally knew the answer to this question.

Rogue wrapped the elastic around her hair and tugged the ponytail tight. "He's gone," she announced, her voice flat and matter-of-fact.

Despite her nonchalance, her words brought silence crashing down on the room. "He's what?" Kitty asked.

"Gone," Rogue echoed. "He talked to the Professor, and the Professor agreed, so he left. He said he'd be back in a few months, maybe."

"Oh, Rogue . . ." Amara reached out to grip her shoulder, in an awkward attempt at sympathy and solidarity.

Rogue pulled away. "Don't touch me," she ordered gently, the words more old catchphrase than command. "Ah'm okay. Really. So let's train, 'cause Ah'm hungry and Ah want mah stupid breakfast."

She did look okay. Surprisingly so. She was pale, of course, but that was normal for Rogue, as were the faint shadows under her eyes. But she stood up straight, and her gaze was alert and focused, her makeup perfect, her uniform clean, her shoulders relaxed. Rogue looked as calm and collected as she ever had. She wasn't glowing with irrepressible happiness, as she had been yesterday morning and for most of the school year, but she was strong. Steady. Focused. That had to count for something.

Storm turned away. If Rogue wished to handle this situation by continuing her usual routine, then Storm saw no reason to stop her. "Take your places, please. I am activating the training run."

She lifted herself up off the floor and joined Logan in the observation room above the training space.

"Rogue says that Gambit left last night," she announced, shutting the door behind her.

Logan didn't look up from the monitors. "Yeah. I passed him on my way in."

In contrast to Rogue, Logan looked a wreck. He'd been out again last night, probably picking fistfights in every roadside bar between the mansion and Manhattan. There were hollows under his eyes from lack of sleep, and he needed to shave.

"She seems to be handling it well," Storm observed, leaving out any comments on who wasn't handling things well.

"She's a tough kid. About to be a tough grown-up. She can handle anything."

"Hopefully true," Storm agreed. "Did you know he was planning to leave?"

"Nope. But everybody's gotta go sometime."

Storm spared a glance for the training students below them, then focused again on Logan. "What do you mean by that?"

Logan shrugged. "I had a long night, 'Ro. Don't know much of what I mean right now."

"If you refuse to answer my question, please tell me so. Do not insult me by lying."

Logan sighed, still not looking at her. "What I meant was that there's only so long a guy can stand living in an untenable situation, and we all knew Gambit's situation was untenable. Rogue's powers. His background. Somethin' had to give. I'm just glad it was sooner rather than later. Better for everybody that way."

"You think he left because of Rogue?"

"Why he left's his own business. He decided it was best, so he went. Gotta give him credit for guts."

"But Rogue seems quite assured that he will come back."

"Maybe he will."

Storm pursed her lips and looked away. She and Gambit had grown to be good friends over his months at the Institute: they'd bonded over their shared criminal past, and he'd never been afraid to tease or challenge her. She would miss him during his absence.

Almost as much as she missed her friend Logan, with whom she had raised two children and trained many others. The Logan she'd known and trusted these many years didn't stay out all night drinking and show up to morning workout as hung over as he was capable of being. He didn't speak in riddles or try to feed her lies.

The team relied on him, for guidance, protection, and unity. Storm had no idea how she and Scott would ever manage trying to run the X-Men without him. The Institute needed Logan . . . and Logan was slowly slipping away.

"Sam's still weaving when he tries to fly straight," Logan told her, still not looking up. "I told him to keep his eye on the target." He flipped on the intercom and bellowed, "HILLBILLY! You were supposed to wake up half an hour ago. How about you get on that?"

"Kurt, please be more careful of your orientation," Storm added. "You are losing time getting your bearings."

She stepped back and sighed, quietly. Logan was certainly in the midst of some personal crisis, but his focus was still on the students. As long as that was true, then they would all be all right.

"So he's going on some kind of, like, crime spree thing?" Kitty wanted to know.

She, Rogue, and Kurt were sitting on the lawn, their three lunches spread into one communal food collection in front of them. They could still see the younger students at the picnic table, and the rest of the team could see them, but they could converse without being overheard.

"Ah guess so," Rogue allowed. "Ah don't really know all the details. Ah do know 'master thief' is a big deal, like a PhD or something. And he was worried about gettin' rusty."

"So is he just going out and stealing stuff, or is he at some thief university someplace?" Kurt wanted to know.

"Ah think the first one. Imagine tryin' tuh run a thief university . . . how would you keep track of all your pens and stuff?"

"What if he gets caught?" asked Kitty, popping a carrot in her mouth.

"Ah think he flunks."

"And how about you? How're you doing?"

Rogue shrugged. "Okay, Ah guess. Still ticked as heck that he took off without me. Still ticked as heck that Ah let him. How did Ah even let him talk me into that?"

"Well, you wouldn't actually have left," Kitty assured her. "Not with school, and the team, and everything. You can't just leave home like that."

"Gambit did."

"Well, yeah, but you're . . ."

"Ah'm what? How'm Ah so different from him, that he can leave and Ah have to stay?"

"Well, he is a thief."

Rogue scowled. "Ah wish tuh high heaven Ah'd never paid for those stupid shoes."

With a sigh of deep personal sacrifice, Kurt tossed the last snack cake at Rogue. "Have some sugar. It'll make you feel better."

Rogue tossed it back. "Not hungry." Kurt shrugged and tore off the cellophane. "Ah think Ah'd rather be a thief than be stuck goin' to college. What am Ah even gonna do in college? What'm Ah gonna study? I been pickin' a different major at random on every application."

"Pick what you're good at," Kitty suggested. "I know I wanna do science, but I'm not going to declare a major until I've done my GEs and have a better idea of what branch I'd be most interested in."

"Yeh sound like a brochure," Rogue accused her. "And Ah ain't good at anythin', except flyin'. And bench-pressin' the X-Jet. But Ah don't think that's a major."

"Vell, you're not very good at stealing stuff, either," Kurt pointed out.

"You say that because you're not her roommate," said Kitty. "She took my afghan two years ago and she still hasn't given it back."

"Hey . . . Ah'm from Mississippi and you're from Illinois. Ah need it a ton more than you do."

Kurt shrugged and set about eating the rest of the food, since it looked like the girls were slowing down.

"I wonder if he'll write, or something," Kitty wondered aloud as she took one last carrot before Kurt descended upon the rest. "Or e-mail. He could e-mail, right? Or could they trace that?"

"Who's 'they'?" Kurt wanted to know.

"I don't know. Whoever's gonna be after him."

"So . . . everybody, soon enough. If I know Gambit."

Rogue rolled her eyes. "Yeah, the boy sure has a way of makin' friends and influencin' people. He didn't say if he'd e-mail, or call, or whatever. E-mail doesn't really seem like his style. Not dramatic enough. But if we wake up one of these mornings and find the Winged Victory of Samothrace on the front lawn, well, don't say Ah didn't warn y'all."

As it turned out, Gambit did write. Sort of. A week after he left, a postcard arrived at the mansion. It was of the Manhattan skyline, and had a postmark to match. The address was unmistakably in Gambit's swift, graceful-in-its-sloppiness half-cursive handwriting. There was no message written on the left-hand side of the card. Instead, the card bore a quick drawing of two playing cards: the ace of spades and the queen of hearts.

Roberto got the mail the day it came, which meant that everybody in the house new about the postcard ten minutes after it had arrived. When Rogue got her hands on the card, though, it immediately vanished from public circulation. The same thing happened to the card from Madrid, and the one from Amsterdam. After that, Rogue started picking up the mail.

Which turned out to be a good thing when she got the package.

It was just a padded manila envelope. The postmark was smudged, and the parts that she could read seemed to be in Arabic, or Turkish, or something. The return address, scrawled across the flap of the envelope, was the Institute's.

Rogue took the envelope to the far edge of the grounds, where their woods cut off abruptly at the edge of a cornfield. She landed on a boulder, relatively comfortable and extremely secluded, and sliced open the package.

To her extreme disappointment, there wasn't a piece of paper inside. Not even the smallest note on a scrap of receipt tape.

She had to set the envelope down for a minute—there was a sudden, piercing ache in her chest that made it hard to breathe. Now, more than ever, she hated herself for being so cooperative and letting him leave her behind. She'd been spared guilt, but somehow she felt that loneliness and frustration were worse. And added to that the daily burden of being calm and collected, of pretending that nothing was wrong, because she was Rogue and she was tough and independent and she was not going to let herself go to pieces in front of the whole house. Everything had to be fine. She wouldn't have Jean pitying her.

Biting her tongue to keep her emotions in check, she tipped the envelope upside-down and shook it. A tiny white object dropped out and landed in her hand.

It was a ring, surprisingly heavy for its size, a broad band made of some hard white metal. At first glance, it was unadorned, but as Rogue turned it over she saw that the embellishments were on the inside, not the outside, of the band.

On one side was a bright green emerald, tiny but clear, set into the metal so it wouldn't irritate the wearer's skin. Directly across from it was a little red-and-black stone, its gleam unsettlingly familiar. Between the gems were engravings: on one side, a capital A and a spade; on the other, a Q and a heart.

Rogue spent a long time staring at it.

She had a general idea of how rare and valuable red diamonds were—what kind of crazy stunt must he have pulled to steal one, have it set, and send it to her when he'd only been gone a few weeks? Then there was the emerald, and the ring itself . . . this thing had to be worth a small fortune, and not a penny of that fortune had been paid for. If anyone found this, she was going to prison for receiving stolen goods.

But it was so beautiful. And it was hers. Remy'd had it made for her. Even the astounding value of the trinket wasn't just for the money . . . Rogue knew that the French word for 'expensive' was chère.

It was such a tiny thing . . . nobody had to know she had it. Rogue caught her middle finger in her teeth and pulled off her left glove. If she wore it under the glove, it wouldn't show through.

It fit her fourth finger. Drat Remy and his attention to detail. But if nobody saw it, it didn't matter which finger she wore it on. She slipped the ring on, then pulled the glove over it. Almost invisible. Her secret.

Hers and Remy's.

It was raining. Welcome to Scotland.

Gambit knocked on the front door of the long, low, building, then stuffed his hand back into his pocket. Not that it was any dryer in there. But it was a little warmer, and it was important that he keep his dexterity. His fingers toyed absently with his Institute badge.

A light flickered on inside, and after a few seconds the door eased open. "Hello?"

"I'm lookin' fo'a Doctor Moira MacTaggart."

"You've found her." The door opened wider, and the light inside framed the form of a barefoot, middle-aged woman in a dressing gown with tendrils of red hair falling in her eyes. "Though it looks like you may've drowned yourself in the process," she observed, her voice a pleasant, musical Scottish accent. "Who're you, then?"

"De name's Gambit." Gambit pulled his hand from his pocket and showed her the red-and-black X. "Word was de name of Charles Xavier would earn a body someplace t'sleep here."

A smile, tired but pleased, appeared on Dr. MacTaggart's face. "You're one of Charles's students?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then come in and welcome."

Gambit gratefully stepped in out of the rain, wiping the last trickles of water out of his eyes. "Thank you."

"You're soaked to the skin, young man!" the doctor chided him. "Come through to the kitchen, so you can drip on summat as can be mopped. I'll put the kettle on." She indicated the correct door, then hurried down the hallway, wrapping her dressing gown more tightly around her. "Sean! It's one of Charles's students!"

"What's Charles doin' sendin' us his students with no warning in the middle of the night?" asked a man's voice.

"He didn't send me, exactly," Gambit offered as Dr. MacTaggart ushered him into the kitchen. "'Fraid I was a little underhanded. I found your name on some old medical records . . . a case you consulted on."

"Hm," said the doctor disapprovingly, opening the tap to fill up a stainless steel kettle. "I thought for sure Charles took better care of his records than that."

"Oh, he takes good care of 'em," Gambit affirmed. "I'm just very, very nosy. And I wanted t'know 'bout a friend. It looked to me like you and Professor Xavier exchanged a lotta correspondence on her back in de day."

"What's her name?"

"Rogue."

"Rogue." MacTaggart repeated the name, her voice soft and sad.

"You remember her case?"

"Oh, yes."

"What's all the commotion, then?" asked the man's voice. It was followed into the kitchen by the man himself, a robust and well-built blond of perhaps forty. His voice lilted, too, but on a different rhythm . . . probably Irish, with a name like Sean. "Evenin', young man. Trifle late for a social call, but we're glad to see you nonetheless." He offered a hand. "Sean Cassidy."

"Remy LeBeau," Gambit offered in exchange. "But 'Gambit' suits if yeh cain't roll your Rs."

"Gambit it is, then." Sean pulled up a chair at the kitchen table. "Did the Wolverine pick that one out for you, or is it of your own devisin'?"

Gambit laughed aloud. "Non, dat one's mine. Far as Logan's concerned, my name's 'Cajun,' 'Gumbo,' or 'Swamp Rat'."

"That sounds like his usual nice, elegant way'a phrasin' things. He used to switch between 'Irish' and 'Fat Lady' for me."

"Okay, I got de first one . . ."

"I can manipulate, amplify, an' project sound waves through me throat, strong enough to knock out an elephant. 'Fat Lady' . . . it ain't over 'till I sing."

"Once Logan gives you a nickname, it never quite unsticks," Dr. MacTaggart joked.

"And what did he call you?" Sean wanted to know.

MacTaggart shot him a friendly glare. "He called me 'Doctor MacTaggart'. Gambit, have you had any supper?"

"Not as such, no."

"How'd you even get over here?" Sean wanted to know. "I don't know anyone on the mainland who'd get themselves up to give a stranger a ride out to Muir Island in the middle of the night."

"I have my own boat," Gambit explained, quietly leaving out that he'd stolen it eighty miles down the coast and scraped off all the registration markings, and was planning on sinking it when he left. "Wid my eyes like dey are, sailin' after dark ain't a problem. I'm sorry for droppin' in on you all unexpected-like. I didn't know I was comin' here when I left New York, or I would've had de Professor call and make introductions."

"Any of Charles's X-Men are always welcome here," Moira insisted. "Half a tic, and I'll have soup on."

A heavy tread sounded on a staircase somewhere nearby. Gambit's head jerked around reflexively, on the watch for danger. What he saw instead was a dark-haired young man of about his own age, wearing only a pair of blue striped pajama pants, as tall as Storm, as muscled as Logan, and as familiar as an old friend.

Gambit jumped up. "Piotr Nikolorovisch Mouthful'aRussian Rasputin! What in all'a blue blazes—"

"If it is not the terror of the American South!" Piotr interrupted, grinning. "What are you doing here, tovarisch?"

"You two know each other, then?" asked Sean, as the two young men pounded one another enthusiastically on the back and Piotr scrubbed playfully at Remy's unkept hair.

"Gambit was my associate when I was under the employ of Magneto," Piotr explained. "He was the pick of a bad lot. What have you done to your hair, my friend? You look atrocious!"

"I'm in disguise," Gambit announced proudly, shaking it back out of his eyes. "Doctor MacTaggart, if you got such riffraff as dis stayin' wit'you, I might have to seek accommodation elsewhere."

He was joking, of course . . . mostly. Colossus had been the only one of Magneto's Acolytes worth giving the time of day to, and the two of them had grown to be good friends in months of avoiding Sabertooth and Pyro. But when they'd last met, Colossus had been on the hunt for a new position, a mercenary by trade if an idealist at heart. The only thing that kept Gambit from demanding outright what an Acolyte was doing at Muir Island was the equally bewildering question of what an Acolyte was doing carrying the insignia of the Xavier Institute.

"My powers were . . .becoming hard to control," Piotr admitted, sounding embarrassed. "It was increasingly difficult to revert to human form. Doctor MacTaggart found me and invited me here, where we've been working to stabilize me. In exchange, I have been helping Sean to build an addition to the complex. It is an amicable arrangement."

"How'd she find you?"

"Cerebro."

"A gift from Charles, long ago," Moira offered.

"Are you a telepath, then?" Gambit asked.

"No, I'm as ordinary as they come. Betsy runs Cerebro. It doesn't have the same range that the Institute's Cerebro has, but it's still a very useful tool. Sean, the kettle."

"Got it."

"Piotr, can you go put some clean towels in the room next to yours?"

"Yes, of course."

"Thanks. Well, Gambit, let's get you warmed up and bathed and rested, and then in the morning you can tell us what you came for, and we'll see what we can do for you."

"Man, I can't believe this is the last dinner!" Kurt moaned, pulling up his usual seat at the dinner table. "Ve're not gonna all eat together again until August. It's kinda sad."

"Yeah, packing always makes me depressed," Kitty agreed.

"Not me," Bobby announced. "Three months of freeeeeeeedom!"

"Don't you have summer reading to do?" Amara asked him.

"Yeah, but I looked at the book, and it's skinny. It'll take like no time at all."

"What book is it?" Jean wanted to know.

"Um . . . something about flies. It's got all these leaves on the cover."

"Lord of the Flies?"

"Yeah, that's it."

Jean pursed her lips and looked away. Scott became very interested in unfolding his napkin. Rogue, Kurt, and Kitty exchanged commiserating glances.

"What?" Bobby demanded.

"It's gonna be the worst summer of your life," Scott told him apologetically. "Sorry, man."

"It's that bad?"

"Yeah. Worse."

The Professor offered his hands to Scott and Storm. The chatter around the table died down and everyone bowed their heads for grace.

When the vegetables began circling the table, Hank announced, "Well, I've got some good news."

"What is that?" Storm inquired.

"Earlier this year I applied for a research grant to map mutant DNA in conjunction with the Human Genome Project. And this afternoon . . ." He held up a letter. "I got it."

Cheers and congratulations broke out around the table. "All right!" "That's fantastic!" "That's great, Mr. McCoy." "Way to go!" "That's awesome!" "Good job!"

Hank was beaming all over his monstrous blue face. "So Jean has agreed to stay on for the summer as my research assistant."

"You're kidding." Scott looked at Jean, who was grinning and blushing from the attention. "You're staying here all summer?"

Jean nodded. "Just like the old days. You remember?"

Roberto gave a suggestive "Woooooo . . ." while pretending to take a drink of water. Amara smacked the back of his head, and water went up his nose.

Logan quietly bent both his wrists. He could feel the muscles of his arm and shoulder tense in shock and anger, to extend his claws and ward off this new threat. The blades rammed up against his adamantium-plated wrist bones. The pain cleared his head, but only for a second: the damage was healed almost at once.

She was staying all summer. Logan had been waiting, scarcely daring to breathe, for the day when she would leave and give him three months to clear his head. If he could just have a respite from her constant presence, her maddeningly wonderful scent, he'd felt sure that he could get himself under control. Maybe not enough to salvage their friendship, but enough to keep this mess from hurting the team. He'd expected her to leave tomorrow, and she was staying. All summer.

If she was staying, then he couldn't.

He waited until dark. He didn't want to field questions, not even from Professor Xavier. While he waited for the house to go quiet, he packed.

Under his bed lived a filthy, tattered Duluth backpack, a remnant of a wilder time in his life. Into it he tossed a handful of gear: a few clothes, a cigarette lighter, and a wad of emergency cash. Upon consideration, he added his Canadian passport. Getting off the continent seemed like a good idea. He needed to get away from civilization for a while, from all that was calm and organized and sensible and respectable. From everything that was like Jean.

He could hear Storm moving around in her attic upstairs. Though one of the first people in her room every night, she was usually the last to actually go to sleep. When her footsteps were silent, he left his room.

He turned on no lights; he didn't need them. He knew where his motorcycle was.

It was a perfect, silent escape, up until the moment when he wheeled the bike out of the garage and a soft southern drawl asked, "Yeh leavin', Logan?"

Logan looked up to see Rogue hop off the roof and drop like a stone to the driveway. Her face was blank, expressionless, solemn. Logan couldn't help but think of the night she'd been used to free Apocalypse, and of that same coldness she'd projected as she'd absorbed most of the household and all of the Acolytes. It was that sort of coldness that reminded him of just how powerful she could be, and how terrible, and how sad.

"Gotta go," he told her. "I'm sorry."

"Let me come with you."

"No way."

"Please." Her dull, lifeless request was more painful than any heartfelt plea could have been. "Ah'm gonna go crazy if Ah stay here one more day. Ah've gotta get out."

"Oh, no, you don't. You're just a kid, Stripes. Whatever you're goin' through, you'll get over it. I'm not takin' you where I'm goin'. Not at your age."

"Funny," Rogue deadpanned, her voice tinged with bitterness. "That's what Gambit said when he left me behind. Ah'm sick of people deciding I'm not tough enough to see what's out there in the big bad world . . . like gettin' left behind is somehow less painful or less scary. That's a load a'crap. If he left me behind because I'm too innocent to go along, then it's about time Ah stopped bein' so innocent."

Logan scowled. "I'm not takin' that away from you."

"I'm choosin' to give it up. Either you let me come with you, so you kin keep an eye on me, or Ah'll just leave on mah own. But Ah can't spend one more night in the same house with his empty room. Don't ask me to do it."

For a long moment, Logan stared at her.

He'd barely seen Rogue in these past weeks, too wrapped up in his own problems to pay any attention to her. He hadn't noticed how she'd quietly started losing weight, though in training she was as fierce and focused as ever. He hadn't noticed how she'd been drawing away from everyone in the house, not talking about Gambit, but not talking about much of anything else, either. She'd been drowning in loneliness and frustration and anger, and he hadn't seen a thing.

Hadn't seen the one person in the Institute who might have been able to understand the hell that he was going through.

Every bit of sense and judgment in him screamed to send her back to bed. She was only a child . . . too young and too sheltered for him to just take her away from her home like this. There was no way the Professor would allow it. Had Logan been thinking straight, there would have been no way he would have allowed it, either.

But if he'd been thinking straight, he wouldn't have been running away.

"Go get a change of clothes and your passport, and if you wake anybody up, I'm leavin' without you."

For the first time in many weeks, Rogue smiled. She was off like a bullet towards her room.

Dear Kitty,

I'm leaving with Logan. Tell Kurt I love him. You can borrow my CDs but don't let them get scratched. If Gambit calls, tell him I took it with me. He'll know what I mean.

Love you, roomie. I hope I'll be back soon.

Rogue

Going out. Back later. Taking Rogue.

\\\

Author's Notes:

Well, only one new word this chapter, and it's not even French: tovarish, meaning companion, associate, or comrade in Russian. (In the comics, Colossus called everybody this. Who's proud of me for slogging through so many decades of reading to bring you such interesting tidbits?)

Reading Lord of the Flies is about as traumatic as the death of a pet. At least, in my opinion.

In other news, I've been playing around with my options on and discovered I can make forums. I'm not sure why I'd want to make a forum, but I did, just for kicks and giggles. So if you have a minute, come visit my forum and write something! Field a theory, recommend a movie, or just expound on why Lord of the Flies is an awful book. We are at www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/myforums/Seriana(underscore)Ritani/1383030/.

Seri