Hello loyal readers, I apologize for the long delay. I was traveling for a bit but now I am back.
Shot At Him as He At Me
When the jet landed, its wheels hitting the floor of the hangar with a soft bump, Rogue was nudged awake. She had not dreamed this time, a relief, for she finally got a few hours of real sleep. She stretched out of her stiff limbs and yawned, straightening herself out as Lance did the final systems checks and shut down the jet.
"So was that a successful mission or a fail?" he asked.
"To be honest, Ah'm not sure." Rogue checked the local time. It was early evening in Bayville. "Ah don't really know what Ah expected to learn out there, actually."
"Do you really buy all those legends about this Saul?"
"Ah have to. Ah saw him, Lance. Ah talked to him."
As they discussed recent events, they walked out of the hangar and headed through the underground tunnels up to the mansion.
"But isn't it just a little bit too much? I mean, legends, prophecies...it's all so...ridiculous."
"Who are we to doubt these things? Ah mean, look at us. We can do things that defy most of the laws of nature. But we're mutants, we're the result of nature. How can you explain us?"
"All I know is, you've got a lot of figuring out to do."
Rogue laughed dryly as she entered the code into the security lock outside the mansion's basement entrance. The door whooshed open then shut promptly behind them after they passed through. "Oh Alvers, always letting other people do the real hard work."
"They call me Avalanche, not Einstein for a reason, girl."
"Typical guy—all punches, no brains."
"Hey! Don't you remember Algeria? I figured out their next target."
"And exposed us to the very terrorist cell we were hunting."
"You mean stopped them from blowing up that mine. Saved 300 lives!"
Rogue was about to throw back another comment when she heard a voice in her head: Welcome back, Rogue. I see you brought Mr. Alvers. Please meet me in my office. We have much to discuss.
Okay, Professor. Comin' right up.
"The Professor knows we're back," Rogue said to Lance.
They walked into the mansion's foyer and headed up the main staircase, turning in the direction of Xavier's office.
"Does he know you're here?" Rogue asked, giving Lance a suspicious look.
"Of course! I talked to him this morning before going to find you."
"'Find' me?"
"Yeah...I wanted to see you."
The way his words came out, the weight in his tone... Something twisted in Rogue's stomach. She tried to remain casual, "That so?"
"Come on, Rogue, don't be like that."
"Like what."
"Like nothing happened."
She stopped in her tracks and looked him straight in the eye, "Nothing did happen, Lance."
He shook his head, taking a few steps toward her, "What, you made yourself forget Algeria? After we saved all those people? After we went to that bar and then..."
She did remember it. She remembered the gunfight and catching the terrorist militants. She remembered all the miners coming out, running into the arms of wives and girlfriends who cried from the relief that the men they loved were alive. She remembered a grateful couple hugging her with voluable thanks and praise, spouting off their support for mutant rights. And in all that happiness, she remembered how sad she had felt, how she did not have what they had. How alone she truly was, even among compatriots in X-Corps. She remembered the tiny shack bar near the U.S. military base they were temporarily stationed at. She remembered how five stiff drinks later Lance showed up to keep her company and he seemed so kind and truthful and dependable and good, seemed to have really grown in the last several months of working together ridding the world of scum. She remembered his soft touch and the comforting warmth of his body moving rhythmically against hers, the rough sand on her bare back, the moonlight and the hush hush of Mediterranean waters lapping against the shore. She shook her head as if trying to rattle the memories away. She had done a very good job of trying to forget that night. The confusion of it was not pleasant.
"I just want to be honest," Lance said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I was totally okay with how you wanted things to be. But after you left, honestly, I...started to miss you. It surprised me."
"Lance," she said, "this isn't..."
He moved closer, "And you know, what you said, I don't agree anymore. I think it'd be great if we gave it a shot."
"Have you talked to Kitty at all—have you seen her since you came back?"
"Rogue, I know we sort of...bonded over our pasts. But that's it, it's the past. It doesn't have anything on us now."
She wondered if he was right. Maybe it was time to move on. She had no idea if she would ever see Remy again, if he even cared about her or thought about her anymore, if he ever had at all, despite saving her life in New York. Two years was a long time to never speak to someone, to know absolutely nothing about them. Two years that she spent in so many life-or-death situations with someone else, going through experiences that forged certain bonds that couldn't be denied. She thought it was all fellowship, that that one night had just been a spot of the very weakness she always tried to keep hidden, but maybe, possibly, it was could be more? Maybe it was time to let go.
She felt Lance draw so close, his breath warming her cheek. When his lips touched hers, she thought of pushing him away, but something held her back, a stubbornness to let him, to finally truly get over it all, a need to leap over the final hurdle. She remained still as his mouth pushed against hers, not sure how long she allowed him to kiss her before she finally pulled back back, a hand on his chest. She looked at him apologetically.
"Well, ain't dat a tender moment."
It couldn't be. Rogue turned toward the voice and felt the blood drain from her face. She blinked. An illusion—how could he be there—
Logan stood a few feet down the corridor, right outside Xavier's office. But that wasn't who Rogue was staring at. Her eyes were locked on Remy, Remy LeBeau in the flesh, right next to Logan as if it were the most normal thing in the world. His mouth was drawn into a tight line, red and black eyes staring at Rogue with an intensity she could not discern. Anger? Disappointment? Confusion? Disgust?
The next moment, he disapeared inside Xavier's office.
X
A couple hours earlier—
It was strange, to be among the X-Men again. Logan had let him shower and change into fresh clothes: X-sweats – training pants and T-shirt. It was weirder wearing the uniform. Remy knew the word had spread. As he sat in the basement's observation room waiting for the Professor, every few minutes one of the students would skitter past the corridor and take a peek at him through the observation window, believing they were being sneaky enough for him to think they were just strolling by. Was Rogue here? Had she heard he was back? Why hadn't she come to see him? He had no idea what he would say, what he would do, if he should just get out of there while he still could. They hadn't thought to handcuff him or even lock the door. What was he doing here? What was he hoping to accomplish?
He sighed and stood up, started to pace around the one table in the room. After a few minutes he decided to browse the small bookcase in the room. Guess de X-Men want deir "guests" t' be well-read, he thought. The selection was sparse, but of high caliber literature: some Thoreau, Hemingway, Poe, Tolstoy... Looked like something Hank McCoy would have picked out.
"Are you an avid reader, Mr. LeBeau?" The door opened and Ororo walked in with a tray. "I thought you might be hungry."
Remy looked at the sandwich and lemonade and felt the emptiness of his stomach. But he hesitated, because this was the one they called Storm, the one who, if he remembered correctly, was somehow related to Spyke. And when Remy had fled the Morlock tunnels, he had seen Evan in a losing fight. He might even have died, for all he knew.
"Please," she said, setting the tray on the table. "I made this for you."
Remy nodded and sat back down, grabbed the sandwich—which the weather lady had thought to load with multiple layers of slim cut meats and vegetables—and took an enormous bite.
"Who is your favorite author?" Ororo asked. She sat in the chair across the table from him, hands clasped tightly in front of her. She watched him with a steady gaze.
"Have t'say John Steinbeck," Remy said in between his chewing. He washed the food down with some lemonade. "One of de American greats."
"Tell me," Ororo said, "how do you find time to read, when you're so busy deceiving and murdering?"
The food stuck in his throat like a rock. He forced himself to swallow and set the rest of the sandwich down. He felt Ororo's hard stare boring a hole into him. Her composure was beginning to crumble, the once-blank expression of her face distorting into something pained and accusatory.
"Do you remember my nephew, Mr. LeBeau," she said in a low tone. "His name is Evan." When he didn't speak, she raised her voice, "I asked you a question!"
"Yes," he said, "yes. I remember Spyke."
"Did you see?" Ororo pressed. "Did you watch as they tore him up? Left him for dead?"
"No, I didn't..." Remy noticed the hair on his arms were standing on end. He felt a slightly tingling in the room, like a dramatic increase in static electricity. The air in the room began to feel thick and moist.
Ororo's gaze never left him. "Do you even care, Mr. LeBeau?"
"What do y' want me t' say?" he asked.
"Tell me if you care about what you've done, how much pain you've caused!"
"M' human, just as much as you, mon ami."
"I am not your friend. None of us are," Ororo snapped. She stood suddenly and moved as if to approach him, maybe even attack him, but seemed to change her mind, as if something snapped in her head. Instead she walked up to the observation window, staring out into the corridor. "I am usually more composed. I have to be, because of the nature of my powers, the destruction I could cause. And unlike some, I cannot cope with blood on my hands." As the electricity left the air and the moisture receded, she turned to look at him, "I apologize for leaping to conclusions, Mr. LeBeau. You deserve to have your say."
Remy ran a hand through his hair and stared at his plate. "How...how is Evan?" he asked.
"Fighting for his life," Ororo said, eyes watery. "He's too young, Gambit, do you understand that? His parents are wrought with worry. Now, I don't know what your role was in all this, but if you can help us, Remy LeBeau, you must. Do you understand me? Do you?"
He wished he could tell her how sorry he was, how none of it was supposed to be like this. But he only said, "Yes, I understand."
"Ororo?" Charles Xavier entered at that moment with Logan behind him. "What is going on here?"
"Did the Cajun do something to you?" Logan demanded, shooting Remy a suspicious frown.
"No," she said, "I just wanted to have a few words." With a respectful nod, she left.
Logan settled down where Ororo had sat, one leg crossed over the other in an L, an arm slung over the other chair, and trained his eyes on Remy as though he were a wild animal that needed constant watch.
Xavier wheeled himself to the other side of the table. "Thank you for waiting, Mr. LeBeau," he said.
"M' not promisin' t' be dat helpful, monsieur. I don't know as much as y' t'ink I do."
"That is not a problem for me," Xavier said. "I did not intend for this to be a normal interrogation."
"Beg y' pardon?" Remy did not like the sound of this.
The Professor closed his eyes and clasped his hands together. "I'm sorry," he said. "This will be less unpleasant if you don't resist."
"Resist what—aggh!" When Xavier entered his mind, it felt like someone breaking through a door you were trying to hold shut. Remy was rattled in the strangest of ways: psychically. Xavier had gained entrance far quicker than Jean Grey had, and though it hurt less when the telepath broke through his natural defenses, the knowledge that he was poking around in there gave Remy greater incentive to resist.
Don't fight me, Gambit, Xavier said from within his mind. I won't hurt you, unless I have to.
"What's dat s'posed t' mean?" Remy said through gritted teeth. He couldn't give up. He couldn't let Xavier see everything that was in his mind. Gripping the edge of the table and his chair, he strained to force the psychic out, but he was exhausting himself more than anything.
We need information, and I will do what is necessary to find it. With or without your consent.
"So much for de et'ical X-Men!"
I'm not above drastic measures.
And then Xavier saw it all, Remy's memories as far back as he thought relevant: two years ago, Remy leaving the Institute and the bittersweet memory of a girl with white stripes in her hair; his powers going out of control and the explosion in New Orleans killing Rippers and Thieves; a sobbing blond woman, the dead Bourdreaux's daughter, Belladonna; Remy's distraught flight from the city, full of shame, guilt, remorse, and almost worst of all, panic at powers he no longer understood; a pale-skinned mutant finding him in a bar, drinking away his demons—Nathaniel Essex, a geneticist, who offered a cure and a great debt; a laboratory in Seattle, treatments to subdue Remy's mutation, an ampule full of serum that came with a price; stealing for him, doing his dirty work; Essex's words—gene limits, superior mutants—rid the dirty genes—cleaning the x-gene pool—inferior Morlocks; Lorna Danes screaming, Lorna Danes gone mad; Remy fighting Rogue on the roof of the Plaza hotel, diving after her to save her life, bandaging her head wound, laying his trench coat over her; fleeing, he had wanted to flee, but the mad Lorna Danes finding him for their next assignment; meeting the Marauders, forced to lead them through the tunnels—the dread of what might happen, a crippling helplessness to stop it; the killing, the bloodsheld, the Morlocks dying and dying; his panic and horror, so much horror; trying to stop the Marauders but the large one, Scalphunter, beating him and beating him; grabbing the little girl, the only one he could save; watching the X-Men, the horror, the horror, the guilt and self-hate; running and running; back to Seattle, to Essex, for the serum, for his release from bondage; back to New Orleans and the run-in with Jean and Logan...
When Xavier pulled out of his mind, Remy felt shaken and drained, breaths coming in deep gasps. Beads of sweat had gathered on his forehead. He was angry at the intrusion and wanted to scream at the venerable professor, but he couldn't deny that he felt lighter. A weight had been lifted. He had carried around those memories for so long, never sharing them with anyone, and now it was out. The burden became inchmeal less suffocating.
"What happened?" Logan demanded. "What'd you see?"
Xavier was rubbing his temples, "They kept him in the dark. He doesn't know anything. Logan, find everything you can about a Doctor Nathaniel Essex based in Seattle."
"Wait—what about the Morlocks. Did he do it or not?"
Xavier shook his head, "We can trust him, Logan. He wasn't involved. Please, we must find Essex."
With a chary look at the Cajun, Logan nodded and left the room.
Remy stayed quiet in his chair, watching the Professor think and rub his head. "Why'd y' lie f' me?" he asked after a few seconds. "I had a hand in what happened t' dose people, just as much as de actual killers."
Xavier sighed the sigh of a man before a deeply troubled friend. He looked Remy straight in the eye, steady and serious, "They would have found the Morlocks one way or another without you. You just saved them time."
"I could've gone t' warn 'em."
"They would not have let you go. And you didn't know what they were going to do."
"But I was suspicious."
"We cannot obsess over what we could have done. Those are the thoughts that drive men mad."
"Y' just go'n' keep m' dark secret? Why would you do dat f' me?"
"Because I know the truth. I have looked into your psyche, into those parts you hate most about yourself, and you, Remy LeBeau, are a good man."
Remy felt a strange tingling in his nose, a burning behind his eyes. Dieu, was he crying? To hear those words from one of the most respected men in the world, from the bastion of hope for both mutants and regular humans, even when he didn't even know the guy all that well... he believed him. I'm good. I'm good. He quickly blinked away the seeds of tears and swallowed the emotion, quickly gaining composure.
"I will not tell anyone," Xavier said. "I will leave that to you, when you are ready. Sooner or later, these things have a way of coming out. But at least this way, you will have some control over how and when."
"What...y' keepin' me here?"
"You are not a prisoner. But I think you have something to consider: where will you go? Certainly not back to New Orleans or Seattle."
"I got places tucked away."
"My school is a sanctuary for mutants," Xavier said. "All mutants. And it just so happens that we have cleared out the pool house and turned it into a guest room. Think about it. I have a feeling you can be of much help here still. Now more than ever we could use someone of your skill and experience."
Remy watched the Professor leave, not knowing what to do. Xavier was right. He had nowhere to go, no more reason to run. He still didn't understand why the Professor was keeping his secret, what he had to gain, what angle he was playing... But that was just it, wasn't it: Xavier was not trying to twist any advantage of the situation—except maybe get an extra member to his team of do-gooders. Xavier didn't have an angle. He was just being...
"A good man," Remy said out loud.
He growled under his breath and stood up, running a hand through his hair. How could he stay here, lying to people who already didn't trust him. The Professor was noble and kind, but only him helping to bear the burden would not be enough when surrounded by so many trusting and clueless students—would it? Remy was surprised Xavier would allow someone like him around them.
And what would she think, once she showed up? Where had she been? Did she already know he was here? He tried not to think about it, but thoughts of Rogue forced their way to the forefront of his mind. When they had fought, when they had fallen, when she had nestled against him—he remembered their closeness, the way she looked at him... Maybe it wasn't over for her the way he always thought it would be. Maybe she didn't completely stop caring, even after two years, even after he left, abandoned her despite a promise to return, and never called or even sent a message all because of a shame and self-repugnance that grew stronger the longer he stayed away.
He sat back down and stared at the wall, trying to decide what to do.
X
Scott was confused. He wondered what was wrong with her. She was quiet and reserved with her nose buried in a copy of Little Women, clearly trying to avoid something. He nudged her lightly with a small smile. She looked up briefly, smiled back, then returned to staring into her book. She had not turned a page for at least ten minutes.
"Jean?"
"What's up, Scott?"
"Are you okay?"
She laughed lightly, "What do you mean?"
"You seem, I don't know, distant."
"Everything is fine," she assured him. She was lying. She felt guilty. The trip to New Orleans had stirred up some strange things regarding Logan and she preferred not to think about them. Obviously, she had not done a good job of hiding her awkward feelings.
They were lounging in the library on the lazy summer afternoon, Scott browsing through a course catalogue for New York University. "Are you sure?" he prodded.
Jean put down her book, deciding to turn it around on him, "Is there something you want to talk about?"
"Actually—yeah. I was looking through courses to take this semester...and I started thinking...maybe I should take a year off from NYU."
"What? Scott...why would you do that? You're already halfway through. And school starts again in a few weeks."
"Why's that so crazy? You're putting a pause on school too."
"That's because I'm studying under Hank and the Professor, premier experts on genetics. You know Stanford gave me that research grant."
"Maybe I feel that I'm needed here," Scott said with a sigh. "Going away seems selfish now."
Jean felt for him. She reached over and draped an arm over his shoulders, rested her head against his chin. "It's not being selfish, Scott, you have to take care of your future too. We all have to."
"But isn't all this—" he waved his hand around the room as if all the others were there with them, "—all about being a team? And we're in trouble now. Things are worse than ever. You've seen the news."
"All the more reason to keep living as normal lives as we can. If you leave college, that's just another mutant that's abandoned their education. We can't let them win, even on the things that aren't life-or-death."
"I don't know, Jean. I have a feeling things are going to get worse. Like there's this...storm coming. I mean...what the heck.." He sat forward abruptly, staring out the window. "What's he doing?"
Jean followed his gaze outside to the yard, where a disgruntled looking Cajun had just walked past. "Gambit?" As Scott stood up to confront him, she grabbed his arm, "Scott, the Professor said he would be here for a bit."
"Yeah, sure. But he didn't say anything about not being supervised."
"Come on, Scott, he's not going to do anything."
"How do you know?"
"Because—because he's not as bad as everybody thinks!" Jean struggled to find an explanation for why she trusted Remy LeBeau.
"He's a stranger in our home, Jean. Shouldn't we at least keep tabs on him?"
"The Professor wouldn't let him wander around if he thought it wasn't safe."
"Better safe than sorry. The guy's sketchy—where's he been the last two years? Maybe he wasn't involved in the Morlock killing like the Professor said, but I say something stinks here."
"Look, I'm the telepath," Jean said firmly, "so you should trust my judgment."
Scott nodded, "Sure thing. But I want to see what he's up to anyway." And he marched out of the library.
"Wait!" Jean followed him outside through the library's sliding door, across the backyard, and to the pool area.
Gambit stood outside the pool house, whose door was slightly ajar, in X-Men training sweats peering at it with his hands in his pockets.
Scott approached with purpose, but as he drew within five feet of Remy, stopped awkwardly and seemed to not know how to hold himself. He crossed his arms, let them fall to his side, then crossed them ahead. He cleared his throat loudly.
"Yea, homme?"
"What are you doing here, Gambit."
"What's it look like, mon frere? Checkin' out de real estate."
Scott's eyebrows furrowed behind his rose quartz glasses, "What—you're moving in to the poolhouse?"
Remy shrugged, "The Prof basically ordered me to. Still tryin' t' decide, t' be honest." He then noticed Jean on the other side of him, "Bonjour, madamoiselle."
"Hello, Remy."
"Hey...'bout what happened in N'Awlins... M' sorry f'... y'know."
Jean waved her hand and shook her head, "Don't worry about it."
"What?" Scott demanded. "Did he do something to you?"
"No, Scott, will you just calm down?"
"Calm down? This thief and mercenary—"
"Ex-mercenary," Remy chimed in.
"—is planning on moving in with us! Who knows what he's up to. Where's Logan? He can't possibly be okay with this."
At the mention of the name, Jean felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment. "Fine. I'll call him." She didn't know why she volunteered to do that. The last thing she wanted was to talk to Logan, let alone be inside his mind, be connected in that way. She kept reminding herself that what happened—what she thought had happened—in New Orleans was just a figment of her imagination, the product of a girl's foolishness and vanity.
Logan. Logan?
After a few seconds, Jean? What's the matter.
Nothing... just, there's a situation at the poolhouse. Scott and Gambit.
Typical. Jean could almost hear the sigh in his thoughts. I'll be there in a minute. Gotta talk to Gumbo anyway.
When she broke the psychic connection, she felt a strange pang, a tingling in the bottom of her stomach, ever so faint. There was an excitement to this, whatever it was. Jean Grey never did anything bad, never made the wrong choices. Maybe this was what it was like to not be Miss Perfect, as Rogue used to call her. To not have that pressure. Maybe this was what it was like to be Rogue, who could just pick up and leave her life behind, make a new one for herself...
While she was lost in reverie, Gambit and Scott had taken their argument inside the poolhouse. The Cajun seemed to enjoy irritating Scott with glibness.
"And what'd you do in Seattle?" Scott was inquiring, arms still crossed.
Remy was busy surveying the interior of the pool house. In the main room reposed a table with three chairs at the foot of a full-sized bed. An entire wall was glass, with curtains to pull over it. One doorway led to a full bathroom, while the other went outside to the pool's sunning patio right outside the mansion's kitchen. The room was sparsley decorated but retained a simple elegance with its calming blue walls lit by the early evening sunlight streaming in, and a single painting hanging on the wall above the bed: Nighthawks by Edward Hopper.
"Always liked dat time period," Remy said, gazing at the painting.
"What?" Scott frowned at him.
"1940s. People wore hats. Y' like hats, Cyke?"
"What the hell are you talking about? Didn't you hear my question?" Scott was beginning to lose patience.
"Guess y' not a fan o' Edward Hopper, neh?"
"Who? Look, whatever, why were you in Seattle?"
"Didn't de Prof tell y'."
"He said you were dealing with something about your powers. I want to know what. Now."
"Why it matter t' y'?"
"Because if your powers—and you—are dangerous, we deserve to know. And what did you do to Jean in New Orleans?"
Remy sighed and sat down on the bed, bounced a couple times. Scott gawked at him in disbelief. The Cajun was actually testing the mattress in the middle of a serious conversation. "Y' know what, Cyclops, I got some advice f' y'," he finally said.
Scott threw up his hands in exasperation, "Seriously?"
"Oui. Y' gotta know who y' real enemies are. M' not one of 'em. In fact, I actually like y', professionally. Y' personality needs a lil' calibration, but I can tell what kinda guy y' are by de way everybody here looks up t' y. 'Cept right now y' ain't bein' a good role model." Remy tipped his head toward the window.
A few of the students—Jubilee, Rahn, Roberto, and Amara—were sitting on the patio with lemonade, snacks, and cards, no longer focused on their game. Their eyes were glued to the pool house, on Scott yelling at Xavier's new guest. Logan came out that moment, followed the kids' gazes. He marched up to the pool house where Jean stood outside, watching the interaction inside and holding her head like she had a headache.
"Logan—"
He nodded to acknowledge her then looked through the window glass, caught Remy's eye, pointed at him, and gestured for him to follow. Then he walked back to the patio, poured himself a glass of lemonade, and waited.
"Guess dat's m' cue t' go, Cyke," Remy said. He patted Scott on the shoulder, who looked at him baffled. "Remember what I said, d'accord? It'll help wit' de blood pressure." Trying not to chuckle to himself, he walked out to meet Logan. He enjoyed messing with Scott, the epitome of the Nice Guy—the homme with a life all planned out nice and neat, with the girl, the house, the white picket fence and the dog—the thing he would never be.
"The Professor wants to talk," Logan said. "Let's go."
As Remy followed Logan inside, "What about, mon frere? I saw him not too long ago."
"New developments. I got something on your old friend Essex."
"Not in Seattle. He would've moved on by now."
"You're right about that, bub. He's in New York."
A familiar anger began to fester in Remy's chest. It felt like heartburn. "Why?"
"That's what we're going to find out. Kitty cracked a CD Scott knicked from an old lab—turns out that lab was his too. He's clearly moving forward with some plans. And I got a feeling he ain't done with you, bub."
They hurried up the west wing steps to the second floor of the mansion.
"Why y' tellin' me all dis?" Remy asked. "Not de way dey did it, 'cause dey sure didn't trust me either."
Logan stopped and turned around, looking him straight in the eye, "That ain't how we run things here. Now Xavier may have good reasons to trust you, but I'll be watching. So don't go around with illusions of camaraderie." He continued walking, turned the next corner.
Don't worry, homme, Remy thought. He wasn't entertaining any ideas that the X-Men had accepted him with open arms. He hooked around the corner and two things came into his vision at once: Logan reaching for the door to Xavier's office, and two figures on the other end of the hall, in some sort of lackluster embrace.
Then he saw her, auburn hair, dove feathers of white along the side of her face. Lips locked with that mutant's who was once a member of the Brotherhood, a long time ago, a different life it seemed, especially now when it was apparent to him that things had changed, that the people here had moved on while he was gone. That he had been wrong about her.
"Well, ain't dat a tender moment," he said. The words had come out without thought, a reflexive reaction of how he dealt with duress. Show no vulnerability. Wear the mask. Block it off. Stop caring. It doesn't matter as much as it feels like it does. Two years was enough to get over someone.
He tore his eyes from her and brushed past Logan to enter the office.
"Hello again," the Professor said from behind his desk. He gestured for him to sit down. The girl who could walk through walls was already there. "I see you've decided to stay."
"Not so sure anymore, Prof." Remy did not feel like sitting. Instead he moved to the window and leaned against the wall. The window itself was open to let a breeze in. Outside loomed a large oak tree, easy escape if necessary. He had a feeling he may need it.
Kitty Pryde waved at him, "Hi. Long time no see."
"Bonjour, Kit-Kat. Ça va?"
She smiled sheepishly, eyes turning to the door as Rogue and Lance entered behind Logan.
Rogue pushed past the two men ahead of her, going directly up to the Professor's desk, "What's he doin' here?" Her voice was almost shrill, a finger pointing at the new arrival.
"Rogue, please, sit down. We have a lot to discuss."
She drew a sharp breath and crossed her arms, "Ah don't understand, Professor. Why didn't anyone tell me? Ah..." Her eyes glanced at him for the briefest of seconds. "Ah deserved to know."
"M' right here, chere," Remy said. He felt uncomfortable in his own skin. Every instinct told him to jump out the window and shimmy out of the tree, but the slow and certain sting of watching Rogue be appalled by his presence was too captivating. "Y' don' have t' talk about me in de t'ird person."
Her eyes were wide when she looked at him, lusciously green as he remembered, but harder, more closed off, no longer open for him. He couldn't read the expression in them for she kept her face deadpanned. Two years in X-Corps, as Jean had told him. She certainly did have more control over herself. She was not the same, with those fists clenched at her sides, barely-noticeable beads of perspiration on her forehead. Was this the reaction he provoked in her? Did she hate seeing him so much? Guess he couldn't blame her, after what he had done.
"Rogue, everything will be explained. Please, sit."
She sat down next to Kitty and stiffly crossed her legs, as if being seated there also made her uncomfortable. When Kitty asked if she was feeling okay, she abruptly shook her head and didn't answer. Remy noticed Lance kept looking at Rogue and Kitty kept looking at Lance.
Dieu, he thought. What melodrama dis is...
Xavier nodded toward Logan to close the door. He clasped his hands together, "Now, I know Remy's presence may be surprising to some of you... but I have extended an invitation to him to stay and continue helping us. We've learned a few things since yesterday, and that is what we're here to discuss..."
X
Her life was a joke. The thought filled her mind as she listened to the conversation in the Professor's office and watched Remy LeBeau. One big cosmic joke. All of her training, all of the effort she had gone through to become stronger—it had all crumbled the moment she saw him again. She wasn't proud of the way she burst into Xavier's office and demanded to know what was going out, broadcasting her panic for everyone to see. And to top it off, he had magically appeared in the mansion just in time to see that moment with Lance, which made things worse. How did this happen? Why was the universe trying to torture her? What was he thinking? What was he feeling? Was he even still capable of feeling? He wouldn't look at her, not even once turning his head in her direction for the entire hour of the meeting.
In that time she had given her report on her findings in Mongolia and listened to Logan recount the New Orleans debacle. She had watched Remy closely as Logan spoke about being held hostage by the Rippers, about Remy giving himself up to atone for what he'd done two years ago... He barely moved as Logan spoke, staring at the floor, bangs falling over his eyes that he would have to brush aside every few minutes. Annoyingly, she felt a pang at the thought of him going through all of that alone. And a sharp jealousy at the irony that Jean Grey, of all people, had been there this time to help him get through it. But despite her concern for him, she couldn't help feeling incredibly suspicious. Was Remy LeBeau really so self-sacrificing? The Thief she remembered would not have succumbed to death—certainly not slavery to the Bourdreauxs. But maybe that simply proved how she did not know him anymore.
The Professor said he had not participated in the Morlock massacre, even though Logan found one of his cards in the sewers. Rogue could tell Logan didn't completely buy it, and neither did she. There was more that the Professor intentionally withheld from them. The question was, what. It was all frustratingly maddening. She couldn't think about it anymore, giving her full attention back to the conversation. Logan had informed them that a Doctor Nathaniel Essex had flown from Seattle to LaGuardia under the cover of Nathan Milbury. This Essex was currently their main person of interest.
Kitty began speaking. Her fingers glided around the screen of her iPad to pull up a folder, "I had some help from a classmate at MIT to crack the disc Scott brought back from that lab and the documents indicate the lab belonged to Essex. And like, at first I thought it was just notes and test reports from his sick experiments but there was more than that. I think we need to give them to Hank to look at, because they look like the molecular diagrams of some kind of...bacteria or virus or something that seems to be in development. And then in the same folder there were a bunch of documents about Guy Spears."
"Guy Spears?" Logan said. "Now why does that name sound familiar."
Kitty nodded energetically, "Right? Because a few years ago, Evan got sick from his energy drink! I looked up a bunch of information. Back then it was called Power8. But the Professor talked to him and told him how the drink had negative effects on mutants. Apparently he stopped producing Power8 and is now making something called Revive. But here's a horrible twist: there have been news reports in the past few weeks about kids at middle schools and high schools getting sick—but only the schools where Revive has conducted marketing campaigns or installed Revive vending machines."
"This is most troubling, Kitty," the Professor said. "We must determine whether Essex has anything to do with Guy Spears. Most likely he is oblivious to what is happening."
"Or he's doing it intentionally," Logan said. "We'll have to go to his factory in Bayville."
Kitty held up the tablet for them to see, "And then just when I thought things couldn't get creepier, I found these."
"Sorry, p'tite," Remy said from the window, "but de icons be too small f' some of us t' see, neh?"
"They're files of us!" Kitty exclaimed. "Of all the X-Men! Detailed files, documents about our lives that go waaay back...god, I mean, like, the one about me has photographs and goes all the way back to the hospital I was born at, my medical history, my progress reports from computer camp—"
Lance raised an eyebrow, "You went to computer camp?"
"Oh my God, Lance, that's what you focus on?" Kitty frowned at him.
"What? I was just asking—"
"Yeah well maybe you shouldn't if you don't have something constructive to—"
"Hey I'm here for the same reason everyone else is—"
"Why are you even here? Why did you even come to the Xavier Institute?"
Logan growled in exasperation. "Enough!" he snapped. "You two still in high school?
Kitty cleared her throat, "As I was saying... Essex clearly knows who each and every one of us is. So we're already exposed. And there was more, I'm no expert on genetics, but from the files I could crack Essex was doing experiments to find something he called the 'gene limit'."
Rogue had remained quiet the whole time, listening carefully. Finally she asked, "What's a gene limit."
Kitty turned to the Professor, who explained, "From what I could discern, Essex's notion of a 'gene limit' pertains to pushing a mutant's abilities to the full potential of their powers, and then going beyond that point. He manipulated their DNA in ways I have never seen before. His knowledge may even surpass that of the world's top geneticists."
"Even you, Professor?" Rogue asked.
"Yes, even me. My primary concern is that he is conducting his research without ethical restraint. He has maniuplated the building blocks of life in so many mutants and distorted their DNA into irreparable, truly inhuman strands. He destroys his subjects in his search for knowledge. And we have no idea why."
"I know why."
Everyone turned to look at Remy.
"Dis man is de purest kind of scientist," he said. "He doesn't care 'bout anyt'ing else but results. He has no end game 'cept t' find dis 'gene limit'."
"Then what's he plan to do once he does?" Logan asked dubiously.
"He'll make de perfect mutant."
A stillness fell upon the room. The words were simple yet carried the most eerie of implications. Creating a mutant. Playing god through twisted experiments that destroyed bodies and caused so much pain and death.
"And de Morlocks, dey were de least perfect, in his eyes," Remy continued. "So he had t' get rid of 'em."
"This is sick," Kitty groaned. She looked back at her iPad and seemed to remember something. "Uh, guys," she winced, "I did notice one other really weird thing."
"What was it?" the Professor asked.
"So he kept files on all of us right, all of them pretty standard with photographs and documents of about 20 to 30 pages. But then I found a file that was huge—hundreds of photos, hundreds of pages of even more detailed personal, medical, and academic history... It looked like Essex was just obsessed—"
"Spill it, Half Pint," Logan said. "Whose file was this."
Kitty's eyes landed on the only other female in the room, "Rogue's."
All eyes fell on Rogue. For the first time in the whole meeting, Remy looked straight at her. Her breath caught and her eyes wandered to Kitty's tablet. She grabbed it, opening the file with her name on it. The folder was filled with hundreds of photos of her from childhood onward, even some from her time in X-Corps, along with documents detailing her physical measurements, blood type, food preferences, hemoglobin count, gynecological visits' test results... Essex had gone into every doctor's visit, foster system documents, every country she had ever visited, painstakingly collected so much information about her, knew things she didn't even know herself. She felt her stomach crawling with the worms of nausea.
"You feeling okay?" Lance asked. "You just got really pale."
"It was him," Remy suddenly said.
Lance frowned, "What was who?"
"De person who tried t' kidnap Rogue two years ago, de one who hired Theodore Farrat—it was Essex." He stared at her in a way that made her feel they were thinking the same thing. A warmth spread from her stomach, the nausea subsiding. Running into the sewers to escape Farrat's men, hiding with the Morlocks, their first real touch, hungry lips, yearning skin...
Logan nodded in agreement with Remy's theory, "And it was probably Essex too who was trying to take the comatose X-Men. He saw the perfect opportunity to get a bunch of new mutants to experiment on without the hassle of fighting for it. Good catch, Gumbo."
"Merci."
Rogue abruptly stood up, tossing Kitty's tablet onto the couch, "That's just great. Now can we stop talkin' about this and do somethin'? There are photos of me right out of the shower here!"
"At least dey weren't in de shower, non?" Remy smirked.
His words felt like a slap to the face, almost disrespectul, intentionally blasé to be hurtful. This was how he chose to acknowledge her? She had no idea what was happening, but she was angry. "Are ya trying to be an asshole?" she threw back.
"Calm down, chere. Now not de time t' lose our cool."
"And since when did you start advising the X-Men?"
"Since I got de most kind invitation from de good Professor here."
Xavier held up his hands and gestured for her to sit back down, "Please, Rogue. I have one more thing we need to discuss before we can come up with an actionable plan: my findings in Chicago. I managed to meet with Bolivar Trask."
Out of respect for this man who was the closest thing she had to a father, she wanted to stay. But she felt suffocated being in the same room as Remy, with him looking at her, watching her, acting nothing like the Remy she had known two years ago. Maybe two years really was too much time to have passed. Maybe the gulf between them was too irrevocably wide.
"Ah'm sorry," she said in a distressed breath. "Ah just can't be in here right now." The door shut loudly behind her as she left.
X
She hated running. She never understood how or why some people could do it so regularly or for such long distances. But as her feet pounded against the earth, her breath coming in steady rhythms, muscles working to keep the locomotion of her body, she began to feel more relaxed. After 30 minutes of it however, she had had enough. Still, the running hadn't gone without some sort of gain: it had been 30 minutes of successfully thinking about nothing. She slowed her run to a languid walk as she headed back to the mansion. She came up on the side near the pool.
The sun had set and the sounds of dinner preparation drifted from the kitchen. From where she stood she could see Ororo stirring something on the stove and Roberto and Jamie chopping vegetables. Jubilee and Kitty were setting the table. They seemed like such a family, one she had once been a part of. She didn't feel so part of it now, no matter how much she knew she was.
"What are you doing."
Startled, Rogue turned to the source of the voice. Bobby sat at the edge of the pool in swimming trunks, smoking a cigarette. "Hey."
He took a final drag then flicked the stub to the grass, not bothering to put it out. "So I heard about your stalker."
"What?"
"Nathaniel Essex. That's messed up."
"Oh...yeah. Yeah it is."
Bobby stood and walked over to her, "Look, Rogue, all that stuff I said... I meant it at the time."
She let out a dry laugh of disbelief, "Wow, thanks."
"Whaddaya want me to do? I did mean it. I was angry as hell. But then I felt bad. I shouldn't've blamed you. Now Gambit's here and I can't believe it."
Rogue looked at the ground, "Me neither."
"But he'll know how to find Lorna."
"Bobby, that's not what he's here."
"Then why the hell is he here? Why'd the Professor let a killer come live with us?"
"He's not a killer—"
"How do you know? Just because the Professor said so? Come on, Rogue, I thought you'd've learned to sniff out lies."
She sighed, crossed her arms, "Look, Bobby, Ah know you're more hot-headed these days, but you've literally got to cool it. You can't go around calling Xavier a liar."
"Man, whatever," Bobby threw his hands up in the air. "Nobody listens!" He stalked off angrily.
"Bobby wait!" Rogue called out. She didn't understand it. What had happened between him and Lorna Danes for him to become so mercurial? He was irascible and angry, angry in a way she never thought Bobby Drake would ever be. It came from deep inside, a dark place; it shaped him. She couldn't believe he was letting the anger fly around helter skelter, irritate everyone around him, isolating himself from his friends. He just wasn't as good as hiding it as she was. He wasn't a pretender.
"Don't take it personally, chere."
She turned around slowly, wondering how it was Remy had such a knack for appearing randomly everywhere. He stood in the doorway to the poolhouse, leaning against the frame and shuffling a deck of cards. He wore only a pair of dark sweatpants, shirtless. She stared at the smoothness of his chest, the hard muscles of his abdomen.
She cleared her throat and crossed her arms, "What are you doing there?"
"My new place. Like it?"
Her eyes widened, "You're staying? Indefinitely?"
"Don't have t' sound so horrified, chere."
"I didn't mean—that's not what—.whatever." She was sputtering like a besotted school girl. It was unbecoming, so she shut her mouth and let the sentence hang.
Remy had stepped away from the poolhouse, was walking toward her. She noticed the ripples of his arms and pecs as he moved, cleared her throat again. He stopped right in front of her. "So," he said.
That quivering feeling returned to her stomach, trickled down her thighs. She kept her voice level, "So what?"
"You an' dat earthquake boy, huh." He continued to shuffle the cards, in-between each other, over each other, flipping them with expert dexterity.
"Who—Lance?" Rogue frowned, wondering what it was Remy was thinking. Then she recalled the ill-timed, unwarranted kiss. "It's not—"
"S'ok, chere. Y' don't have t' explain. Not like we toget'er or anyt'ing."
However much true, the words stung. Rogue bit her lip, feeling a swell of frustration rising in her throat like bile, frustration and a dash of anger. What explanation did she owe him anyway? But it was Remy. God, what was happening—this wasn't how they were supposed to be with each other. "Lance is kind," she heard herself saying. "And he's reliable when you need him, which is not what I can say about a lot of people."
A card fell loose from Remy's stack as he momentarily lost his rhythm. It cut through the air from the momentum of an interrupted shuffle and landed in the pool. A Queen of Hearts. They both stared at it, seeing something only they could. He stepped away from her and went to crouch at the edge of the pool. He stared at the floating card, watched the water seep into the thin cardboard. Bangs fell over his eyes.
He wanted to tell her what he thought of Lance Alvers, a mediocre hand for hire, no art to him, a regular Joe—not good enough for someone as seraphic as her. And that certainly meant Remy LeBeau wasn't good enough for her either, Le Diable Blanc, thief, mercenary, mass-murderer.
"What are you really doing here, Remy?"
"Same reason you are."
"And what's that?"
"Lend a helpin' hand. Haven't y'heard, chere? I got inside information. M' one o' de bad guys."
"Stop that."
"Quoi?"
"Acting."
"Am I now." He decided he wanted her to leave. Everything would be easier if she wasn't around to remind him of what he'd lost. Suddenly Jean's diatribe in the New Orleans restaurant popped back to mind. Had she just not known what she was talking about, spewing all that stuff about Rogue? She would never admit it, but she misses you. A lot.—That's how affected she was by you...all these walls around herself...invulnerable...but she's not.
No. Since when did Rogue confide in Jean Grey? They were polar opposites back then, unable to really relate to each other. He stood up to leave—enough confrontation and conspiracy for one night—and felt her hand grab his arm, twist him around to face her. Merde, Rogue had more brass than he remembered.
"Why didn't you come back?" she demanded, eyes bright with command.
Their faces were inches apart. He could almost feel the heat of her body on his skin. "What's it matter now," he said hoarsely.
"It matters."
"Does it, chere? Looks like y' moved on nice on y' own."
She released his arm, eyes drifting down to focus on his nose, his lips. "It's not... it's not like that," she said softly.
"Non? Don't tell me y' spent de last two years waitin' on me?" When she said nothing to contest his words, he felt the deadweight of dismay form in the bottom of his stomach, then a flash of anger that snuffed out as quickly as it came. He had no right to be angry. It was just the truth. She and another, probably the earthquake guy. The image of them in a heated embrace, his mouth on her, his hands... It made his stomach churn, and he had a great urge to punch Lance Alvers in the face. "'Course y' didn't. Not when y' could finally touch after all dat time, hein? Gotta seize de moments as dey come."
Rogue felt the slow burn of tears behind her eyes. She drew a sharp breath to gain composure. Remy did not see. He had already turned and begun walking back to the pool house, throwing over his shoulder, "G'night, chere. Nice catchin' up."
She turned and hurried into the mansion, tears blurring her vision. It was wrong, it was all wrong. One mistake, one weak moment, and he judged her for it. The gall. How dare he, when he had been the one to desert her when he had promised to come back, as if all they had been through meant nothing. But then again, she knew it would be a mistake when she was letting it happen, telling Lance to touch her, kiss her, make her forget her woes.
As she came up the main living room, she heard snippets of the evening newscast. "...voting on the Mutant Registration Act ended just minutes ago...say that the bill passed in the House of Representatives...must pass in the Senate...if the President does not veto..."
She stopped in the doorway, unable to pull herself away. This landmark legislation of bigotry and hate was on its way to becoming the law of the land. Her night couldn't possibly get worse. The reporter named Trish Tilby seemed morose as she delivered the news, "Though it comes as little surprise that the Mutant Registration Act passed in the House, predictions about its fate in the Senate are much less certain. Cameron Jones joins us from Washington D.C. with reactions from the ground. Cameron, how's it looking out there?"
The screen filled with a scene from outside the congressional buildings in the nation's capital. A crowd bustled around a square-jawed reporter as he spoke,"Good evening, Trish. There's definitely a lot of restless energy out jere. On one side we have supporters of the bill while on the opposite, the pro-mutant-rights lobby. People are nervous and worried on both sides. As you can see here, a squadron of riot police have gathered. Tensions are running high and we're hoping a fight doesn't break out..."
"Rogue?" Kitty sat up from her prostrated position on the couch. "Are you crying?"
Shit, Rogue thought. Kitty was the last person she wanted to talk to. Without a word she turned and walked away from the living room.
"Hey! Rogue, come on!" Her feet made pat pat sounds against the floors as she chased after her. "What happened? The news wasn't that depressing. Yet."
Rogue wiped at her face with her sleeves of her hoodie, "Ah'll be fine, Kit. It's fine." She gestured up the stairs, "Ah really need to shower. All sweaty, ya know."
Kitty scowled, stunned by how quickly Rogue was able to mask her emotions. Her face could turn from distressed to placid in mere seconds. Were there even enough muscles in the face to do that? Biology was not her strong point. She was glad computers made so much more sense. "Was it Remy?" she asked. "Did you talk to him? Where's he been all this time?"
"You know where he's been. Logan and the Professor told everyone."
"Well, yeah, but I mean that can't be all there is to it, right?"
Rogue shrugged in disinterest, "Ah really wouldn't know."
"Why the heck are you being so weird?" Kitty demanded, hands on her hips. Her bright blue eyes stared daggers into Rogue's face. "You're really starting to make me worry. It's like two years ago all over again."
Damn, Ah'm never gonna live that down, Rogue thought. She had to keep her cool. She couldn't have everybody thinking she was off the rails again—though sometimes she felt like she was. The problem was, how could she tell Kitty she had slept with her ex-boyfriend? The one she wasn't even sure Kitty had gotten over? She felt like a harlot and a horrible friend.
"Ah'm tired," she said. "Ah ran into Remy out there and apparently he's living in the poolhouse now—did you know? Ah can't even talk to him anymore. He's like a stranger. Ah don't know what to think."
The hard expression on her friend's face softened. "That sounds hard," she said. "Kind of how I feel about Lance being around."
Rogue cleared her throat, "Oh?"
"I mean, obviously nothing close to how you must feel. But it's just weird, right? I haven't spoken to him in years and it's weird to see him."
"Do you...still have feelings for him?"
"God, he was so annoying in that meeting, wasn't he? I don't even know why he's here. But I don't know. It brings things back..." Kitty sighed wistfully and shook her head, "Anyway, we have more important things to think about. I'm going to visit Hank at the jail right now and show him some of those files. Wanna come?"
A wave of relief washed over Rogue that they were no longer talking about Lance. "Ah'd love to but Ah feel beat... Next time?" In all the commotion she had completely forgotten Henry McCoy was still in jail. How selfish she was to forget a friend in lockup.
"I understand. I'll see you."
Rogue watched her leave and wondered if she would ever tell her about Lance. She hurried upstairs to her room and a hot shower.
The hot water was a relief on many levels. Pounding on her head like a pressure massage, shutting her off from the outside world. Just Rogue in her rectangular box of steam and cleansing water. People did not give enough credit to showers as a place for grounding oneself. As far as Rogue was concerned, she could stay in there all night if it meant she wouldn't have to deal with Remy or Lance or Essex or Selene—any of it.
After more than half an hour the tips of her fingers were beginning to dried herself off with a towel and wiped a section clear from the steamed-over mirror. Her eyes looked tired. Tonight, she planned to sleep. As she sifted through her drawer of panties and bras, she thought of Remy living in the pool house. Why had he chosen to stay here? For how long? Could she even call him at least a friend anymore? Is that all she wanted?
A knock sounded at her door. Her heat skipped a beat. Maybe he wanted to talk after that awful conversation by the pool, clear the air, fix things...
"Come in."
The door slowly opened slowly as Lance walked in. He immediately noticed Rogue wearing only a tiny towel. "Uh, hey..."
She sighed and chose a random pair of underwear and began looking for clothes. "What is it, Lance."
"I just wanted to check on you..." Slowly his gaze lost altitude, wandering from her face down the line of her neck, to the hem of the towel that barely covered her torso, "...you looked tweaked out earlier."
"Ah'm up here," Rogue said, tapping the air in front of her eyes with her index and middle fingers.
Lance grinned sheepishly, "Can ya blame me?"
"For being a little pervey? Yes. And Ah'm fine."
"You don't have to pretend with me. I know it must've been weird to see that guy again after all this time. Do you want to talk about it?"
Did she? And did Lance refer to Remy as "that guy" perjoratively? Part of her wanted to jump to Remy's defense. "It wasn't the first time," she threw over her shoulder before disappearing into the bathroom. She reemerged a couple minutes later in black yoga pants and a tank top and immediately plopped down at the edge of her bed. She pulled her knees up to her chest and stared at the floor.
Lance sat down beside her, "So...have you talked to him?"
"Yeah."
"And?"
"Why are you asking?"
"Because," Lance said hesitantly. He reached to touch her but changed his mind when he saw her stiffen. "I don't get you, Rogue." He sounded upset.
"What did Ah do?"
"We kissed!"
She grew silent and continued to stare stubbornly at the floor. The reminder sent a wave of guilt flooding back into her. "Lance, whatever you want, Ah'm pretty sure Ah can't give it to you."
"Why not?"
"Because it isn't right. And Ah just...can't. Ah've got too much stuff going on to deal with someone."
"I'm not trying to be high-maintainance here. Can't blame a guy for trying to be more when it feels right from his end."
"Feels right? How can it feel right with Kitty around the corner? Have you talked to her yet?"
"Look, I know you're worried because you're her friend, but she and I grew apart years ago. I held on to the idea of her because she was the closest I'd had to any sort of real connection. But then...things changed."
Rogue nearly rolled her eyes, "Ah don't know about that. Every time you got drunk you brought her up."
"Guy's gotta have a reference point right?"
"This is awkward."
He suddenly stood up and headed for the door. He paused at the doorknob, "You obviously have a lot on your mind, stuff to figure out. So you should do that. I just want you to know, even though we're not in X-Corps anymore, I still got your back." With a soft smile, he closed the door as he left.
Finally alone again, Rogue lay back in her bed. Since when did her life become so complicated? It had been simple for so long—find a target, plan the operation, execute the operation, find the next target. She was having trouble remembering her motives for wanting to return to Bayville, to the place it all went wrong in the first place.
She grabbed a pillow and curled up, letting the delicious exhaustion take over. Sleep came too easily. Dreams occupied her mind, but nothing vivid or gripping. She dreamt of that strange mountainous island again, except she was alone to take in its magestic beauty. Sapphire waters and stalwart mountains, lush forests—all of it wrapped a gleaming city that glowed with vibrancy, brand new, unsoiled. Where was it? Had Garbha-hsien known? Why didn't he tell her if it was important? Because she knew this island was incredibly important. Suddenly everything began shaking, the image of the island trembled in her mind until it became too dizzying to look at and she woke up. She smelled smoke, heard screams. Leaping out of bed, she knew before she even opened the door that there had been a blast in the east wing of the mansion. Had the students' powers gone haywire? Did Jamie accidentally microwave a fork again? Or was it—
Her ears adjusted when her instinct activated Logan's mutant ability of keen senses. She heard the grenade missile coming but did not have time to react. The explosion threw her from her doorway and sent her crashing through the hallway in a heap of brunt wood and plaster.
With a guttural scream of exertion, an organic steel-covered arm burst from the pile of burning rubble. Rogue broke herself free and stumbled away from the fires, her clothes in torched rags. As her skin returned to normal, her injuries became apparent. She had tapped into Piotr's powers quick enough to save her life, but not to prevent some of the cuts and bruises. She had a feeling she would be channeling Logan a lot this evening. The only problem was, it didn't work as fast for her as it did for him.
It happened again and again—explosions around the mansion. The students had panicked at first but then rallied, putting their powers and their training to use in putting fires out and protecting each other. Rogue made it to the main staircase, where Bobby was blasting ice to cool the fires. "What the HELL is happening?" he shouted through the chaos.
Rogue could hear Jubilee scream from downstairs, "The Instistute is getting blown up again?" Then the shuffle of students running out of the way of falling debris. A frantic scream from Amara, "Jamie!"
Rogue saw him, lying unconscious in a doorway that looked ready to collapse. She was at his side in a flash of light and burst of sulfurous smoke. But someone had beat her to it.
"Ah, sister," Kurt grinned as he lifted Jamie into his arms. "Can't beat ze bro, right?"
Rogue didn't have time to smile back. With a surge of telekinesis, she threw Kurt and Jamie out of the way just as a wooden beam crumbled and collapsed on her. The impact knocked the air out of her lungs, crushing her ribs into the floor. Smoke filled her vision and mouth. She couldn't breathe. Her injuries from the explosion earlier had not fully healed. She was weakened and was losing focus and control. Chants from outside drifted through the roar of fire and cackle of wood to her sensitive ears: "No more mutants! No more mutants!" "Go home muties!" "Die! Die!"
Then someone was there, pushing at the wooden beam but unable to move it. He knelt down beside her, one hand on the side of her face, "Chere, y' got t'concentrate. Y' got t' get y'self out o' dis. Come on!" Remy again, a strange desperation in his voice—for what, her safety? The way it used to be.
He was yelling and she could barely hear him. But she listened. Slowly she phased herself out from under the wood. It clattered to the floor. She tried to stand but the sharp pain of cracked ribs shot through her body. She collapsed to the floor with a howl of pain. Bits of burning ceiling fell around her.
"Dis no time f' a nap, Rogue," she heard him say. Oh, Remy, always the joker. She felt his arms around her, lifting her up, carrying her through fire and smoke. Heal goddamnit. Heal faster. She hated being so useless. The pain was also incredibly debilitating and annoying. But it did not interfere with her powers.
She saw them past Remy's shoulder, a scattering of male and female forms littering the lawn of the Xavier Institute. They wore shoddily mismatched pseudo-military attire, no doubt random things they had lying around at home that resembled the garb they had seen in movies. But for their motley and uninspired appearance, they had the weapons—assault rifles, grenade launchers—of those with either very convenient connections or lots of money. And they were screaming, cheering, jeering at the attack on a school, an institution full of youth.
A great and terrible anger swelled in Rogue, all her pent up frustrations and disappointments focusing on one target: the pseudo-military attackers out there. When she really thought about it, her problems existed because of people like this, because of this kind of hate, this kind of need to exert power over others, and the destructive actions that invariably followed.
She felt the clarifty wash over her like a wave, the calmness, the focus of when she knew without an iota of doubt what she wanted and had to do. It was the grace of certainty, something she was heavily bereft of lately. During her time with X-Corps, she got this feeling whenever she knew they were close to the target and she could see the trajectory of the coming course of events ending with a bad guy having a very bad day. The attackers were going to rue the moment they decided to set their sights on Xavier's Institute.
"Rogue? Chere y' hurt. Y' shouldn't..." Remy let go as she squirmed out of his arms and limped until she stood straight. He shut up then, realizing she wasn't hearing him. He followed as she moved slowly past burning heaps of wood whose smoke seeped out of the mansion through great gaping holes in the ceiling. Smoky fumes billowed out in wispy columns around her committed stride.
She stopped at what remained of the mansion's blown-out front door, facing a dozen or so of the mob.
"What she doin'?" one of them cried out.
"Lost her mind."
"Put an end to her misery, boys."
They could not know what she was capable of. The ground beneath their feet shook with a resolute fury, splitting apart and throwing earth against gravity. Shouts of surprise filled the air as some of them fell into the ever-deepening fissures. She didn't know if they were being crushed in the moving tectonic plates of the earth; she wasn't sure she cared. She could feel it in her, the desire for them to suffer. It fueled her power to shake the very earth and make it swallow them.
One sent a grenade launching toward her. With a wave of her hand, magnetism pushed the missile aside, looping it back around to explode near its sender.
"Kill her!"
"Shoot for her head!"
Suddenly the tremors stopped. The attackers struggled to re-mobilize. They reached for their guns and bombs, but dropped them as screams of terror erupted from their mouths. A couple fell to fetal positions on the grass, hugging themselves and crying for their parents like children. Others clawed at their hair, screaming at something only they could see. Some rolled and writhed on the grass from invisible tortures.
Remy realized Rogue was using Mastermind's power of illusion to give them horrific visions, and she was doing it without ostensible remorse for the suffering she was causing. He stepped in front of Rogue, took her by the shoulders, "Stop dis. Dis ain't you."
Her bright emerald eyes seemed clouded, heavy with the dark thoughts of retaliation. He knew those thoughts all too well and knew she would not cope with the guilt of torture in healthy ways. Her shoulders sagged and she leaned forward until her head rested on his shoulder.
The screaming stopped. The attackers—now sufficiently panicked—began to flee. They ran past the mansion's destroyed front gate, where news crews had already gathered. They crept carefully onto the Institute grounds, cameras filming as much as they could.
Rogue could feel the last of her energy leave. "Ah'm tired," she murmured into Remy's shoulder. "Ah'm so tired."
"S'all right, chere," he said, hugging her close. "S'all go'n' be all right."
She believed him.