DISCLAIMER: Rareza is mine. Everyone else is the property of Marvel.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Fear the idle mind. ;) Or at least people who drink too much coffee.
If this story looks familiar, it's because I've uploaded it here before. I received a ton of reviews, which was really fuckin' cool, and had uploaded the next two parts, but then got caught up in my Goth Gyrl and Bloodlust Boy series. While uploading those stories, I accidently deleted the first part of this series. Yes, I know. I'm so utterly brilliant. Please R&R.. Thanks.
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Hidden Rarity
by Chigliak
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The car stopped in front of the mansion as the passengers inside hesitated before getting out.
"Do you think anyone's even awake?" one of the passengers, a young woman, asked. "It's late."
"Just as well," another passenger, this one a man, told her. "You know we can't very well be seen here. Our chances of being noticed at night are much less than our chances of being noticed at day."
"Especially in a storm like this," commented the third passenger, an old woman.
"Right." The man looked out the window and into the pouring rain. "Might as well get going, then."
They all stepped out into the rain, which was freezing cold. The man walked over to the backseat where the young woman stood, and helped her lug a large black bundle out of the car. Carefully, they carried it together to the front door of the mansion, and the old women knocked on the door.
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*
Logan was the only one awake in the X-Mansion that night. The thunder and the lightening and the incessant pounding of the rain was making him restless. He was trying to watch TV when someone started knocking on the door.
"Who the hell is crazy enough t'be out in this storm?" he grumbled, as he went to answer. A sudden bolt of lightening brightened the room, and was immediately followed by several crashes of thunder.
Looking out the window before opening the door, he got his answer. What appeared to be a priest and two nuns were standing out on the porch. Warily, Logan opened the door. "What d'ya want?"
The priest cleared his throat. "Is Professor Charles Xavier here?"
"He's asleep."
The priest was silent.
"What d'ya want?" Logan repeated.
"It's a matter of urgency. We really need to see Professor Xavier. Or whoever else is in charge here."
"I *told* you, he's asleep. You'll just have to--"
"Logan, let them in," came a voice. It was the Professor.
Reluctantly, Logan opened the door wider, but the priest shook his head. "We can't be here long." *We can't be seen here at all,* he thought to himself. *At least if we're just seen on the porch, we can come up with a decent excuse for it, but if we actually went INSIDE the place...*
"What's wrong?" the Professor asked, although with his telepathic powers, he already knew the answer.
"We've got this woman with us," the priest said, and motioned for the two nuns to come forward, which they did, bringing the woman, whom neither Logan nor the Professor had been able to see up till now.
The woman wore a coat with a hood covering her head, and was slumped forward so much that her face couldn't be seen. She was unconscious. The nuns were holding her up.
"What happened to her?" the Professor asked.
The younger nun sighed. "She's been staying our homeless shelter for the last month," she explained. "Just showed up one day, and never left. We don't know a thing about her, not even her name. She went to mass every day, took Communion, but only spoke to pray. She's never spoken to us.
"Then she disappeared a few days before today, and we couldn't find her. We were worried, because she'd never done that before."
"Ever think she just wanted to leave?" Logan inquired gruffly.
"She left all her things at the shelter," the older nun told him. She had a old and weathered, but serene face and looked like she possessed an unlimited amount of patience. "Is that the act of one who wants to leave?"
"Another person at our shelter found her tonight," the younger nun continued. "She'd been beaten up and left out in the streets. He brought her back and we did everything we could for her, but we think her injuries are more than we can treat her for."
The priest pulled the woman's hood off. She had purple hair, a deep, bruise-purple color, long and dirty and tangled.
The priest gently lifted her chin, exposing her face. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were the same deep purple as her hair. Her skin was greyish-blue. Standing out in startling contrast to her bluish skin was a dark blue-black bruise, below her left eye. Fingerprint-shaped bruises lined her neck. Her lower lip was cut, dried blood was around her nose and mouth, and a trickle of newer blood ran from her mouth. Another large cut crossed her right temple.
The Professor silently took all of this in, then asked, "Do you know who did this?"
"We don't know." The priest let the woman go. "However, we have an idea. During the week she disappeared, anti-mutant groups began coming to our shelter. They said they knew we were harboring mutants, and the minute they saw one, they'd kill it."
"She can't stay with us any longer," the old nun said. "They'll come snooping around again, soon. Will you take her in? We don't know anyone else whom we can turn to."
Professor Xavier studied the woman for a moment, thinking, then nodded. "She can stay here. We'll take care of her."
"Thank you."
Logan stepped forward to take the woman from the nuns, who quietly went back to the car.
"Here are her things," the priest said, carefully setting a worn black leather backpack on the mansion floor, and glancing at Logan, then at the Professor. "God bless both of you," he murmured, before retreating to the car, and driving off.
The Professor looked again at the woman whom Logan was now holding. "Take her to the Infirmary," the Professor directed. "I'll have Hank examine her."
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"Whoever did this to her," Hank McCoy said in disgust, "went out of their way to express their anti-mutant beliefs."
"That so?" Logan muttered more than questioned. It was late, but he still wasn't sleeping. This purple-haired, blue-skinned newcomer was too interesting.
Something about her looked familiar to Logan. He couldn't quite figure out what it was, but he was almost sure he'd seen her before.
They were in the Infirmary, taking care of the woman, who lay on a metal table. Hank had already sewn up the cut on the woman's forehead, and was now cleaning up the rest of the woman's cuts.
"Hand me the alcohol bottle, please, Logan," Hank requested, throwing away the piece of gauze he'd been using, and substituting it with a new piece.
Logan slid the brown bottle across the table over to Hank, and studied the woman with suspicious curiosity.
"What do you think she does?" Logan asked.
Hank paused, and looked at the woman's still face. "I don't suppose we'll know until she wakes up." He picked up one of her limp hands, and examined the scrapes on it before using the cotton gauze to clean off the blood and dirt. "To be honest, I too, have been wondering that."
"She kinda looks like you," Logan remarked, half-joking. "All blue, the way you are. "Except she's not a furball."
Hank glared at Logan. "I can assure you this woman is in no way related to me. Besides, she's much lighter than I." He screwed the lid back onto the bottle of alcohol, threw away the gauze, and said, "I need you to hold her up now. I want to see her ribs."
Logan did as Hank instructed, and felt obligated to look away as Hank unbuttoned the woman's shirt.
"My God," said Hank, sounding shocked.
"What?"
"What did they do to this poor woman?"
Only after hearing Hank's shocked tone did Logan allow himself to look at the woman, and when he did, he understood why Hank was so shocked. Her sides were *covered* with blue-black bruises. There were huge areas where you couldn't even see the normal coloring of her skin at all, it had been so badly bruised.
Hank set to work, taping up the woman's ribs, as Logan's eyes narrowed. Nothing pissed him off more than seeing someone helpless being attacked, and this woman looked pretty helpless to him.
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She was in France.
As Rareza's eyes opened, she back in France, being pursued by a group of men. They were yelling things at her, French words and phrases that she couldn't understand, but it was clear that the words were angry ones.
She hadn't done anything more than be what she was, a mutant, to get these men chasing her, trying to catch her so they could kill her. She had woken up in the abandoned building she'd been sleeping in for the past few months, same as always. She had stolen some food that morning, as she did just about every morning, then gone into a restaurant and used their restrooms to wash up in, as usual. She'd wandered around in stores, stealing small objects, until the store managers noticed her, and chased her away; then she roamed around town for a few hours. She'd done all the same things she'd done every day, since coming to France.
The one thing that made this day different from all the other days was that her cold, which she'd been nursing for two weeks now, had turned into full-blown bronchitis. She'd been coughing all day. Her throat felt all scratchy, her chest ached, she felt feverish, and was shaking as if she had convulsions, she was so cold.
Her cough had given her away. She'd been walking back to the abandoned warehouse building, where she and several other hobos were staying, and on her way, came to a street where some men were. Heading into the ally, she'd planned to just hide there until they passed, but had gone into a sudden coughing fit. Frantically, she'd tried to keep quiet, but her illness had rendered her helpless, and the men had heard her.
Now they were chasing her, and she couldn't fly away from them, as she normally would have, because flying in this cold was brutal torture on her lungs, as she breathed in the cold air. But now her lungs were hurting just the same as they would have had she been flying, so maybe it didn't matter quite so much.
She gave a backwards glance, and her flimsy-sandaled feet caught on a broken bit of the sidewalk, pitching her forward onto the ground.
*They're going to get me,* she thought desperately, feeling the sting in her hands and knees, which had been scraped up when she fell, getting back up to her feet, and seeing the men getting closer to her. *There's no way in hell I can beat them to the warehouse, on foot. I'm going to have to fly, even if it does hurt my chest--there's no WAY I can outrun them.*
She floated up into the air, and since it always took a few minutes to get some speed into her flying, settled for height, rather than distance. Below her, the men had stopped, and were watching her, cursing the fact that she'd gotten away once more, and they hadn't caught her.
Once Rareza was high enough in the air to feel safe, she began flying towards the warehouse, watching the ground the whole time she was up there, because sometimes the men had guns, and liked to shoot mutants, when they saw them.
Her lungs felt like they were burning. She looked down, saw that no one was around, and decided to stop for a few minutes, to take a rest. Floating till she was able to lightly step onto a roof, she sat down quietly, and observed the streets below.
*I need to get out of this place.*
That much was evident to her. The only problem was, HOW was she going to get out of France? Her purple hair and blue skin didn't make it easy for her to mingle among other people, and she really didn't know any other place but Spain and Italy, though she'd outstayed her welcome there, and it was no longer safe for her to go back.
*You could go back to the US.*
The United States? It wasn't a thought that crossed her mind too often. It was way too far away...maybe once she got better...
*But that's the bitch of the whole thing!* Rareza thought angrily. *How am I supposed to get better when I'm stuck in a cold country, with only a dress and sandals on my feet? When I'm forced to live in an abandoned warehouse, with a fire so small you can hardly even cook over it, let alone get warmth from it? No medicine, no decent food or water, not even a coat to where anymore...*
Bitterly, she recalled the unhappy surprise fate had given her, upon her illness. After she'd gotten such a bad cold, her powers hadn't been working right. In short, she couldn't phase or transform herself to look more human, as she'd always been able to before.
Being able to transform had been crucial to her survival here in Europe for the last five years. Because of this power, she'd been able to have a normal life, and be around people with no troubles. Now, though, she couldn't even walk the streets without being attacked by someone.
*Man, it's cold up here...I'd better go back to the warehouse.*
She started to leave but was overcome by another coughing fit. For several minutes, her body was wracked by a coughing spasm, leaving her breathless and shaking once it finally stopped, along with blood covering her cold, blue hands.
The blood scared her. *You're not supposed to hack up blood when you cough,* she thought, freaked. She decided right then and there to head straight back to the warehouse. She wasn't going to get any better just sitting here in the cold.
As she flew back, she once again was careless about watching the street below. So it came as a shock to her when she heard the gunshots begin, and even more so when she felt the bullets piercing her body, making her fall onto the ground below.
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A crash, then a shattering abruptly brought Rareza into a cold, bright little room.
*How did I get in here?*
"Well, we won't be using that again," came a voice.
"Man, that reeks," came a second, gruff voice.
"Yes, it does smell quite unpleasant," the first voice agreed, "but seeing as you were the one who knocked it down, I'm afraid you'll have to clean it up."
"Ain't my fault you put it so close to the edge," the gruff voice complained.
Rareza tightly closed her eyes. *Why is it so bright in here?*
Her whole body ached, but it was her head that hurt the worst. Just moving her head side to side was agony. She couldn't remember having such a bad headache since her 16th birthday--when she'd chosen to celebrate alone with a bottle of tequila and a three/quarters of a bottle of whiskey, straight. The results had been a hangover so bad, she'd been cautious about drinking ever since.
She gingerly touched her face. One of her eyes and her lip were swollen, and several other parts of her face hurt when she touched them.
*I probably look like shit.*
"Hey, Hank," said the gruff voice. "I think the lady's awake."
Rareza heard two sets of footsteps walk up to the cold metal table she was lying on, then felt, rather than saw, them staring at her.
*Oh no. What are they going to do to me?*
Slowly, painfully, she opened her eyes. She had trouble focusing at first, because of the light, but soon made out two men staring over her.
"Can you hear me?" the man she'd first heard speaking-*Hank*-asked her.
Rareza nodded, regretting the action as a throbbing pain hit her head.
"Can you tell us your name?" Hank asked her.
She didn't want to speak. Her sides ached terribly, every time she breathed. That must have been what she'd been feeling in her dream. Knowing it would hurt even worse to talk, she chose to remain silent, and instead, looked at Hank.
He was blue, like her, but much darker, and furry. Somehow, the sight of a big blue furry man didn't faze her at all, tonight.
*Navy Blue...Crayola Blue...Royal Blue*, she thought, trying to think of the exact shade Hank was. The name wasn't that important to her though, and she drifted back to sleep before coming up with one.
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When the girl went back to sleep, Hank and Logan finished cleaning up then left the Infirmary and went to Professor Xavier's office, where the Professor was talking to Scott. The two immediately stopped talking, when Hank and Logan entered the room.
"How's the woman?" Scott asked.
"Looks like she's been to hell and back," Logan offered.
"That bad?"
Hank nodded. "Even then, that was only after we'd cleaned her up."
Logan spied the woman's backpack resting on a chair, opened. "Finding out anything about her?" he asked Scott, smirking. "Or you just gettin' into a girly clothes fetish?"
Scott ignored Logan's insult. "She's got a name, you know."
"But we don't know it."
"It's Emma. Emma Rendoni," Scott told Logan, in a superior tone, holding wallet out, which showed several cards, and more importantly, a passport.
"Looks fake."
Hank peered at the passport as well. "It's very hard to tell, but I believe Logan is right. "This passport really is a fraud."
Logan went through the cards in the wallet. All of these have different names. How do we know which one's really hers?"
"She's awake," said Hank. "I saw her wake up again, as we were leaving. All we have to do is ask her."
"Right," Scott said, "even if she doesn't tell us anything, there's always the government files. We can look in those."
Hank and Logan went back to the Infirmary, this time joined by Scott, who, being the born leader that he was, wanted to know every last detail of what was wrong with the woman. He was receiving a thorough report from Hank when they arrived at the door.
"Let it be known," Hank warned Scott, before opening the door. "She's not a pretty sight." He opened the door, and Scott went in.
"Hank?" Scott asked.
"Yes?"
"Well...where is she?"
Hank entered the room. "She's right in here--" he faltered. He looked at the table, around the table, and then around the room.
The woman was nowhere to be found.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Fear the idle mind. ;) Or at least people who drink too much coffee.
If this story looks familiar, it's because I've uploaded it here before. I received a ton of reviews, which was really fuckin' cool, and had uploaded the next two parts, but then got caught up in my Goth Gyrl and Bloodlust Boy series. While uploading those stories, I accidently deleted the first part of this series. Yes, I know. I'm so utterly brilliant. Please R&R.. Thanks.
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Hidden Rarity
by Chigliak
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*
The car stopped in front of the mansion as the passengers inside hesitated before getting out.
"Do you think anyone's even awake?" one of the passengers, a young woman, asked. "It's late."
"Just as well," another passenger, this one a man, told her. "You know we can't very well be seen here. Our chances of being noticed at night are much less than our chances of being noticed at day."
"Especially in a storm like this," commented the third passenger, an old woman.
"Right." The man looked out the window and into the pouring rain. "Might as well get going, then."
They all stepped out into the rain, which was freezing cold. The man walked over to the backseat where the young woman stood, and helped her lug a large black bundle out of the car. Carefully, they carried it together to the front door of the mansion, and the old women knocked on the door.
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Logan was the only one awake in the X-Mansion that night. The thunder and the lightening and the incessant pounding of the rain was making him restless. He was trying to watch TV when someone started knocking on the door.
"Who the hell is crazy enough t'be out in this storm?" he grumbled, as he went to answer. A sudden bolt of lightening brightened the room, and was immediately followed by several crashes of thunder.
Looking out the window before opening the door, he got his answer. What appeared to be a priest and two nuns were standing out on the porch. Warily, Logan opened the door. "What d'ya want?"
The priest cleared his throat. "Is Professor Charles Xavier here?"
"He's asleep."
The priest was silent.
"What d'ya want?" Logan repeated.
"It's a matter of urgency. We really need to see Professor Xavier. Or whoever else is in charge here."
"I *told* you, he's asleep. You'll just have to--"
"Logan, let them in," came a voice. It was the Professor.
Reluctantly, Logan opened the door wider, but the priest shook his head. "We can't be here long." *We can't be seen here at all,* he thought to himself. *At least if we're just seen on the porch, we can come up with a decent excuse for it, but if we actually went INSIDE the place...*
"What's wrong?" the Professor asked, although with his telepathic powers, he already knew the answer.
"We've got this woman with us," the priest said, and motioned for the two nuns to come forward, which they did, bringing the woman, whom neither Logan nor the Professor had been able to see up till now.
The woman wore a coat with a hood covering her head, and was slumped forward so much that her face couldn't be seen. She was unconscious. The nuns were holding her up.
"What happened to her?" the Professor asked.
The younger nun sighed. "She's been staying our homeless shelter for the last month," she explained. "Just showed up one day, and never left. We don't know a thing about her, not even her name. She went to mass every day, took Communion, but only spoke to pray. She's never spoken to us.
"Then she disappeared a few days before today, and we couldn't find her. We were worried, because she'd never done that before."
"Ever think she just wanted to leave?" Logan inquired gruffly.
"She left all her things at the shelter," the older nun told him. She had a old and weathered, but serene face and looked like she possessed an unlimited amount of patience. "Is that the act of one who wants to leave?"
"Another person at our shelter found her tonight," the younger nun continued. "She'd been beaten up and left out in the streets. He brought her back and we did everything we could for her, but we think her injuries are more than we can treat her for."
The priest pulled the woman's hood off. She had purple hair, a deep, bruise-purple color, long and dirty and tangled.
The priest gently lifted her chin, exposing her face. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were the same deep purple as her hair. Her skin was greyish-blue. Standing out in startling contrast to her bluish skin was a dark blue-black bruise, below her left eye. Fingerprint-shaped bruises lined her neck. Her lower lip was cut, dried blood was around her nose and mouth, and a trickle of newer blood ran from her mouth. Another large cut crossed her right temple.
The Professor silently took all of this in, then asked, "Do you know who did this?"
"We don't know." The priest let the woman go. "However, we have an idea. During the week she disappeared, anti-mutant groups began coming to our shelter. They said they knew we were harboring mutants, and the minute they saw one, they'd kill it."
"She can't stay with us any longer," the old nun said. "They'll come snooping around again, soon. Will you take her in? We don't know anyone else whom we can turn to."
Professor Xavier studied the woman for a moment, thinking, then nodded. "She can stay here. We'll take care of her."
"Thank you."
Logan stepped forward to take the woman from the nuns, who quietly went back to the car.
"Here are her things," the priest said, carefully setting a worn black leather backpack on the mansion floor, and glancing at Logan, then at the Professor. "God bless both of you," he murmured, before retreating to the car, and driving off.
The Professor looked again at the woman whom Logan was now holding. "Take her to the Infirmary," the Professor directed. "I'll have Hank examine her."
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"Whoever did this to her," Hank McCoy said in disgust, "went out of their way to express their anti-mutant beliefs."
"That so?" Logan muttered more than questioned. It was late, but he still wasn't sleeping. This purple-haired, blue-skinned newcomer was too interesting.
Something about her looked familiar to Logan. He couldn't quite figure out what it was, but he was almost sure he'd seen her before.
They were in the Infirmary, taking care of the woman, who lay on a metal table. Hank had already sewn up the cut on the woman's forehead, and was now cleaning up the rest of the woman's cuts.
"Hand me the alcohol bottle, please, Logan," Hank requested, throwing away the piece of gauze he'd been using, and substituting it with a new piece.
Logan slid the brown bottle across the table over to Hank, and studied the woman with suspicious curiosity.
"What do you think she does?" Logan asked.
Hank paused, and looked at the woman's still face. "I don't suppose we'll know until she wakes up." He picked up one of her limp hands, and examined the scrapes on it before using the cotton gauze to clean off the blood and dirt. "To be honest, I too, have been wondering that."
"She kinda looks like you," Logan remarked, half-joking. "All blue, the way you are. "Except she's not a furball."
Hank glared at Logan. "I can assure you this woman is in no way related to me. Besides, she's much lighter than I." He screwed the lid back onto the bottle of alcohol, threw away the gauze, and said, "I need you to hold her up now. I want to see her ribs."
Logan did as Hank instructed, and felt obligated to look away as Hank unbuttoned the woman's shirt.
"My God," said Hank, sounding shocked.
"What?"
"What did they do to this poor woman?"
Only after hearing Hank's shocked tone did Logan allow himself to look at the woman, and when he did, he understood why Hank was so shocked. Her sides were *covered* with blue-black bruises. There were huge areas where you couldn't even see the normal coloring of her skin at all, it had been so badly bruised.
Hank set to work, taping up the woman's ribs, as Logan's eyes narrowed. Nothing pissed him off more than seeing someone helpless being attacked, and this woman looked pretty helpless to him.
*
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She was in France.
As Rareza's eyes opened, she back in France, being pursued by a group of men. They were yelling things at her, French words and phrases that she couldn't understand, but it was clear that the words were angry ones.
She hadn't done anything more than be what she was, a mutant, to get these men chasing her, trying to catch her so they could kill her. She had woken up in the abandoned building she'd been sleeping in for the past few months, same as always. She had stolen some food that morning, as she did just about every morning, then gone into a restaurant and used their restrooms to wash up in, as usual. She'd wandered around in stores, stealing small objects, until the store managers noticed her, and chased her away; then she roamed around town for a few hours. She'd done all the same things she'd done every day, since coming to France.
The one thing that made this day different from all the other days was that her cold, which she'd been nursing for two weeks now, had turned into full-blown bronchitis. She'd been coughing all day. Her throat felt all scratchy, her chest ached, she felt feverish, and was shaking as if she had convulsions, she was so cold.
Her cough had given her away. She'd been walking back to the abandoned warehouse building, where she and several other hobos were staying, and on her way, came to a street where some men were. Heading into the ally, she'd planned to just hide there until they passed, but had gone into a sudden coughing fit. Frantically, she'd tried to keep quiet, but her illness had rendered her helpless, and the men had heard her.
Now they were chasing her, and she couldn't fly away from them, as she normally would have, because flying in this cold was brutal torture on her lungs, as she breathed in the cold air. But now her lungs were hurting just the same as they would have had she been flying, so maybe it didn't matter quite so much.
She gave a backwards glance, and her flimsy-sandaled feet caught on a broken bit of the sidewalk, pitching her forward onto the ground.
*They're going to get me,* she thought desperately, feeling the sting in her hands and knees, which had been scraped up when she fell, getting back up to her feet, and seeing the men getting closer to her. *There's no way in hell I can beat them to the warehouse, on foot. I'm going to have to fly, even if it does hurt my chest--there's no WAY I can outrun them.*
She floated up into the air, and since it always took a few minutes to get some speed into her flying, settled for height, rather than distance. Below her, the men had stopped, and were watching her, cursing the fact that she'd gotten away once more, and they hadn't caught her.
Once Rareza was high enough in the air to feel safe, she began flying towards the warehouse, watching the ground the whole time she was up there, because sometimes the men had guns, and liked to shoot mutants, when they saw them.
Her lungs felt like they were burning. She looked down, saw that no one was around, and decided to stop for a few minutes, to take a rest. Floating till she was able to lightly step onto a roof, she sat down quietly, and observed the streets below.
*I need to get out of this place.*
That much was evident to her. The only problem was, HOW was she going to get out of France? Her purple hair and blue skin didn't make it easy for her to mingle among other people, and she really didn't know any other place but Spain and Italy, though she'd outstayed her welcome there, and it was no longer safe for her to go back.
*You could go back to the US.*
The United States? It wasn't a thought that crossed her mind too often. It was way too far away...maybe once she got better...
*But that's the bitch of the whole thing!* Rareza thought angrily. *How am I supposed to get better when I'm stuck in a cold country, with only a dress and sandals on my feet? When I'm forced to live in an abandoned warehouse, with a fire so small you can hardly even cook over it, let alone get warmth from it? No medicine, no decent food or water, not even a coat to where anymore...*
Bitterly, she recalled the unhappy surprise fate had given her, upon her illness. After she'd gotten such a bad cold, her powers hadn't been working right. In short, she couldn't phase or transform herself to look more human, as she'd always been able to before.
Being able to transform had been crucial to her survival here in Europe for the last five years. Because of this power, she'd been able to have a normal life, and be around people with no troubles. Now, though, she couldn't even walk the streets without being attacked by someone.
*Man, it's cold up here...I'd better go back to the warehouse.*
She started to leave but was overcome by another coughing fit. For several minutes, her body was wracked by a coughing spasm, leaving her breathless and shaking once it finally stopped, along with blood covering her cold, blue hands.
The blood scared her. *You're not supposed to hack up blood when you cough,* she thought, freaked. She decided right then and there to head straight back to the warehouse. She wasn't going to get any better just sitting here in the cold.
As she flew back, she once again was careless about watching the street below. So it came as a shock to her when she heard the gunshots begin, and even more so when she felt the bullets piercing her body, making her fall onto the ground below.
*
*
*
*
*
*
A crash, then a shattering abruptly brought Rareza into a cold, bright little room.
*How did I get in here?*
"Well, we won't be using that again," came a voice.
"Man, that reeks," came a second, gruff voice.
"Yes, it does smell quite unpleasant," the first voice agreed, "but seeing as you were the one who knocked it down, I'm afraid you'll have to clean it up."
"Ain't my fault you put it so close to the edge," the gruff voice complained.
Rareza tightly closed her eyes. *Why is it so bright in here?*
Her whole body ached, but it was her head that hurt the worst. Just moving her head side to side was agony. She couldn't remember having such a bad headache since her 16th birthday--when she'd chosen to celebrate alone with a bottle of tequila and a three/quarters of a bottle of whiskey, straight. The results had been a hangover so bad, she'd been cautious about drinking ever since.
She gingerly touched her face. One of her eyes and her lip were swollen, and several other parts of her face hurt when she touched them.
*I probably look like shit.*
"Hey, Hank," said the gruff voice. "I think the lady's awake."
Rareza heard two sets of footsteps walk up to the cold metal table she was lying on, then felt, rather than saw, them staring at her.
*Oh no. What are they going to do to me?*
Slowly, painfully, she opened her eyes. She had trouble focusing at first, because of the light, but soon made out two men staring over her.
"Can you hear me?" the man she'd first heard speaking-*Hank*-asked her.
Rareza nodded, regretting the action as a throbbing pain hit her head.
"Can you tell us your name?" Hank asked her.
She didn't want to speak. Her sides ached terribly, every time she breathed. That must have been what she'd been feeling in her dream. Knowing it would hurt even worse to talk, she chose to remain silent, and instead, looked at Hank.
He was blue, like her, but much darker, and furry. Somehow, the sight of a big blue furry man didn't faze her at all, tonight.
*Navy Blue...Crayola Blue...Royal Blue*, she thought, trying to think of the exact shade Hank was. The name wasn't that important to her though, and she drifted back to sleep before coming up with one.
*********************************************
When the girl went back to sleep, Hank and Logan finished cleaning up then left the Infirmary and went to Professor Xavier's office, where the Professor was talking to Scott. The two immediately stopped talking, when Hank and Logan entered the room.
"How's the woman?" Scott asked.
"Looks like she's been to hell and back," Logan offered.
"That bad?"
Hank nodded. "Even then, that was only after we'd cleaned her up."
Logan spied the woman's backpack resting on a chair, opened. "Finding out anything about her?" he asked Scott, smirking. "Or you just gettin' into a girly clothes fetish?"
Scott ignored Logan's insult. "She's got a name, you know."
"But we don't know it."
"It's Emma. Emma Rendoni," Scott told Logan, in a superior tone, holding wallet out, which showed several cards, and more importantly, a passport.
"Looks fake."
Hank peered at the passport as well. "It's very hard to tell, but I believe Logan is right. "This passport really is a fraud."
Logan went through the cards in the wallet. All of these have different names. How do we know which one's really hers?"
"She's awake," said Hank. "I saw her wake up again, as we were leaving. All we have to do is ask her."
"Right," Scott said, "even if she doesn't tell us anything, there's always the government files. We can look in those."
Hank and Logan went back to the Infirmary, this time joined by Scott, who, being the born leader that he was, wanted to know every last detail of what was wrong with the woman. He was receiving a thorough report from Hank when they arrived at the door.
"Let it be known," Hank warned Scott, before opening the door. "She's not a pretty sight." He opened the door, and Scott went in.
"Hank?" Scott asked.
"Yes?"
"Well...where is she?"
Hank entered the room. "She's right in here--" he faltered. He looked at the table, around the table, and then around the room.
The woman was nowhere to be found.