Disclaimer: Whoops! Forgot this on the first one . . . don't sue me, Marvel, since I'm using your awesomely, superbly, masterfully nuanced characters and plot lines in dreadfully contorted ways, all for the sake of making a believable movie script because HOLLYWOOD CAN'T DO ANYTHING RIGHT! (and for some reason I've taken it upon myself to predict exactly how they're going to maul my favorite universe . . .) $#*%^$&! Oh wait. I'm not making a red cent off of this marvelous expenditure of mental aerobics and plot twists and tired jokes, so . . . HA!
Notes: Folks, I know a lot of stuff is wrong. I'm looking at the wonderful, incredibly rich tapestry of X-men past and present, and trying to reduce it to what a splice-happy director might do. It's not easy being unfaithful ('specially to Gambit and his awesome, shady past . . .) but face it. They're not gonna go into thieves' guild and Belladonna and Mr. Sinister (ooh, I love that dark little secret), much less Beast or Nightcrawler or any other weird mutations as HEROES in a mainstream movie. That's only for us freaks and geeks. I'm doin' my best, but I'm sensitive, so hold back on flames—and thank you SO MUCH (!!!) for the tremendous review turnout on the first one! And without further adieu . . .
It was a lonely stretch of Canadian highway. Considering his state-of-the-art motorcycle came close to driving itself, it's a wonder the lone occupant didn't drop off to sleep. He had, after all, been driving for most of two days, not counting the few hours he pulled off the road into the woods. Even he got hungry.
Mostly, it was the changing smells of the countryside (and the potholes) that kept him even semi-conscious. As he traveled north, visiting old haunts along the way, the smells all changed subtly. The wind whipping his face and hair smelled so cold and clean it burnt his nose, and floating on it were scents of rabbit and deer trails, wolf territories, and over everything, the light but pervading smell of pine and hardwoods from the forests. Now and then, the sweet, ozone tang of a distant thundershower added its scent to the basket. The gibbous moon laid an icy ribbon of blue light on the black-glass lakes the road curved to avoid, and even the man had to admit it was beautiful country. If only it didn't have so many bad memories attached to it.
Abruptly, the reverie was broken and the man snapped alert as the moon glinted off something smooth and silvery rising out of the trees, just before disappearing behind the clouds. He roared around another bend and pulled the bike over to the shoulder. Down in the valley surrounded by mountains, a metallic roof broke the green canopy. Whatever it was, it was in rough country. He carefully guided the bike down the steep bank, hiding it carefully in a stand of trees. He'd have to go the rest of the way on foot. He hiked up his leather jacket and set into a ground-eating lope through the sparse underbrush, and before long, his nose led him to the godforsaken outpost of hell whose exterior he didn't remember, but the smell of which he could never forget. Place still smelled the same. Funny. You'd think fifteen years of Canadian winters would wash away the stink of pain and chemicals and broken lives.
He walked across a fallen chain-link and barbed wire fence. He started a little, despite himself, when he stepped on a fallen metal sign hidden under the carpet of leaves, which bent and protested loudly under his boot heels. Kinda spooky, ain't we? he taunted himself silently. Ain't nobody here but ghosts.
Stalking around the building perimeter, he eventually came to a blackened, gaping hole in the concrete-block wall, the shape of which he vaguely recalled. "Hell, if there was a fire that night . . ." he began muttering. At the thought of 'that night' his mind immediately leaped to the first real (confused, but real) memories he had: the pain of his claws unsheathing, people running, sparks from cut wires, smells of fear and burnt plastic. Running into the freezing Canadian night, trekking back to civilization . . .
The flapping of birds' wings, from doves that had nested inside the building, startled him back to the present. He entered, the empty echoes of his clicking boot heels on the tile floor and the soft crackle of dried leaves bringing a few other small animals out of hiding. He had to walk only ten feet down a dark moldy hallway (he didn't recognize it) until he came to a door, aslant on its hinges, that read "Weapon X Records" in peeling stenciled paint. Entering cautiously, his heart sank as he looked on rusty, ransacked file cabinets and drawers left lying on the floor, along with dusty old TI-180 computers from the early 80's with their circuitry ripped out. He feebly lifted a few of the file cabinets, hoping to find some trace or remnant, about anything. Nothing. Gazing out the small, broken frosted-glass window, he was alone with his ghosts and what was left of his memories.
Or not . . .an errant breeze tripped down the hallway, into the doorway, the tangy air tickling his nose with a stink he knew very well. Sabretooth . . .
Whirling, he leaped over the file cabinets and set off down the hallway at a dead run. He picked up the trail at a T intersection of hallways, smelled it on the handles of each successive door leading down the narrow 'Authorized Personnel Only' hallway, and finally, on the heavy steel door marked 'Danger—Restricted Area.' As he burst through the door to the vaulted room, he stopped short, staring at The Tank. That's how he thought about it—all capital letters. He forgot what he came there for as he stood frozen, holding the door, assaulted by suppressed memories of the God-knows-how-long-a-time he spent in that goddamned thing, being poked, prodded, argued about, x-rayed, celebrated over . . .
He was rudely forced into reality by the sudden, searing pain of claws raking across his hamstrings—he fell to the floor as roaring laughter echoed around the high ceiling. Looking up with a scowl, he saw a huge, bestial man perched menacingly on top of the tank. "Didja miss me, Logan?" Sabretooth grinned. "I'd say we're due for a rematch, little man."
Sabretooth strolled over to where the man named Logan lay not-so-patiently waiting for his healing factor to kick in and knit the torn muscles. "That was a low blow, Sabretooth," he said through gritted teeth, eyes full of hate. "I forgot you were a coward."
"You've forgotten plenty about me, runt," Sabretooth chuckled, and suddenly leapt atop Logan's back to whisper in his ear, effectively robbing Logan of breath. "Your head's so full o' lies you don't know what's real, do ya?"
Red was starting to film his gaze and Logan awkwardly swung his fist at Sabretooth's head. At the same time, he unsheathed his own personal arsenal, the three adamantium claws housed in his forearms. Unfortunately, Sabretooth was quick. Leaping agilely from Logan's back, the claws missed everything vital and slashed only Sabretooth's calf. With a growl, he deftly caught hold of Logan's wrist and swung him around in the same smooth movement. Logan was flung into the steel door, which until the moment he hit, face first, Logan had not realized bore numerous sharp furrows and gouges . . . in sets of three. "Betcha forgot ya did this, too, didn'ja, runt," Sabretooth snarled, his huge hand holding Logan by the neck, pinning his face against the sharp surface of the door. "We're due for a rematch, little man . . ."
"Anytime, bub," Logan muttered, working his arm free. With a jerk, he put three small but very painful holes in Sabretooth's side. Sabretooth's roar echoed off the high ceiling again, and with a graceful arc, Logan flew through the air, crashing against the thick glass of The Tank. The wounds on his face were already healing. Suddenly Sabretooth growled close to his ear, " . . . but not today."
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Back to New York—the Salem Center, to be exact . . .
"Rogue?"
"Rogue!" Kitty and Bobby were both getting a little impatient.
"Uh . . . what? Sorry. Ah just seem to space out at the oddest times. . ."
"Uh, yeah, I kinda noticed. Anyway, Bobby was, like, wondering whether you still wanted the chocolate cake you've been meditating over for, like, the last five minutes, 'cause otherwise . . ."
"You can have it. Ah don't feel like eatin' anymore." She got up and left, moving like a sleepwalker . . straight toward Xavier's office.
"Well, that was easy," Bobby wondered aloud, looking after her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Come in," Professor Xavier called. Rogue, whose hand had been poised to knock, poked her head inside, looking a little shy and a little more reproachful.
"Ya do know nobody likes it when ya do that, right?"
"Yes," he said with all seriousness. She was radiating anxiety; feeling her outside the door, he had just wanted to get to the heart of the matter a little more quickly . . .
"Okay. Jus' checkin."
"What's wrong, Rogue?" Charles Xavier wheeled around the huge mahogany desk to a sitting area. He glanced back just as she was about to answer—"And don't say 'nothing,' because you're talking to the world's premiere telepath."
She smiled weakly. "Ah feel like Ah'm s'pposed to remember somethin' . . ." He waited expectantly as she sat down to face him. "Only . . . it's not me. Ah think it's somebody . . . else . . .?"
Xavier was instantly on the alert. "You think it is Magneto's thought," he said calmly, but with a twinge of dread inside. They did not need this at the moment . . . they had been making such steady (if not substantial) progress in helping Marie keep her "guests' " thoughts in check, and if Erik was planning something . . .
"It sure don't feel like one of Logan's, sir. His are, uh, quieter."
"You know the difference, and if you say you're sure, I believe you. You realize that I'll have to—"
"Not another scan!" She cried wearily.
"And here I thought I was the telepath," Xavier murmured to himself.
"Ah'm sorry, Professor. Ah know it's necessary. It just takes so much outta me—you're sure there's no other way?" The patient, affectionate look on his face said it all. "Let's get it over with, then."
"If you would focus on that feeling," Xavier said with a concentrating frown—Rogue's mind was such a jumble, it was hard to decipher anything—"and you have—thank you." He closed his eyes, feeling for the emotion, sifting through Rogue's own frustrations with her powers, loneliness, longing . . . to find that cold, tickling feeling of something half-forgotten pushing its way to the front of a mind . . .
His eyes snapped open. If he were a man given to rude language . . .