Disclaimer - I don't own any of the characters in this story except the ones I do, you'll know them but I don't want to give stuff away. Let's just say most of these crazy peeps belong to Marvel, and that's that.

A/N - Um, this is the sequel to my first X-Men fic "It's All Relative". If you haven't read that, you probably won't get this, but if you want to read it anyway, be my guest! Hehe, just don't forget to review, okay?

The Memory Remains

Chapter 1

-----

And can't the band play on?

Just listen, they play my song

Ash to ash

Dust to dust

Fade to black...

...Fortune, Fame

Mirror vain

Gone insane...

But the memory remains...

---Metallica "The Memory Remains"

-----

The rain pounded down upon the jagged rocks of the cliffside of Muir Island. The harsh storm winds sent wave after wave of salty ocean water crashing angrily against the shore. The scattered trees bowed their branches to the ground, losing the battle of strength against the powerful gale.

Moira MacTaggart gazed forlornly out the window at the depressing weather. She hoped that the storm wouldn't cause a power failure; so many of her patients relied on the machines in the facility for their therapy.

She thought back on the day when the X-Men had brought a comatose Sasha Romanov to her research facility nearly four months ago. Moira recalled the sick feeling in her stomach when she'd seen the Blackbird approaching, and had jumped to the conclusion that the brain damage Morph had suffered from Sinister's experiment had once again caused him to lose control of his alternate persona - the one that despised his fellow X-Men.

Moira had been relieved to see that Morph was coping wonderfully back home, but her heart sank again after hearing their story of recent events. The mind of the girl known as Velocity seemed too far gone for even Moira to treat.

Never one to give up so easily, however, Moira endlessly researched possible ways to help the girl, but hope faded rapidly with each passing day. Sasha's brain wave patterns were closely monitored, but remained unchanging.

A clap of thunder rattled the building, and Moira held her breath as a brilliant bolt of lightning illuminated the night sky. She needn't have worried; the electricity was unaffected.

Sean Cassidy, Moira's fiancé, looked up at her from the book he was reading by the homey fireplace. He blew a strand of curly blond hair out of his face and smiled. "Moira," he called to her. She looked up. "Relax."

"Ye know I cannoh relax during a storm, Sean," Moira shook her head. "So many things could 'appen tha' I mus' be ready for-"

"Moira," Sean interrupted her, and she blushed and smiled softly.

"Aye, yes, I know wha' ye are going t'say," she assured him. "Everythin' will be fine."

Another flash of lightning streaked by the window and struck the limb of a sturdy tree. There was a creaking and groaning that could barely be heard through the pounding rain, and then suddenly a very audible CRACK! Moira snapped her head around just in time to see the limb break off and catch the power lines in its descent.

"Sean!" Moira cried as the weight of the heavy limb combined with the force of the wind was enough to knock over the two surrounding hydro-poles. The huge cylindrical pieces of wood came crashing down, and the electricity fizzled and popped until fading to nothing, leaving Moira and Sean with only the fire as light.

*

Kevin MacTaggart opened his eyes and looked around in confusion as his little room was suddenly darkened. Wha' is going on? he wondered in alarm, his eyes darting about as he sought some clue as to why he was now subject to this frightening blackness. I donnah understand, his mind cried as he moved to where he knew the door was. Mother? Are ye out there?

The boy clutched his stomach. When the 'treatment beam', as he thought of it, had suddenly been shut off, he'd awakened from his semi-conscious state. Now, a pain in his gut was forming as his mutation began to take over.

No, he mentally frowned as he remembered what his mother had taught him about controlling his mutant power. He struggled to keep his power in check, but the sudden awakening hadn't allowed his brain enough time to fully re-adapt to the conscious state - at the moment, his mutation was too overwhelming for his confused mind to handle.

The solid steel walls bent and wobbled to Kevin's will as the creature known as Proteus took its glowing form.

*

Moira and Sean wasted no time in scrambling down the hallways of the facility toward the patients' quarters. Though every patient's welfare was their concern, Moira's main priority was her son, Kevin.

Sean, who was ahead, stopped short of Kevin's quarters, his eyes wide, his jaw set in determination. He held Moira back from advancing, and she clung tightly to his arm. They watched in growing anxiety as the steel door seemed to melt and form a circular hole. An orange light spilled from within the room, and Proteus stepped into the hallway.

Ye locked me in the dark! his voice boomed in their minds. His hollow white eyes fixed harshly on the two figures before him. How could ye do tha' t'me?

"Kevin, I'm sorry, I should'a known tha' your room would'a gone dark if the power-"

No! Proteus's telepathic voice cut her off. Ye knew wha' would 'appen! Ye know tha' I am afraid of the dark!

"Please, Kevin," Moira tried again, reaching out her hand. "Ye mus' believe me."

Proteus said nothing, but stared disgustedly at her hand. He used his reality-altering power to give Moira the impression that the skin of her outstretched arm was now melting and dripping to the floor, exposing muscle and bone.

Sean jumped as Moira screamed. Though he could not see the effect of Proteus's power on her, he guessed the cause of her fear. Sean took a deep breath and shrieked at Proteus, and the Cry of the Banshee had enough force to break Proteus's concentration. Moira watched her arm return to normal, and she fell to her knees to catch her breath. Proteus turned angrily to Sean.

Why do ye wan' to hurt me? he cried.

"That's the last thing I want'a do, Kevin," Sean explained to the boy, and motioned to Moira. "But do ye not see tha' ye were frightening your own mother? Ye mus' stop this!" he exclaimed, hoping Kevin would realize that they wanted to help him.

*

When the electricity had gone out, a final jolt had run through the circuitry and power lines before all faded to black. Four doors down from Kevin MacTaggart's room, that jolt had traversed the wiring of a cord plugged into an electrical outlet. That cord belonged to the machine currently monitoring Sasha Romanov's brain waves. The current proceeded to short-circuit the machine, and travel up the electrodes stuck to Sasha's forehead and temples.

Sasha's subconscious self had been hard at work, piecing her mind back together as best she could, when she was suddenly and inexplicably exiled from the withdrawn state of her coma, and forced her eyes open to see nothing but darkness.

Her first thought was that it had all been a terribly realistic nightmare, and instinctively felt the area beside her, expecting to touch Pyro's warm, sleeping body. Instead, she felt nothing but air, and, losing her balance, rolled off the small bed and crashed to the floor.

After a moment to recover, she pushed herself unsteadily to her feet. Her knees felt as though they would buckle, and her fingers gripped the bed in desperation as she fought to stay vertical and try to make sense of her predicament. She had absolutely no idea where she was, and felt anger rising inside of her as she struggled in a frustrated attempt to remember.

As the anger turned to a headache, her hand flew to her forehead and felt the electrodes still attached there. She roughly pulled them off one after another, until she held a bundle of seven in her cold, shaking hand, and followed their cords back to the dead machine.

A tiny bed beside a monitor machine, she frowned in thought, gazing at the ghostly outline of the white sheets as her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and made full use of what little moonlight spilled through the barred window.

She was now aware of the sound of water splashing against a hard surface, and, like a baby taking her first steps, moved cautiously and unsurely to the window. Peering outside, she could make out the diagonal grey sparkling stripes of rainfall in the gloomy night, but anything beyond a few metres was cloaked by the downpour. No hints as to her location were to be found here.

Sasha rested her chin on the windowsill, searching her memory for the smallest clue. She had been in battle in Times Square against the FOH - she could remember that much. She recalled yelling something to Rogue, and then nothing, and then she was here. What had happened? Sasha clenched her teeth, but it was no use - she could not recall what happened next.

Wait. That wasn't true. Jean. She could remember Jean visiting her by entering her mind. The telepath had seemed saddened, but why? What had happened after Times Square? The answer eluded her, but she now remembered a name Jean had mentioned. Moira. She knew this name. Moira who? Moira...MacTaggart. That was it. Moira MacTaggart runs the research facility on Muir Island. I am on Muir Island.

She smiled, pleased with herself that she had figured this out. The question as to why she had needed to be hooked up to electrodes in MacTaggart's hospital remained unanswered, but at the moment, she could live with that. There was a time and a place for everything, and right now, getting out of this room seemed most important.

She felt a tremble in the foundations of the facility. Lance? she thought. Could he be near, and coming to get her out of there? She shook her head, getting a sense that he and the others had conceded in her being brought here, and that would suggest that whatever had happened to her had truly been horrible. She again dismissed the question of what that had been, exactly, and turned back to the matter at hand. Could the tremble have been thunder? Or the power trying to come back on? Her intuition told her that it was something else...or maybe not so much her intuition as the scream from out in the hallway.

Sasha pressed her ear against the steel door, shuddering at the cold touch. She heard a high-pitched shriek, and then muffled voices with more than a hint of fear in them.

To her surprise, the solid steel door slowly began to drip and pool at her feet, leaving a gaping hole granting access to the hallway. She cautiously stepped through the gap, and her bare toes curled as they contacted the cold tile floor. She turned, staring through her fierce green eyes at the scene not far down the hall. She tilted her head, trying to make sense of the situation.

A great glowing orange creature stood towering over two people Sasha recognized as Moira MacTaggart and the mutant Banshee. After a moment's recollection, she knew the creature to be Proteus, or Kevin MacTaggart - Moira's son.

Remembering Proteus's abilities, she noted that the child mutant had gathered the 'melting' matter from her door and the rest of the wall in the corridor to form a waist-high trap for Moira and Banshee - a perfect distraction for a quick escape.

Help them.

Sasha stopped, searching for the owner of the voice. It had sounded familiar, but she could not place from where. She turned once more to leave, but stopped as it came again.

What is wrong with you? They need your help.

"Who are you?" Sasha hissed under her breath. "Where are you?"

What does it matter? Moira and Sean are in serious danger!

"Kevin MacTaggart will not harm his own mother," Sasha argued.

The boy is not himself. You must distract him so Moira can reach him.

"Why should I?"

Always thinking of yourself. If only you would give back to the world you have already taken so much from. I think you owe it to her, Romanov - if not for keeping you alive then surely for not turning you in to the proper authorities. Some people obviously still have faith in you...are you going to dishonour them and prove them wrong?

Sasha's eyes narrowed at the idea of being preached to, but something made her realize that the voice - whoever it was - was right. "I can barely walk," she tried one last weak excuse. "I doubt that I can run."

At the risk of sounding cliché: You can, if you believe you can.

Sasha smirked, but felt strangely reassured. She breathed deeply, feeling strength flowing through every muscle in her body, then took off down the hallway.

*

Moira struggled against the restraining grip of the steel that bound her, casting desperate, pleading looks at her son. As Proteus, Kevin seemed oblivious to her reasoning, and she wondered if she would succeed in reaching him at all.

She felt the steel loosen, and looked up in time to see what was stealing Proteus's attention: a strange blurred streak racing round and round the mutant. Time and again Proteus would recoil, and Moira guessed that the blur had hit him.

Finally, Proteus became impatient with the irritation. He diverted the steel trap from his two captives and slammed that glob of shifting matter down on the spot where the blur had been a moment before. Again and again he slammed down, becoming increasingly more frustrated with each miss.

With Proteus's back turned, Moira reached over and clasped Sean's hand. She knew that they hadn't much time before they recaptured the mutant's attention. Sean understood the urgency in her eyes, and he pushed himself to his feet and screamed. The sonic blast hit Proteus between the shoulderblades, and he fell forward, momentarily stunned, the orange glow fading to a dull shine. Moira ran into Kevin's room and, opening the emergency kit kept there, removed a syringe and small vile of clear liquid. Wasting no time, she ran back to the hallway, prepared the syringe, and injected the sedative into her son. The hall returned to normal as Kevin lost consciousness. Moira knelt and cradled the boy in her arms.

The blur stopped, taking form as a slender female with shoulder-length dark brown hair and intense green eyes. She stood leaning against the wall with her arms folded, and when she spoke, it was with a thick Russian accent.

"Nice work," she said, though there was more than a hint of sarcasm there. Then, as suddenly as she had come, she was gone.

Both pairs of eyes were still locked on the spot where she had just been. As Moira tried to form an explanation as to what they had just witnessed, Sean walked slowly down the hallway to the fourth door from Kevin's room. On the steel door, beneath the tiny, porthole window, was a label that simply read "Romanov." Beneath that was a sheet on which was typed a list of medical jargon explaining the patient's condition.

Beside the door was a security keypad. Sean quickly punched in the passcode, and the lock clicked open. He slowly pushed the door open, and wasn't surprised to be greeted by an empty room.

"Moira," he said. "We have a problem."

*

Sasha stepped out into the rain and breathed in the fresh air. The icy water pooled around her bare feet, and she swept her soaking hair from her face. Squinting, she peered through the raging weather for an idea of which path to take. She could not see clearly in any direction, and frowned.

"Any suggestions?" she asked aloud, hoping the voice she had spoken with just minutes before would once again provide input. It was silent, and she stood alone among the steady sound of the pouring rain.

It was then that she remembered that this was an island, and, if she wished to get anywhere, she would have to find the ferry to the mainland.

A great clap of thunder shook the ground, but Sasha did not flinch, for the rumble's preceding flash of lightning had provided light long enough to reveal the direction where the cliffs descended to the shore, and there was a small shape on the water - the ferry, she assumed, was still here, for whatever the reason. She took a step forward, and, ignoring the needle-like prickling of the sharp rain droplets, made her way down the hill.

*

"Mickey, what the hell are ye doin'?"

Mickey looked up at the sound of his name, wiping the water and soaking hair out of his eyes. "Wha' dosset look like I'm doin'?" the young Irishman replied indignantly. "I'm tryin' te keep thessere boat from becommin' a new landmark fer the fesh."

"The boat will no' be sinkin'," the other man, a Scot named William, replied matter-of-factly. He was large, muscular, and had a scruffy brown beard. He was the Captain of the Muir Island Ferry, and had been for many years now. If there was one thing he didn't like, it was punk kids telling him how to do his job. Especially some baby-faced Irish teen-idol wannabe.

William had hired Mickey on reputation; he'd never actually met the kid before-hand, but he'd heard of him and developed an idea of what he'd look like. Needless to say, the kid hadn't lived up to the prototype. William had been expecting a tough, rugged sailor, and had ended up with a twenty-year-old that looked like the typical cookie-cutter teen heartthrob: slender, big blue eyes, hair the colour of dark chocolate - styled to match Brad Pitt's in the movie "Snatch" (the kid's favourite movie, as it were. William figured he was just proud that a character sported his name). Much to William's relief, however, Mickey definitely lived up to his reputation. The kid was tough, never complained about the work, and business had never been better since he'd hired him. Granted the majority of new fares were female, but it was business none-the-less. Therefore, William was content with his choice, as long as the boy did what he was told.

"Aye, ye're right, sir," Mickey's eyes twinkled. "The boat willnot be senkin' - not now, a' lest."

William didn't bother to acknowledge the remark. He didn't care to hear Mickey's bragging about how he'd set the rigging and whatnot at the moment. His concern was getting back to the mainland - preferably tonight. The storm had caught them before they were finished on Muir Island, and, though he didn't mind getting wet, he was anxious to return home to his children, and wife, and the delicious meal she would have prepared. He closed his eyes and inhaled, almost able to smell the roast beef and potatoes...

No, that was cigarette smoke. William opened his eyes and looked at Mickey. The kid was sitting on the Deck with his back against a crate. He'd pulled a corner of the tarp over his head to shield the rain from putting out the cigarette that dangled from his mouth. Definitely not the teen-idol wannabe he'd first taken him as.

Seeing the larger man looking at him, Mickey grinned and pulled the box from out of his pocket.

"Smoke?"

"No." William closed his eyes again, trying to ignore the kid.

"Suit yesself, sir," Mickey replied, then pulled his jacket over his head and stood up. He put a foot up onto the boat's wall, took a quick look around, then hopped off onto the dock. Puffing away on his cigarette, he shoved his hands into his jean pockets and amused himself by wandering down the shore in search of suitable rocks to skip.

After walking a few hundred yards, he crouched down and examined a smooth, flat stone, perfectly eroded by the crashing tide. He picked it up and turned it over and over, enjoying the flawless touch against his fingers. He drew back his arm, paused, then decided that it would be wrong to throw away such a beautiful thing. He turned around, then started in surprise - his cigarette falling out of his mouth and into the sea - and nearly slipped in the mud when he saw the figure who had silently come up behind him.

"Fok me!" Mickey exclaimed, raking his fingers through his hair. "Whar th'ell didjoo come from, girl? Scarred the pess outta me! Thought ye war a banshee a' first, I did!"

"The only Banshee of Muir Island haunts the facility on the hill, and dwells in his family's castle," the woman replied with a smile. "I am but a weary traveler."

Mickey studied her for a moment. She was dressed all in white - which is why, he guessed, that he had thought her to be a ghost, at first. Her clothes were completely soaked, and he fought the grin that forced its way onto his face, noticing how her bra and panties could be seen through. Her long, dark hair was plastered down the sides of her face and around her shoulders. Her feet were bare and covered in mud, as were the cuffs of her pants. He liked the sound of her voice - it made him think he'd walked into a Bond movie. Her green eyes interested Mickey; they seemed to have the knowledge that comes from seeing too much, but at the same time he gathered that she was confused, and not entirely sure of her situation.

"Too right, lass, weary, an' soaked te the bone, te boot," Mickey winked, taking one more second to eye her up. "Wha's y'name, girl?"

The woman gazed at him; her green eyes flickering. She cocked her head slightly, and Mickey fought the urge to squirm, suddenly feeling as though she were looking straight into his soul. Several awkward moments passed, with neither moving, for even the slow rising and falling of their chests as they breathed had ceased as they held their breath.

"It is Sasha," she replied finally.

"Mickey," he grinned after releasing his breath. "Please t'meetcha. Ef ye're lookin' fer d'ferry, 's'over tha' way-" he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, "-waitin' fer thess weadder t'ease up. Ef ye wan' te come wi' me, we'll see how much longer tell we're ready te leave."

Sasha smiled, and they walked down the shore.

* * *

Neuherzl, Germany

Rogue sat at the window of her guest room in the monastery, staring out at the stars. She had stayed there for the past four months, learning the teachings of her brother, Nightcrawler, and the other monks. She was really beginning to understand Wolverine's need to get away from the Institute from time to time, whether the destination be Japan, or home in Canada.

Of course, she still kept in touch with home, mostly through letters with Jean. The red-headed telepath was the only one who truly knew what troubled Rogue, besides maybe Xavier, but he wasn't around to talk to. Jean relayed any important information, but most news that came reported no overly unusual activity at home - nothing the rest of the team couldn't handle. The majority of problems was Lance Alvers and Fred Dukes starting bar fights. The Brotherhood had become noticeably disheartened after Sasha's fall, as though they just didn't care anymore. Pyro and Toad were rarely even seen, and there was still no sign of Mystique or Sabretooth. And so Rogue was free to stay as long as she wished, which was a relief - she was quite enjoying the sense of inner peace she was learning to get in touch with.

Unfortunately, that joy was lost by nightfall, for Rogue's dreams were still haunted by the events of four months previous. Images of her sister and the fate that befell her still crept into her mind, and she could not ignore them. And in that way, she almost sympathized with the boys of the Brotherhood.

Perhaps what troubled Rogue most was the incident back at the Institute. In the heat of the moment, the desire to save her sister's life blocking out all other emotions, she had said something she now regretted. The way she had spoken to Ms. Marvel - the sarcastic remark when she'd manifested in Velocity's body, just before Rogue made skin contact - made Rogue absolutely disgusted with herself. She had stolen the woman's life, for pity's sake, not to mention her powers, and then had left her, unknown and helpless, in a coma in the hospital.

Rogue could remember the anguish and emotional turmoil she'd gone through when Ms. Marvel had manifested in her the first time. She was so sick to her stomach when her memories came flooding back and she'd realized what she had done those many years ago. The memories Xavier had worked so hard to block out in hopes of giving Rogue a second chance in life had become her own personal inner demons, as Ms. Marvel had refused to simply roll over and die.

Rogue had wept long into the night after Jean had aided in subduing Ms. Marvel's vengeance-obsessed persona, and confined her in the dark recesses of Rogue's mind. She had truly realized then that she would never be able to fully put her dark past behind her. And as a constant reminder, there was a woman lying comatose in a hospital bed.

Scratch that. There were now two women lying comatose in hospital beds. All thanks to her curse of a mutant power. Though, for one, she could partially blame one Henry Girich and his damn gizmo...

Damn him. She hated to think of how unfair it was that he was never charged for attacking mutants, or other hate crimes. No, he was charged with damaging public property and other lame-ass excuses for charges. It ate at her endlessly that she would never be able to avenge her sister for what he did. If it wasn't for him...

No, she was diverting blame again. There should have been some way to keep the Brotherhood from going as far as they did. As she should have been more focussed on the trouble rather than obsessing over seeing her sister.

Sasha. Rogue cringed when she thought of her sister having to fight Rogue's demons because of one freak accident. She knew the feeling of that extra entity sharing your mind, whether they were contained or not, and it wasn't pleasant.

Which was another problem in Rogue's mind. Ms. Marvel's persona had been very sedated since the incident. She could hardly even sense that she was there, as though she were nothing but an empty shell or a faded memory. It was more than a bit unnerving, though she couldn't place why.

Sighing deeply, she laid her head on her folded arms and fell into a light, dream-filled sleep on the windowsill.

* * *

It had still been several hours before the ferry was able to cross the rough water, but at least Sasha had been able to get out of the rain. They had no spare clothes for her to change into, but they were more than well stocked with blankets. At long last, they set off for the mainland.

Sasha sat on the couch in the messy but comfortable crew's lounge, wrapped in a warm blanket. There were rumpled blankets on the floor, and soggy rubber boots thrown in the corner. Enormous yellow rain slickers hung from a hook on the door. Mickey was a few feet away, carefully pouring two mugs of hot coffee from a stained decanter that sat on the chipped countertop. He carried them to the couch, sat down, and offered one to Sasha. She smiled and took it in both hands, drinking long and thoughtfully. Mickey then pulled his box of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, put one in his mouth, then offered the pack to Sasha. She took one, and he lit his own before handing the lighter to her.

She flicked the flint wheel and gazed longingly at the flame that appeared. Her green eyes were intense, studying the orange body of the flame, the yellow outlining glow, and the distorted fuzzy air above it as the butane burned. She continued to stare, imagining the warmth of that fire spreading through her. Inside the flame, she could almost see something taking shape: a slender smirking face with bright blue eyes and a shock of blond hair...

"Aye, pyrramaniac, are ye?" Mickey said as more of a comment than a question.

Sasha held the flame to the end of her cigarette, inhaled, and breathed out the smoke in a heavy sigh. "You have no idea," she replied, handing the lighter back to him.

"Kepp et," he shrugged. "Locks like et mens somma te ye."

She grasped the object in her palm. "Thank you."

Mickey peered at her quizzically for a few minutes, then spoke. "Ef ya don' min' my askin', wha' t'exac'ly are ye doin' 'ere? I jus' can' figger y'out."

Sasha half-smiled, and her eyes twinkled. "If you want to know the whole truth: I have no idea how I got here. Last I remember I was in New York, and then I woke up on Muir Island."

"Aye, were ye drunk, then? Stell odd, though, cuz we ne'er brought ye o'er te Muir, tha's fe'sure."

"Then I must have been flown in," Sasha frowned. How was that possible? The Hind chopper they'd brought from Russia had been totaled, and the Brotherhood didn't have access to a private jet. And there were certainly no airports on Muir. "Strange."

"Wha'?"

"I cannot remember anything after...my sister..." she trailed off, still frowning.

"Ye have amnesia'r somethin'?" he raised an eyebrow, getting worried. Maybe there was a reason she had been on an island on which a medical facility was located.

"No," she replied quickly. "No, nothing like that. I can remember everything up to one event. Then, it is a blank."

"Hangover'll do that te ye," Mickey nodded, dismissing his worry. He leaned back on the couch and inhaled deeply from his cigarette.

"I suppose," she shrugged. More like Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, she thought, thought she couldn't figure out what the stress was.

Not quite.

Sasha jumped as the voice returned, having nearly forgotten about it.

"Y'awright?" Mickey turned his head to look at her.

"Excuse me for a minute," she said, standing up and heading outside, despite Mickey's reminding her that it was still raining. She passed the window of the Bridge, where the big man, William, was steering the ferry. He gave her an odd look, but said nothing, figuring that it was something Mickey had said. Sasha reached the most secluded area of the Deck, then spoke. "Who are you?"

Now is not the-

"Don't you give me any of that Deepthroat/Mr. X/Smoking Man bullshit," she spat. "You cannot just screw around in my head as you please without telling me who you are!"

Actually, I can.

"Who are you? Grey? Braddock? Tell me, now."

You honestly don't remember?

"You're the one in my head. Don't you know?"

I thought maybe you were blocking those thoughts from me. Apparently, I was wrong. In that case, I'm taking it upon myself to help you remember all that you have forgotten.

Sasha laughed and shook her head. "I am sorry, I must have misheard you. You are going to do what, now?"

You think this is funny, Romanov? That's good, because you'll need a sense of humour where we're going.

"I hate to contradict, but New York is not that funny. Well, unless you hit the comedy clubs-"

We aren't going to New York.

"Aha, you see, now you are wrong again. I am going to New York. I am going home to see my friends and my Johnny and get back to my life. You can go wherever you want, I do not care."

I noticed.

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

What do you think?

"I think," Sasha hissed, "that this conversation is over. And that my coffee is getting cold."

So, it's back to the little Irish kid. Are you going to kill him, too?

"Excuse me?"

Innocent kid, just doing his job, just like that one you killed - what was it? Five months ago? The young guard in Russia, you know the one I'm talking about.

Sasha gritted her teeth. "I didn't kill him."

You might as well have. Sending him out to Sabretooth - it would have been more humane to shoot him in the stomach with a double-barrel shotgun.

"What right do you have to judge me?" Sasha burst. "Our orders were to secure the area, and it is no secret that if they had known I was a mutant, I would have been the one on the receiving end of a bullet. So, what do you know?"

More than you think. You said you want to go home, but you can't even remember what exactly happened four months ago, can you? What if you don't have a home to go back to? What if something happened to all of them - Lance, Mortimer, Fred, and Johnny? Are you sure they're even alive?

"They're alive," Sasha muttered, feeling a pain in her stomach at the notion of such a fate.

Hope. Well, it's a start. Listen, you aren't ready to go back, yet. I can help you remember, but you have to want to remember, first. And, by the way, if you don't co-operate, I will make it my personal business to make your life a living hell. Understand?

Sasha scowled, but almost admired the voice's tactics, whomever it belonged to. She took a moment to review her situation. It was true that she really had no idea what she was going back to, other than a city full of X-Men. And she wasn't overly eager for that. Besides that, she had already decided that her friends had conceded to her being taken to Muir Island, so she knew they weren't out looking for her. She rolled her eyes as she came to a decision. "So, where are we going, then?"

She could almost feel the smile in the voice's words. Russia, my dear. Back to the nuclear research facility where this all began.

To Be Continued...

A/N - So, how was that for a start? Are you still intrigued? Don't forget to review, okay? Luv y'all!