Characters are not mine. But when I take over Marvel...that's a different story.
Something Beyond Seeing
Rogue stares. It's all she seems to be able to do lately. Lately. What is lately? She has no idea. For Rogue, the days consist of one streaming consciousness, incomplete and with no sunrises or sunsets. Everything is the same, here in small sterile cell with blinding white lights. Nothing changes, and Rogue stares on. How did she get here? The last thing she can recall is a giant robot, fighting, a boy with an exploding card. How long has she been here? A day, a week, a month, it's impossible to tell for certain. Why is she here? From time to time, men in lab coats and soldiers with guns come in and carefully extract her blood, taking it away for some unknown purpose. Funny, her blood has seen more of wherever she is than the rest of her. The men never speak to her, and Rogue knows now what a lab rat must feel like.
She stares. There's nothing else to do, after all. At first, she clawed at the doors and walls, screaming until her voice turned into a hoarse wail and her arms were sticky-wet with blood from her broken fingernails. Now her eyes create silent, morphing pictures on the clean empty walls that she can never remember later. It doesn't matter.
Common sense dictates that Rogue must be eating. She must be sleeping, and relieving herself, and moving around somehow, but she can't recall doing any of that. Sometimes, in her more coherent moments, she ponders this. Sleep, that's explainable. Sleep just happens. But there's no awakening either, no sudden jolt into life again. There is no hunger, no urgency to use the restroom, just the walls and her own clouded thoughts.
Someone, she thinks. Someone is supposed to save me. No - us.
Rogue fingers the metal collar around her throat, troubled by the idea. Who is "us"? The word itself indicates that there is someone else - or more, even - trapped somewhere in the building of mystery, whom she cares for enough to include them as an "us." She is sad for them; she is experiencing the abject loneliness and confusion they must know.
And who is this "someone," the first one, her savior? There is a lingering feeling of certainty, that YES, this person must be coming. No doubts at all. She will be saved, along with the Us. Of course, that was before. Now she knows, knows for sure, that she and the Us have no way of escaping. Now she hates Someone and the false hope he inspired.
...he? Interesting.
Rogue rocks on her heels and smoothes the cloth covering her knees. She's wearing white like the walls, but it's off, sort of like...what's the word? The color? Ivory, yes. Everything in the little room is a different shade of white - the walls, the clothes, the skin that hasn't seen the sun in so long. Even the hair in front of her eyes used to be white, before it was shorn off. Like a lamb.
I am a lamb, she thinks solemnly, piously. I am a sad, scared lamb.
***
Noise outside. She is jerked out of sleep, the first time she can remember wakening. Rumbling, whizzing, incoherent shouting. What's happening? Rogue huddles in the corner, crouched and questioning. The noise stops just outside her door. Then it opens.
Rogue blinks against the stark darkness of the figure before her. Not a soldier, not a doctor - no coat, no gun, too thin. It must be Someone.
"Ah'm sorry," she stammers, voice scratchy from disuse, surprised at her own accent. "Ah didn't think...long time, ya see...but now...ah'm sorry ah hated ya."
Someone gasps. Or maybe it's not a gasp. Maybe it's a cough. Or a catch in his throat. Or a sob. He steps into her room
Someone's hair is white. Ironic. He is so thin, and the dark circles under his eyes are so big; she wants to reach up and smooth the circles away. But it hurts to even look at him.
"Rogue," he says, but it's almost a moan.
Someone's name suddenly hits her. "Pietro."
He holds out his hand to her. "Let's go. We need to hurry."
She doesn't move. "Where?"
"Home." Hesitantly, he grips her wrists in his hands and pulls her to her feet. Why so careful?
"Mansion."
"No, no..." Pietro's eyes are sad. "Another place now. Another home. Genosha."
Then flash - they are gone.
To be continued...
**Author's Note - I don't really know where this is going. It just came to me. So what do you guys think? If no one really thinks much of it, I'll just stop here. But if I DO get a favorable response, then what the Hell? I'll see what I can do.**
Something Beyond Seeing
Rogue stares. It's all she seems to be able to do lately. Lately. What is lately? She has no idea. For Rogue, the days consist of one streaming consciousness, incomplete and with no sunrises or sunsets. Everything is the same, here in small sterile cell with blinding white lights. Nothing changes, and Rogue stares on. How did she get here? The last thing she can recall is a giant robot, fighting, a boy with an exploding card. How long has she been here? A day, a week, a month, it's impossible to tell for certain. Why is she here? From time to time, men in lab coats and soldiers with guns come in and carefully extract her blood, taking it away for some unknown purpose. Funny, her blood has seen more of wherever she is than the rest of her. The men never speak to her, and Rogue knows now what a lab rat must feel like.
She stares. There's nothing else to do, after all. At first, she clawed at the doors and walls, screaming until her voice turned into a hoarse wail and her arms were sticky-wet with blood from her broken fingernails. Now her eyes create silent, morphing pictures on the clean empty walls that she can never remember later. It doesn't matter.
Common sense dictates that Rogue must be eating. She must be sleeping, and relieving herself, and moving around somehow, but she can't recall doing any of that. Sometimes, in her more coherent moments, she ponders this. Sleep, that's explainable. Sleep just happens. But there's no awakening either, no sudden jolt into life again. There is no hunger, no urgency to use the restroom, just the walls and her own clouded thoughts.
Someone, she thinks. Someone is supposed to save me. No - us.
Rogue fingers the metal collar around her throat, troubled by the idea. Who is "us"? The word itself indicates that there is someone else - or more, even - trapped somewhere in the building of mystery, whom she cares for enough to include them as an "us." She is sad for them; she is experiencing the abject loneliness and confusion they must know.
And who is this "someone," the first one, her savior? There is a lingering feeling of certainty, that YES, this person must be coming. No doubts at all. She will be saved, along with the Us. Of course, that was before. Now she knows, knows for sure, that she and the Us have no way of escaping. Now she hates Someone and the false hope he inspired.
...he? Interesting.
Rogue rocks on her heels and smoothes the cloth covering her knees. She's wearing white like the walls, but it's off, sort of like...what's the word? The color? Ivory, yes. Everything in the little room is a different shade of white - the walls, the clothes, the skin that hasn't seen the sun in so long. Even the hair in front of her eyes used to be white, before it was shorn off. Like a lamb.
I am a lamb, she thinks solemnly, piously. I am a sad, scared lamb.
***
Noise outside. She is jerked out of sleep, the first time she can remember wakening. Rumbling, whizzing, incoherent shouting. What's happening? Rogue huddles in the corner, crouched and questioning. The noise stops just outside her door. Then it opens.
Rogue blinks against the stark darkness of the figure before her. Not a soldier, not a doctor - no coat, no gun, too thin. It must be Someone.
"Ah'm sorry," she stammers, voice scratchy from disuse, surprised at her own accent. "Ah didn't think...long time, ya see...but now...ah'm sorry ah hated ya."
Someone gasps. Or maybe it's not a gasp. Maybe it's a cough. Or a catch in his throat. Or a sob. He steps into her room
Someone's hair is white. Ironic. He is so thin, and the dark circles under his eyes are so big; she wants to reach up and smooth the circles away. But it hurts to even look at him.
"Rogue," he says, but it's almost a moan.
Someone's name suddenly hits her. "Pietro."
He holds out his hand to her. "Let's go. We need to hurry."
She doesn't move. "Where?"
"Home." Hesitantly, he grips her wrists in his hands and pulls her to her feet. Why so careful?
"Mansion."
"No, no..." Pietro's eyes are sad. "Another place now. Another home. Genosha."
Then flash - they are gone.
To be continued...
**Author's Note - I don't really know where this is going. It just came to me. So what do you guys think? If no one really thinks much of it, I'll just stop here. But if I DO get a favorable response, then what the Hell? I'll see what I can do.**