A/N: Warning! Strong language, violence, and (non-consensual) sexual situations contained in this chapter.

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Seether

Chapter Nine – Foil

By Randirogue

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*Fetch!*

Dr. Henry McCoy—Beast—was often afflicted with insomnia because that brilliant brain of his just would not shut up. It was a common enough occurrence. That night, after he'd administered the battery of tests on Rogue, was no exception.

Questions. Questions. Tumble. Toil. Fumble. Foil. Blunder. Blender. Boil.

Blessed slumber was not an option. Finally, he shoved off the blankets and took out his notes and a pen. He wrote. It was the only way to ease the questions, burning, turning, churning in his brain.

What did Essex do to the collars?

Why did Nineteen escape the Core? Why today? Why that moment?

How did Nineteen escape the Core?

Why did Rogue obtain Emma's powers without touching her? Why today? Why that moment?

How did Rogue absorb Emma's powers without touching her?

What did Xavier's proposed tests really solve?

That question stirred up the memory of when Xavier presented Hank with the list of tests for the danger room. It was right after the meeting in the med lab that morning. After the group had completed their debate over Rogue's current dilemma—and after Logan and Gambit fought—Hank had excused the group, proposing that they reconvene the next day.

Hank had needed time to work out the tests that they should do. He'd needed time to program the danger room for those tests. He'd needed time to set up the complicated monitoring system so that he could most accurately record the data from those tests. Sure he'd had some ideas already, even some of the danger room sequences programmed, and some ideas about the monitoring programs that would be needed. He had started working on them right after he and Storm had spoken to Rogue about doing tests on her powers right before her first episode, right before Gambit woke up and refused to be sedated anymore. Storm had requested Sage's assistance because Sage had ignited a latent mutant power within Slipstream. So, he would have Sage's help in devising the tests and the monitoring system, and in programming the danger room sequences. But even with Sage's help and the work he'd already done, twenty-four hours was still a very tight estimate of the time that would be necessary to properly prepare for the tests.

Regardless, Hank had given the assembled members the estimation that he would be ready to reconvene the following day. As soon as the med lab had emptied, Xavier presented the list to Hank. Everything they would need was on that list. Every test was listed. Every recall command for every danger room simulation that would be required was there. Every file name for the preprogrammed complex monitoring system that would be used and every file name of Rogue's existing medical records preprogrammed for easy comparison to the data they would acquire during the tests with the complex monitoring system was written in Xavier's own handwriting. EVERYTHING—all of it was on the list. Even accommodations for the Core and for Eleven, though not by name.

At least Xavier didn't know that much, Hank thought.

The only other thing that wasn't in extensive detail, was the testing of the collars that Sinister had given Kurt. There were notes for testing that in the danger room, but there wasn't any designated simulations or monitoring files already programmed. Then again, it turned out they didn't even need to add anything to test those things. Wolverine's monitoring as Rogue absorbed him was already encoded with the rest of the list and it was easy enough just to have him test the collar.

"It has to be today," Xavier had said in response to Hank's widened eyes at seeing the list.

Xavier then pulled the Shiar remote sensors that they would place on Logan and Rogue out from a compartment on his hover chair. Hank took them from Xavier. He raised one curious brow to him, but didn't comment.

Xavier gave a half-explanation nonetheless, saying, "Necessary participants are needed elsewhere tomorrow."

The tomorrow he was referring to would start after Hank got rid of this insomnia, got some sleep and could awake and begin the more complicated analysis of the data they had received from the danger room tests that day.

There were still a few more questions rolling around in his head so he wrote those down as well. However, these last questions weren't included in Rogue's medical records.

Who is the necessary participant?

What does Xavier have him or her doing? Checked log. No missions are scheduled for tomorrow.

Why the secrecy?

Hank sighed. He put down the pen and gathered his new notes together. He placed the one set of notes in one of Rogue's medical files on his desk in his bedroom. He placed the other set, those for his anxieties surrounding the Professor's secrecy, in his night-stand drawer. He laid back in his bed and closed his eyes. Sleep came much easier now that those questions rested safely on paper where they couldn't be forgotten in the hazy confusion of dreams.

Giggle.

He forgot to write down the one question that had irked him the most, though. How did Rogue—well, Nineteen—transfer Logan's claws to Gambit?

"Convenient." Giggle.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Fetch!"

After the laughing fit ended, the difficult discussion about the events of the previous night was postponed in unspoken assent. Neither wanted to ruin the jovial mood between them. That was a given. But there was more. Remy just couldn't bring himself to complain about her betrayal of him, her cheating on him. He couldn't lob condemnations on her right after she'd confessed the trauma she'd suffered at the hands of the Genoshan Magistrates. It was just rude.

Still, it was something they had to discuss. She had hurt him. Deeply.

Always had plenty of reason to be jealous. Lots of men have loved Rogue over the years. Can't blame dem for it, could y', Remy? Not when y' love de femme y'self. But y' never had to worry about de untouchable Rogue, who flinched every time y' attempted anyt'ing intimate, ever doing DAT to y'… Leave y' for y' secrets, for y' past, for de lingering affections of her former attractions… Remy was always on de look out for t'ings like dat… Merde! Mags always made y' nervous. If he ever gave up dat crusade of his and came to his senses, what would Rogue do? If he ever pursued Rogue, he could give y' a run for y' money, Remy… But Logan and Rogue? Dat? Dieu! Never suspected dat. Not in a million years. Dat one crept right by y'.

The jovial mood had re-energized Rogue. It had made her restless, excited, and hyper. And after the physical, mental, and emotional strains of the day, she wanted to have some fun. She wanted to tear through the open night skies. She wanted to cut, twist, turn, loop, flip, speed through the atmosphere. She wanted to ride a roller coaster of her own design using her own power of flight. And that was fine with Gambit. He wouldn't accompany her though—which disappointed her—but he insisted that she should go on without him, enjoy herself, by herself. He needed her to learn to enjoy who and what she was. If she didn't it wouldn't be likely for any relationship of hers to survive.

He'd watched her soar away as he smoked one last cigarette on the mansion roof. He couldn't talk to Rogue, but he had to talk to someone. Plus, he had other things he wanted to do. Things he had to do without Rogue.

Giggle.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Fetch!"

Jean turned out the light beside the bed with a little push of her telekinesis. She had no sooner closed her eyes…

"I don't want you doing that again," Scott said. It wasn't in his fearless leader voice, but it was commanding and full of trepidation. Jean didn't need to use her telepathy—she didn't even need to feel the flow over the taxed and weakened mind link between them—in order to sense his intent. His concern for her well being was more than evident in his voice alone. He didn't want her to attempt entrant into Rogue's mindscape again.

Jean took a while to answer. Scott almost spoke again, pressed the issue, but he held his tongue and let her gather her thoughts. He could tell she was putting a lot of consideration into her husband's request… no, not request… plea.

She'd made a promise to Eleven the first time she'd ever been able to enter Rogue's mindscape. It had been the first time—ever—any telepath had gone beyond basic communication with Rogue's mind. It had taken, what, seven telepaths. That was counting the Five Stepford girls as separate people and not including Xavier—who had been outright repelled from Rogue's mind by Rogue's shields, not by Rogue herself. The shields were, ultimately, controlled by the Core. Jean had seen that for herself while she was in Rogue's mindscape the first time. Jean had no misconceptions about how she and Emma had gained entrance. It hadn't been because of anything that was Emma, the Five, or her doing. Like it or not, they had been brought in by the Core… And Eleven herself, perhaps. Jean fully believed that no one telepath, no any combination of telepaths could ever force their way past Rogue's shields and into her mind under any circumstances. If you got in, you were carried in by some part of Rogue herself. End of story.

…But the Shadow King…

And what about the second time Jean got inside, when she spoke to Nineteen in the cherry tree orchard? That still irked Jean. It gave her chills. Jean had no control in there that time, not even control of herself. She didn't let on to that during the tests in the danger room. She wouldn't; she couldn't. How could she? With Xavier not being allowed in, she and Emma were Rogue's only chance at dealing with the mental trauma's of the release of the Core. If Jean had no control, not even of herself, while in Rogue's mind, what did that say for Rogue's chances of surviving Union?

Eleven had been insisting that Union would be for Rogue's own good. She had been adamant about that. It was her ultimate goal, right? By the multitude of times Eleven spoke of that subject, it just had to be. But, Eleven hadn't done a thing to hold Jean to her word about helping Rogue deal with her abuse issues and the onset of Union. Jean knew she was holding back on starting the sessions with Rogue and Eleven. And somehow, she knew that Eleven knew she was holding back. Yet still, Eleven did nothing to push the issue with Jean. Eleven hadn't even tried to influence or affect Jean the way Eleven had with Remy, had she?

Had she influenced or affected anyone other than Remy?

Jean frowned. Eleven had Jean convinced, utterly convinced that Eleven only wanted to help Rogue, that Eleven had only the best intentions for Rogue when Eleven had issued that dainty plea to Jean for help.

The memory of those moments fanned behind Jean's eyes…

"An' stronger too, both of us, if she'd accept meh," Eleven's shimmering voice had said. "Will you help her?"

"Yes," Jean had said. "But you must be patient. Rushing her and forcing her will only hurt her."

"Okay," Eleven's shimmering voice had responded just as it dispersed.

Cloud form… We never saw Eleven in a humanoid form. She was either nothing or a shimmering cloud. She was never a being, a thing of physical distinction. She was vapor. She was a memory form... always insubstantial. Jean's eyes darkened to match the menacing quality of her thoughts on Eleven.

"It's up to her now," Eleven had continued. Her shimmering voice had eerily come from everywhere and nowhere all at once when her cloud form wasn't present.

Jean had looked to Rogue. "Rogue, honey, do you want out?" Jean had asked Rogue. Rogue had nodded her head emphatically. It had been just a slight tremble, though, on account of the tight web bindings. "Then do it," Jean had instructed.

Jean and Emma had watched Rogue close her unbound eyes in determined concentration. Slowly, the bindings had loosened and fell away from her. Jean had held out her hand and helped her up. Rogue had opened her eyes and the tension eased in her a little, but the stubborn determination remained apparent.

"Now we clean this place up," Jean had said and nodded to Emma, who moved to Rogue's other side and grasped her hand. Under the combined will of the trio, the webbing had obeyed. The strands had thinned and recoiled back onto the Core. Thousands of strands, miles and miles long, had moved past them and rejoined the Core. After a while the reversion had stopped. Rogue and Jean and Emma had looked around. Jean and Emma had seemed satisfied. The Core's shielding had become dense and intricate, with only a few tiny holes where the overlapping webbing didn't completely seal itself off. Jean had thought that it was good that it didn't. Rogue's childhood, if that was indeed what that was, shouldn't have been completely sealed off. Even the earliest memories of her formative years weren't supposed to be cut off. Nobody's were supposed to be. For some reason that Jean couldn't pinpoint she had believed that it was good that it was shielded so well for the time being. She really hadn't thought that the Core was solely made up of Rogue's early childhood. Whatever else was in there—whatever other aspects of Rogue that Rogue had concealed from herself there, knowingly or otherwise—had been beyond Jean's recognition at the moment. She hadn't concerned herself by it too much, either. Instead, she had allowed herself to be content with the victory they had achieved that day.

"Well, it ain't like it was, but It'll do," Rogue had said.

We accepted that it being different was a good sign… an improvement... We glossed over Rogue's trepidation over it. And Rogue took us at our word. She trusted us.

"It seems sturdy enough," Emma had said. "Rather sophisticated for a non-telepath. Especially if this was first developed before your mutation manifested."

"Ah just don't like the looks of that," Rogue had said indicating the thirty or so strands of web that linked the Core with the Closet. "Those either," Rogue had added as she pointed to the dozen of strands that stretched the entirety of Rogue's mindscape and beyond. "They reach beyond my mind, ya know. Ah can feel 'em in my chest."

Jean had touched one of the strands that stretched the mindscape while Emma examined those that linked the Core to the Closet.

"They are safe," Emma had said. Jean had nodded her assent and Rogue had relented.

We didn't even really test it, Jean thought, still working out her answer to her husband's question.

"But they won't be if ya'll don't keep yoah word," the Shimmering Voice, now called Eleven, had said in response to Emma's comment. That time it hadn't bothered coalescing into cloud form. It had just spoken from everywere and nowhere all at once. "Ah'll be waiting for ya after that intruder is taken care of." Eleven had said, speaking to the Shadow King.

And that threat had clinched it for me. Emma too, I suspect. But Emma never shows anything but absolute confidence. She wouldn't have admitted her lack of surety about what went on if she were being hung over the edge of a cliff by Eleven herself. I doubt Emma would show it even now, even knowing that Rogue had absorbed Emma from more than fifteen feet away.

Then they had just left. Rogue had accompanied them to the place where they had entered. They had seen the Five in the distance on the other side of the web fence border. The Shadow King and Xavier, though, had been nowhere in sight.

How much control did we really have over ourselves in there?

Nothing—NOTHING—can penetrate Rogue's shields without Rogue's express invitation. And shields, no matter how strong, how sophisticated, how old, how complicated were just the extension of the mind. The mind that produced them had to be stronger, more sophisticated, older, and more complicated than the shields themselves. That was a telepathic absolute. Think about it, how could a weaker mind support strong shields?

And Rogue's mind, because of her mutation, was strong enough to overtake ANY mind it attempted to absorb.

If her mind is that powerful, then how did Emma and I clean it up so easily on our own? We couldn't even enter the shields by ourselves. We weren't just let in. Rogue—an imprisoned Rogue—led us through, showed us the way. And even she hadn't opened the shields to us. Whatever controlled the shields had let us in… Just like it had to have let the Shadow King inside.

Three times the Shadow King had been inside Rogue. The first time was on Muir Island, just after Storm, reduced to a child form, had returned to the X-Men with a mysterious stranger, Gambit, in tow. The Shadow King had gotten control of Rogue, then, just as easily as he had gotten control of all the others. It had been no more a struggle for him than it had been for him to control any of the others.

We shrugged it off as his being an Omega class mutant. He was stronger than Rogue. That's all… Yeah, right! One Omega class mutant could slip in without a fight when a slew of Alpha class telepaths—and a thief—couldn't have any hope of even breaking inside?

The second time the Shadow King had penetrated Rogue's shielding, from what Jean had heard, was while Rogue was away searching for the diaries. The Shadow King had taunted Rogue then; had to work a little to get her. She never told anyone what he had used to try to convince her to let him in, but Rogue had presented Storm with another diary at the end of the entire incident.

Something tells me that the Shadow King used Rogue's foster parents, Mystique and Irene, and something in the diaries, something Rogue feared, to get to her. That's how the Shadow King works. He preys on existing fears.

Rogue had beaten him that second time. Her mind and will pitted against his and she'd won. Sure, she had used Psylocke's power to imprison him, but it was Rogue that had won. That first time on Muir Island, though, Rogue hadn't won against him. A weapon created by Forge had released Rogue, and many others, from the Shadow King's thrall. And the third time, that incident with the collars supplied by Sinister? It seemed as though he wasn't even a match for Rogue.

We never did get the details on that one, did we? The scandal of Rogue and Logan's affair, and Gambit's violent vision took precedence… It took precedence over the most powerful psionic mutant ever known?! Jean scoffed, and Scott sat up and turned on the light on his side of their bed.

"Jean?" Scott asked. He was getting worried. Jean was taking a very long time to answer his question.

"I'm still thinking," Jean snapped. She immediately softened and explained, "I'm sorry Scott, but I'm just now realizing a lot of things that we all have just taken in stride without so much as a 'by your leave.'"

"Like what?"

"There are way too many inconsistencies regarding the fortitude of Rogue's mental shields and her mental abilities!" Jean blurted out, exasperated.

"Jean…" Scott said trying to calm her down. He hadn't wanted to start a fight just before they went to bed after the very trying day Jean had gone through. He just wanted to let her know of his doubts, his fear of her entering into Rogue's mindscape.

That's when Scott paused. Why was he so afraid, really?

It was simple. The realization was evident in his words and his expression when he spoke. "You should never have been able to get in. Not that easily. Even when Rogue had first asked for help in dealing with her powers, when Rogue had wanted Xavier to enter her mind, he couldn't…"

"That's what I'm saying," Jean said in exasperation. She took a deep breath and released it slowly.

Why am I getting so angry with Scott. This isn't his fault... But he's our leader, he's not just supposed to train us to fight to our deaths, he's supposed to watch out for our well being as well.

Jean shook her head. That wasn't what she really thought… felt. There was a little of that in her, yes, in the deep recesses of her thoughts. But it wasn't his fault. She knew that. But still she couldn't quench her bubbling anger. It was becoming absurd.

"Listen, Scott," Jean started again. She had to get this out. If she couldn't control her anger completely or if it took all night to say it while she kept calming herself, then so be it. Scott would just have to deal. Not everything she did had to be tamed so she could tread lightly on his thin pride.

Okay, I'm already starting up again, She realized with a start, so decided to just spit it out in a rush. The longer this took, the less control she was feeling.

"One moment Rogue has a mind so formidable that she can keep out Xavier and myself combined," Jean explained. "She contained the Shadow King—and don't even comment on that—I know that it's Psylocke's power containing him. But it is Psylocke's power being controlled by Rogue in some fashion. Psylocke was a less powerful telepath than myself, Alpha class, yes, and stronger than most, but less powerful than I am. Imprisoning the Shadow King had wiped her out and… and… and Rogue does it without even breaking a sweat. And she can hold him while wearing a collar!"

Jean took a deep breath before launching into the counter tirade, the point of her explanations. She said, "Yet, other times Rogue doesn't seem to have any more strength of mind than the weakest of us. She's been fooled by Wyngarde. Sinister took control over her. Carol took control over her. Hell, Scott, Magneto brainwashed her with the rest of the X-men like it was nothing!"

"But she was the first to break free of it [1]," Scott offered. He was becoming defensive against his wife's tantrum. Why the hell is she getting so mad at me?

"But he shouldn't have been able to do it at all!" Jean screamed, jumping out of the bed and glaring down at Scott.

"Is this making you feel inadequate?" Scott said before he could stop himself. It'd come out before he'd realized he'd thought it. He immediately wished he could take it back.

Jean turned on him. Her gaze was even and menacing. She said, "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that, Scott."

Scott scooted to her side of the bed and swung his legs over the edge so he could sit and face her straight on. "You're right," he said, "That was uncalled for." He reached out and took her hands in his, pulling her to face him directly. "I'm sorry I brought this up, okay. I didn't realize it meant so much to you to help her."

Jean sighed and sat down beside him on the bed. "But that's my point. I'm not upset over that, Scott. I mean, I do want to help her. I do. She's my teammate and my friend. Even if we've never been that close she's still my friend. And it's my duty to help…"

She pulled her hands from him and covered her face.

"It's that duty that's keeping me involved. Not friendship."

She never felt like she had to hide from Scott before and the urge to do so at that moment made her sick to her stomach.

"But, the truth is, I don't want to help her that badly," she said from behind her hands. "I'm actually afraid to go back inside her mind."

She was ashamed. She was being cowardly.

"I was sucked in today, Scott. I had no control. None. I was at the mercy of something that I'm beginning to think doesn't know the meaning of the word…Think about it Scott. There isn't a mind strong enough to block her absorption powers." She had to force herself to continue. "They way I'm feeling now, Scott… If I ever go back in there, it won't be from my doing."

That startled Scott. When he had made the comment that started their conversation… argument, he hadn't expected her to actually comply. He hadn't expected her to even consider it. Scott understood duty. It was who and what he was. He was the epitome of Duty. He cared for every last one of his team, but it was his duty to send them to fight, knowing that the next fight could be the death of one of them. He loved Jean, loved her like the part of himself that she was, but his sense of duty wouldn't let him remove her from the same deadly risks that he asked any other member of his team. As he expected duty of himself, he asked it of his team members… including his wife. He never expected her to forsake that duty for any reason, especially for fear of the risk to herself.

Yet, here she was, doing just that.

That's when it hit him. It wasn't just that. It couldn't be.

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Scott?" Jean asked, finally facing him. There was intense fear in her eyes.

"There's a lot more going on than we know about," Scott replied simply. There was a mode of uneasy acceptance to his voice.

"Exactly," Jean, more relieved, breathed out.

Giggle.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Fetch!"

Xavier eyed the man who he had come to know as his equal. The man was sitting, his posture comfortable and composed, in the chair on the other side of Xavier's desk. The man was at ease with himself. He was confident and he was worthy of that confidence. He knew exactly what he was capable of. And it was indomitable.

Over the last few years, Xavier had come to be in awe of him.

The man's intelligence easily rivaled Xavier's own in its own way. His physical prowess far outreached Xavier's. In fact, it was beyond impressive. He had complete control over his own mind and body... in his own way.

The man didn't always have that control, though. Two times in his life, as Xavier and the X-Men were well aware of, the man had not been in control of at least part of his mutation. He'd made horrendous sacrifices both times to gain that precious control. He'd indebted himself to an insidious person who would never admit an end to the debt. He hadn't known what he was getting himself into the first time… but the second time?

The man sitting on the other side of Xavier's desk was a natural born leader. But he took it one step too far. His sense of responsibility to those he cared for was, perhaps, more than was healthy. And he did it while still managing to nearly hide that he was doing it at all.

The man in front of him was handsome and knew how to use it to get what he wanted. It had been a priceless resource in his line of work. He could persuade many a person with his slippery words and he could alter his visage to suit any situation. He could be the caring friend, the cultured entrepreneur, the shrewd businessman, the stylish playboy, the heartless seducer, the mysterious stranger, the dirty scamp, the crooked con, the action junkie, the ruthless dictator, the even-handed leader, the strategist, and so much more. But he always held the same visage in these meetings—one part authoritarian, one part cultured-entrepreneur, and one part strategist. Overriding it all was the aesthetic debonair presence.

Xavier looked back to the screen that displayed the information on the disc that the man had brought him. As he considered the information that was on it, Xavier steepled his hands and leaned his forefingers against his lips. It was a habit of his. It was as much a signature habit of his intellectualism as holding his temples when he used his telepathy was a signature habit marking his mutancy. Neither habit really helped either action, though he told himself it helped him focus his concentration.

Xavier looked back to the man. As he sat there in the meeting, there was no sign of the signature habits that Xavier and the X-Men had come to recognize in the man. He was a different person all together. There, in the private meetings with Xavier, was one version that the man claimed was his true self. Outside, in the mansion and fighting beside his teammates, was a second version that the man claimed was his true self. The differences between these displays of the man always amazed Xavier. They amazed him so much, Xavier wasn't even sure if this one he'd come to know during these meetings was any more real than what the X-Men had come to know. More likely, they both were. Although, not in a split personality sort of way and not in a professional-personal sort of way. Perhaps, it was like each display was the rationed parts of an amalgam. The two displays were like a deck of cards being split in half in between shuffling. The same cards existed in both sectioned piles. They were just in differing colors—red, black—and different suits—diamond, spade, club, heart.

Whatever it was, Xavier doubted he would ever know the absolute truth of the man without shearing forcefully through the man's well-shielded mind.

Maybe it's both… Maybe it's more… Xavier thought to himself.

Out loud, Xavier asked, "May I keep this copy?"

"Oui," the man simply answered. There was so much in that one word. Strength, authority, responsibility, power, control, and heart.

"I'll need more evidence before I bring this to the team, of course," Xavier said.

The man's perfect posture fell a little. The gesture was so small most people wouldn't have noticed. The only reason Xavier did notice was because he was expressly watching for it, watching for signs of the man he knew outside this office, outside these private meetings. It'd become almost a game for them [2].

"'S not de best time, hein?" Gambit said evenly. He let a quirk of his cocky smile twitch his lips for the briefest moment. The gesture was the first obvious slip of his meeting persona.

"Ahh, yes, that… The two of you do have much to work out."

Gambit shook his head. "Y' know de rules, Xavier."

Xavier smiled. "No personal questions." Gambit always caught his subtle endeavors to council him. "This, however is common knowledge."

"Rogue is always personal, Xavier," Gambit said without betraying the emotional uprising that accompanied the mention of her name. "'Sides if it be common, as y' say, y' wouldn't be inquiring, n'est-ce pas?"

Xavier nodded his assent. A small proud smile reached his eyes. Gambit had well and truly caught his subtle prying. He knew it wasn't a skill that he had taught Remy LeBeau, but he still couldn't help feeling the swell of pride for its display.

"De Guild's going to want me to do it anyway," Remy said, returning to the subject of their meeting as though Rogue had never even been brought up. "I'll see dem demain soir," Gambit paused. A sly sneer skipped across face. It was the second slip of persona in as many minutes. "Long as t'ings be quiet 'til den—"

This is indeed bothering you more than you've let on. It's not like you to give away so much, Gambit, Xavier mused to himself.

"—I'll do it after de meeting wit' de Guild," Gambit said as he stood. The motion from sitting to standing was smooth, like poured water in reverse.

"No need, Remy," Xavier said, reaching his real point on the whole matter. "I have someone else in mind."

"Logan?"

It was Xavier's turn, now. "You know the rules, Remy," Xavier said, his voice lacking any sense of chiding. No one chided this man. No one would consider it without considering a risk to his life or at least to his continued interaction with the man. "That is between me and that person only."

"Peut-etre, mais not'ing dis t'ief can't find out if I really want to know, hein?" Gambit said with a return of his cocky grin. This time it wasn't a slip. He was returning to the fun-loving scoundrel the X-Men knew—well, not so well—and loved—well, some of them, most of the time.

"I have no doubt that you could," Xavier said as he moved the hover chair around to Gambit's side of the desk. "But you will not learn it from me and I would hope you would respect the other's privacy enough not to seek them out."

Gambit chuckled at that. He was halfway transformed to his signature X-Man self now.

Gambit used three techniques to transform from the meeting persona of master guild thief to the cocky, brazen, and flirtatious X-Men team member. When necessary, he could snap between the two instantaneously. That technique was like watching a bad movie edit. He would be one character in one frame and then another character in the next frame. The polar extreme of that technique, however, was what he was doing right then. It was a slow change that effected one aspect at a time: speech, posture, expression, demeanor, etc. The most common technique was somewhat in between. It looked like one visage poured over the other. One would flow down over the other, pouring from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. Or vice versa—from feet to head. This third technique always reminded Xavier of Mystique's shape changing. More than once, Xavier wondered if Gambit had indeed learned the third transformation technique from Mystique herself [3].

Could Gambit have worked with Mystique in the past? And if so, did he know of Rogue before joining the X-Men?

Gambit shook Xavier's hand and headed out the door. By the time he closed the door behind him, Gambit was fully transformed.

Giggle.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Fetch!

Gambit watched Ororo water the plants in her attic bedroom.

Could y' be de one Xavier be sending out on dis next mission? Gambit thought as he stifled a chuckle. For all of her skill as a thief, he could not see Storm acting the spy. Her worldly demeanor just didn't seem suited for it. I know y' done it dough… In de past. Read y' files enough to know dat much… And y' did go t'rough dat punk stage, n'est-ce pas? Gambit had to hold his mouth shut to keep from laughing at the memory of the picture he'd seen in her file from those days.

"Are you going to stay out there or come in, Remy?" Storm asked without turning towards the window.

Gambit stayed on the sill. He suddenly didn't feel comfortable going inside.

"Y' doing side work for de Professor, Stormy?"

A side-glanced sarcastic smirk was his only response.

"Didn't t'ink so."

She'd once told him of how Xavier had convinced her to steal something for him. She'd hated it. And she'd told Xavier so after she'd done it. She wasn't against using the skills that she'd acquired from her childhood in Cairo—most of those skills came in handy in both combat and even every day living situations--but she outright refused to be a criminal ever again. She would not steal from others just because they had something she, the X-Men, or any of her friends coveted. It countered everything that the X-Men stood for. But more than that, it went against all of her religious beliefs. Nature religion, the Goddess, of course, nothing organized, nothing identified as Christian. In many Goddess religions, everyone reaps what he sows, only three-fold. And even then, it's not perceived as your exact action replayed on you identically. The powers that be have a much more cruel and harrowing sense of humor and vengeance than that.

"And don't call me that ridiculous name."

Gambit did laugh that time.

They remained quiet as Storm finished watering her plants. When she finished, she dumped the remaining water out one of the other windows that didn't frame Remy. She'd rather not waste the water down the drain. Then she glided to an easy chair in the corner nearest the window that framed Remy.

"Did you want to talk, Remy?" The concern was plain in her words and her expression. So, was the topic she was inferring to: Rogue and Logan… and his concern over Rogue's strange ailments lately.

The unease that had made him not want to enter spread deeper, more profoundly. He didn't want to discuss that topic with Storm at all anymore. The idea of it made him queasy, actually.

Dis y' doing again, Onze Eleven?

Out loud he answered with an obvious lie. "Just wondering when y' expect we be heading back out after de diaries, 's all."

Storm raised one brow to him. She didn't believe him. She knew he knew she wouldn't believe him. But, if he didn't want to talk, she wouldn't make him. That was the thing that kept their friendship so strong. It was the reason Gambit had divulged personal things to her, things that Rogue had asked him about but that he had not answered. Storm concerned herself with Remy as he was in the moment, not what he was in his past, nor what he would be in his future.

"I'm going to call a meeting about it tomorrow. We'll discuss it then."

"D'accord… G'night…"

"Good night, Remy," Storm replied, but he was already gone.

Sometimes, Remy, I seriously wonder if both you and Rogue would be better off if you broke it off altogether. With a heady sigh, she remembered the love for Forge she still found herself mourning on the fair occasion. But we do not have the luxury of choosing who we love, do we? A smile of fondness for Gambit lightened her mood. And you, my dear friend, are just as stubborn about giving up the chase as she is of giving up the flight.

Giggle.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Fetch!

Screw y', Onze Eleven, Gambit thought as he searched through Rogue's room. He was bound and determined to find some clues about Eleven, Nineteen, and the rest of what was happening to Rogue.

He didn't like that he was blaming Eleven for so much of his quirky moods lately. He took responsibility for his actions, always. But, his blaming her, he figured, may have been part of her doing as well. Or it could all just be him--parts of the less desirable sides of him that reared its ugly head every once in a while. Everybody had them and very few owned up to them.

The whole thing was wreaking havoc on his internal sensors. He didn't even trust his own thoughts and feelings anymore. That made him wonder how much he could trust the thoughts and actions of anyone who had a connection to Rogue. And, after what had taken place the night before and that day during all of Rogue's tests, he didn't much trust Rogue either. He hated that most of all. Therefore, he really, really hated Eleven. Her, he trusted least of all. It felt wrong to even think of them in the same thought: trust and Eleven. Nope, it was just wrong.

Y' only want to help Rogue, Onze? …Remy t'inks y' only want to help her to suit y' own agenda… How much good is dat for chere, hein? What about what Rogue wants?

He'd seen Rogue still flying when he crossed the roof after he left Storm. She was a couple miles off and was still having her fun, so he figured he had a good fifteen minutes before she'd return. Fifteen minutes to slip inside undetected, search for something on an entity that only existed within the confines of Rogue's mind, and get back out undetected. Actually, only twelve minutes, by the time he'd made it into her room after avoiding Logan's nose. Logan was on patrol that night and he was making an extra effort to go by Rogue's window just in case she had another episode. Of course, Logan just had to be passing her window right when Gambit crossed the roof to Rogue's room. Gambit had to wait until Logan was a safe distance away before he crept into Rogue's room.

Once inside, Gambit panned a quick once-over scan of the room. He immediately spotted Logan's shirt thrown on the top of her dirty laundry. She'd worn it home when her own clothes were in shreds because of Logan's claws. Gambit ground his teeth against the memory of the vision. He was sorely tempted to blow up Logan's shirt, but he was sure that it would've brought people running in there and that was the last thing he wanted at the moment. What possible explanation could Gambit have come up with if he'd gotten caught in her room? Nothing that fearless leader, Scott Summers, wouldn't lecture him about. Definitely nothing that Rogue wouldn't hold against him. So, since he couldn't blow it up, and he couldn't bring himself to touch it if he couldn't blow it up, he didn't get to search the laundry basket.

The second thing the panned scan of the room brought to his attention was the diary that Rogue had received in the meeting earlier that day. That was another bane, not as gut clenching as Logan's shirt, but a bane nonetheless. Magneto had restored the diary and kept it in a safe in his bedroom. It was a private treasure of his. Sinister had expressly left it for Rogue. The diary taunted Gambit from its nonchalant placement on the night-stand beside her bed. He wanted to read it in the worst way.

What so special in dere, huh Mag's? Why did Sinister let Rogue have it?

With less than ten minutes remaining, Gambit definitely didn't have time to look through that. Neither did he have the option of taking it. Rogue would likely notice that it had gone missing. And once she did, she would come straight to him about it. That certainly wouldn't improve the precariously fragile state of their relationship at the moment. He just had to hope that she would share it with him when she finally did get around to reading it. It was a hope that made him feel like a hypocrite in more than one way.

Better not to t'ink of t'ings like dat at de moment, Remy. Stay focused, or y're sure to get sidetracked.

He did a quick search in all the obvious places. He scanned through her books, closet, and drawers. He was a good boy and didn't linger in her lingerie drawer, although the time factor was the prime culprit for that. The flicker of the idea of fingering her naughties did improved his mood a bit, though. He looked under the mattress and seat cushions. He pried up the loose floorboard where she kept her most precious memoirs. A picture of her and Cody he'd found there made him think of Eleven's obsession with Bobby, which made him think of Rogue kissing and touching Bobby, which made him think of Logan, which only increased his drive to find dirt on Eleven. He also found the letter that Rogue had been reading when she broke down crying on Bobby's shoulder. The time constraint couldn't keep him from reading that, though. That was relevant. He just knew it was.

Several things bothered him about that letter. It was mailed to her from Spain, which meant it was likely from Vargas. It was scented with cologne. Vargas' cologne?

What dat about? Everyone going Rogue crazy lately, or what? All we need is Longshot popping in and amnesiac boy—call me Joseph—coming back from de dead and we could fill an entire season of de dating game [5].

The cologne was an oddity. Gambit's experience with Vargas lead him to believe that the man had no interests romantically with any of the X-women. With anyone. Like Magneto, Vargas seemed to only be concerned with his own 'mutant's place in world' agenda. Granted, it was a different agenda than Magneto had. Besides, Gambit didn't really want to give credence to that concept. But he did tuck the idea in the back of his thoughts. It was really weird how so much interest from the opposite sex was stirring around Rogue lately. It was probably just his imagination, but still… Who knew what Eleven was really up to?

Gambit also didn't like what the letter itself insinuated, heck, outright admitted. Irene and Mystique knew of whatever was now going wrong with Rogue. They had known and had never done anything to prevent it. In fact, it seemed to him like they counted on it. Also, the letter insinuated that they knew what the cause was, and that they promoted Rogue's forgetfulness surrounding it.

He committed the letter to memory, folded it up, and put it all back the way he'd found it. The whole thing was making him more and more disgusted and worried. It was just getting deeper and deeper the further they tread and there was no signs that it would ease up any time soon.

The last thing he'd checked was Rogue's laptop. He didn't find anything pertinent on the hard drive and nothing in the disks on her desk. Although, admittedly, he didn't have to do much more than scan the file types and names. He had just signed online, having broken her password to check her email, when he heard her voice waft in through the window. By the sound of it, she was talking to Logan as he made another pass. Gambit's jaw clenched.

Merde! He checked his watch. It'd been less than fifteen minutes since he last passed by Rogue's window. There was no way he could have made it round the grounds that fast. Y' really making Rogue y' business, huh Logan…

He scrambled to close out all the files he'd opened and cursed himself for not getting to open the one email that was in the inbox. It was to riverrat, re: protégé, from—someone, he didn't catch that and cursed himself further—and it was sent just within the last few minutes.

He closed it all up and silently made his way into the hall, thanking all the powers that be that she never locked her bedroom door. The locks were on the inside and finding it unlocked after his exit would've been mighty suspicious… if she'd locked it. Along with his spatial sense, he used his thief trained hearing to listen for her entrance.

He barely had time to get out before she flew in through her open window. Gambit waited outside her door and listened to the sounds she made as she landed and then got ready for bed. At least that was what he guessed she was doing when she opened and closed one drawer after another. That's when he remembered that she had Logan's heightened senses. He started to panic then. How could he forget such an important detail?

T'ink she smell dat y' were in dere, Gambit? She smell y' and hear y' out here in de hall? What about de telepathy? Did she come back 'cause she picked up y' were in dere in de first place? Dieu, Rogue! Y' make it hard for dis t'ief.

He sighed with relief when he heard her climb into bed and set her alarm clock. He listened for a little while longer, wishing, no fantasizing, that he was curled up beside her and stroking her hair until she dozed off peacefully. He pictured himself watching over her as she slept, vowing to chase away all her nightmares. Eventually, he would spoon her from behind, hold her close to him, as he nuzzled her hair and neck before drifting off to sleep, himself. The fantasy was so common for him and he ached for it so badly that he could feel it as though it were real. He closed his eyes as he felt her warmth along the length of his body. He felt the texture of her hair and the scent of her magnolia shampoo and soap. He felt the pressure of her breathing against his chest and arms as he held her close to him.

Why couldn't y' bounce somet'ing like dat over de catch, Onze? Gambit shook his head and pushed off the hallway wall. After listening to the content sounds of her even breathing that signaled her slumber, he left. It was time to go to bed himself.

Giggle.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Black. The air itself had mass and color. Black and laden. Eyes shut or open, it looked the same. Black and laden and vacuous. Ears covered or uncovered, even breath was swallowed by silence. Black and Laden and Vacuous and Rapacious. Skin naked or clothed, it all felt the same. Black and Laden and Vacuous and Rapacious and Absent. Nothing was there anymore. Not even her.

But she was there. Remembered. Stolen. Forgotten. Found. She was there.

A sliver of light, impossibly thin, impossibly tall, ignited. It thickened, thickened, thickened. A door. No a doorway. And the room was there. Eyes opened or closed, it looked the same. Cold and concrete. Ten feet by ten feet. Cot. Sink. Toilet. But no powers. No sound. No taste. No touch. No, not cold and concrete. She can't feel that. No touch. She can't feel her own touch if she's not even there.

But she was there. Remembered. Stolen. Forgotten. Found. She was there.

Steps lumbered through the light, through the doorway, impossibly loud, impossibly sure. They thundered, thundered, thundered. And they were there. Ears covered or uncovered, they ate the silence. Eyes opened or closed, they saw. Steps reverberated. Five glances. Five Men. Five heads. Five mouths. Five tongues. Five voices. Sound and sight. No powers. No taste. No touch. No, not steps reverberated. She can't feel that. No touch. She can't feel her own touch if she's not even there.

But she was there. They were there. Remembered. Stolen. Forgotten. Found. She was there. They were there.

And the light thinned, thinned, thinned. The sliver swallowed by the black. And it was as it was in the beginning. But this wasn't Eden and she was no Eve and there was no Adam. And though there had been light and man and woman, there was no paradise, no garden, no apple. No apple meant no knowledge of the forbidden, no knowledge of the pain of being a woman, no knowledge of sin. She suffered no sin. She suffered no touch. It was as it was in the beginning… just not that beginning. Her beginning? Someone else's beginning? She wasn't sure. It felt familiar, but she just wasn't sure. It was just beginning. Black and laden and vacuous and rapacious and absent.

No apple. No taste. No powers. No touch. No knowledge. No memory. Black. Laden. Vacuous. Rapacious. Absent.

But she was there and they were there and she knew she knew she knew. She'd bitten the forbidden fruit that she never saw never tasted never heard never touched. It was as it was in the beginning, black and laden and vacuous and rapacious and absent, no powers, no sight, no taste, no hearing, no touch, but it wasn't the same. She knew she knew she knew. Her senses didn't matter now. She knew what was there. Cold and concrete. Ten feet by ten feet. Cot. Sink. Toilet. Five men with five heads. And five mouths. And five tongues. And five fingers on five left hands and five right hands. Five snakes in this not quite garden of Eden and she knew she knew she knew. She was the apple. She was the forbidden fruit. She was not supposed to be tasted. They were snakes and she was the apple. She was still safe. The snake did not taste the apple. The snake lured another to taste the apple. So, she was still safe.

But this was not Eden. This was Genosha. This was a cell. This was a slave collar around her neck [6]. This was five pompous magistrates surrounding her. This was Rogue without her power without control. This was five men with all the power with all the control. And Rogue had no protection from touch.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Fetch!

Remy slept. He dreamt. He dreamt through the catch. He saw images of Rogue in darker days. Her memories bounced along the catch that linked him to her and they filled his dreams and they made them nightmares.

Rogue and Logan. Again. Rogue and Logan, naked. Again.

Non, not again!

But this was the past. This wasn't a vision like the night before. This wasn't flashes. This was Rogue's memory playback in a dream, in a nightmare, bounced across Gambit's catch--Probably by Onze--into his own nightmare. This was Rogue, barely nineteen, stripped of her armor of clothing, fighting beside Wolverine, stripped as much as her, on Genosha [7]. Magistrates fired at them. They were searching for Madelyne and a nurse, Jenny.

Madelyne! Non, non. It didn't happen den. It didn't.

It did. Gambit's own memories interlaced with those of Rogue's that were bounced along to him. He remembered Madelyn in his memories, in his past with Sinister. Gambit's view had been askewed, like a fish eye lens, as he watched Sinister through the rounded six inch thick glass of his containment tube that was located in the corner of Sinister's monitoring room. He watched Sinister sitting in his throne, a towering twist of cables, pondering the X-Men [8]. In one hand, Sinister held a crystal figure of Jean Grey/Madelyne Pryor. Gambit couldn't tell which from his view. Hovering at eye level before Sinister was the rest of his crystal menagerie of the X-Men. There was a figure of Storm in her punk phase, Collossus and Wolverine looking much as they always did, Psylocke when she was still just a Brit and a butterfly appeared whenever she used her telepathy, Dazzler, Havoc, Longshot and Rogue in her punk phase as well. Even then, Rogue had caught Gambit's eye. The figurine captured Rogue's independence, her brash in-your-face manner, and… and… and something sweet, something innocent, something untouched, something that still hoped. Rogue's figure was closest to Sinister and Gambit was relieved that Sinister gave it so little attention. But then again, Gambit couldn't hear anything that Sinister was saying. The containment tube was Gambit's silent prison.

Madelyne and Jenny were in cells wearing Genoshan slave suits bonded to their bodies. They were wearing Genoshan slave collars. Rogue and Wolverine were nearing them. Almost there. Almost free. Wipeout. Rogue falls to the floor. She had been flying. And because of Wipeout their powers had been stripped. Magistrates pounced on them, arrested them, processed them. All along, jeers and crude comments, promises were made to Rogue by the holier-than-thou magistrates. They stall getting her into the bonded slave suit, though not into the collar. They left her naked to their eyes, their jeers, their promises, and defenseless without her powers.

In a theater in Seattle [9], Gambit moved through the uppity crowd with ease. They thought he was one of them. One of the upper crust. He found a pleasure in his seduction of the woman on his arm, in his trickery of her. She swooned to his devil may care eyes, cooed at his accented words that slithered past the cocky lilt of his lips, shivered at his expert caress of her arm, shoulder, neck, chin, cheek, and kissed as promises of more, so much more. She didn't notice that he'd slipped the diamond necklace from her neck and into his pocket. She thought the slither on her skin was from his touch, from his intuiting just how she wanted to be touched. It was like the slither of his words, so it had to be him. Gambit wouldn't be around when she realized that it was the necklace. In fact, she wouldn't be around to know it had ever been stolen.

Gambit had felt the familiar itch only minutes after the second act of the play had started. It had been months since he'd felt it. Months since Sinister had fixed him. It'd been less since he'd paid the debt to Sinister by recruiting the Marauders for Sinister's plans. And it had been even less than that since he'd paid the debt to Sinister by leading the Marauders into the tunnels where he rescued Sarah and saw a glimpse of the X-Men, of Rogue, for the first time. He'd been avoiding paying back Sinister's never-ending debt ever since. He'd been staying low, resorting to petty thievery of the pick-pocketing ilk to feed, house and clothe himself. He'd been keeping out of the contract ilk of thieving in order to keep from being noticed by Sinister or by those that Sinister would go through to find him. He hadn't even risked tapping into his enormous bank accounts just in case Sinister had been watching them. And yet, there he was, in a crowd of the rich and petty and spoiled, all his sacrifices to Sinister being rendered for naught. His powers went out of control again.

The woman he'd stolen the necklace from went quickly. She was sitting beside him. The rest of the theater patrons? Well…

By the time the police and ambulances had arrived, Gambit was back in Sinister's clutches again. It seemed as though his control over his powers had a remote control held by Sinister.

In Genosha, Logan and Rogue were held in separate single occupant cells. Rogue's was all dark until the door opened and five magistrates entered. A couple of them were drunk. A few riled the others up. They all looked at her with a sinister gleam in their eyes.

Caught!

~~~~~~~~~~~

Not how ya remembered, but how it was…

Rogue was the apple and the five magistrates needed no luring to taste her.

She imagined it was the wind that fingered tendrils of her spiky hair. It wasn't. It was five fingers on five left hands and five right hands. They supplied the sense of taste and touch. She was their apple and they discovered sin through her. And they thought it was fun.

"Blood Roses, blood Roses, back on the street now. Can't forget the things you never said. On days like these gets me thinking, when chickens get a taste of your meat, chickens get a taste of your meat…" (Blood Roses –by Tori Amos)

"No no no no no no no no no no no no no…" Rogue pleaded within the nightmare. It bounced along the catch and Remy heard it as he watched what she went through. But he wasn't' there. He couldn't help. He could only watch… and feel helpless. Viewing through the catch was like viewing Sinister from inside the containment tube. Only he could hear and see and feel and taste Rogue's torment. "No No No No No…"

She remembered that…

All they did was touch her. Rude hands, ruder glances—taunting promises of worse to come. She couldn't stop them. For so long, she dreamed of being able to touch another person without her absorbing his/her psyche. To hold, to caress, to kiss, just like any other—normal—teenage girl. In those dreams, it was the most beautiful of moments. She never imagined being handled against her will. Small wonder, then, her response is to withdraw as deeply into her mind as it's possible to go… to the lowest depths of her primal subconscious. "Cheesy neighborhood.. Thought Ah had more class [10]."

She was standing in a sleazy cityscape that represented the lowliest areas of all the major cities she'd come to know in her short life. There were signs of New York, Hong Kong, Tokyo, and so much more. The dark building towered her. The electric signs winked at her. Its occupants, the ghosts of those she'd absorbed, attacked her. But better to deal with them than to deal with what was going on outside.

"No! Ya will not hide this time!" The order pierced through Rogue's retreat and returned her to the cell. Gambit heard it as well. And he could do nothing to help. He was trapped on his side of the catch. Yet, he felt it through the catch, felt the catch itself. He tried to block out the echo of the dream, the memory and searched for the catch. If he could only find it and follow it backwards into Rogue.

Rogue snapped back into the cell.

"But this ain't how it happened…" Rogue whispered desperately.

"Not for ya… Ya hid out… Ya left it for me… And Ah took it with me into the Core when ya locked me in there." Nineteen's chickory voice spat the words at Rogue, never appearing to her, never being seen by Rogue. She was a stolen thing. She would never really be seen again. Not even by Rogue?

Rogue was in the cell. Black and laden and vacuous and rapacious and absent. No, not anymore. There was no light but she could see. Five pairs of eyes glowed with hunger with knowledge with domination. Five pairs of hands mingled as they groped her, stoked her, restrained her, stripped her.

"…When chickens get a taste of your meat, when he sucks you deep. Sometimes you're nothing by meat…" (Blood Roses –by Tori Amos)

Hands pinched her wrists and jerked her arms back. She winced, she wasn't supposed to feel pain like that. The hands held her arms behind her. The hand's owner pulled her into his lap, held her back tight against his chest. A tongue flicked against her neck. Hot breath kissed her ears.

"You like that, don't ya, mutie whore? Ya like us touching ya, tasting ya," he said, followed by his nibbling her ear, and inhaling a shuddering breath. "Damn ya taste sweet, mutie. Y' taste like sex… Like sweat and fear and… antici…pation."

He yanked back on her arms and Rogue muffled a yelp, which, in doing so, made it come out like more of a grunted moan. She felt his breath quicken against her neck in response of her sound. Felt him grind his pelvis into her back.

"Yeah, I knew ya'd love it."

She felt him jerk his head back as he called to the other four as he said, "Mutie bitches love it fuckin' rough!"

Laughter was the four's assent. The fifth joined in. His cackling stabbed into her ears, slapped spittle on her neck and cheek.

"..Nothing but meat…" (Blood Roses –by Tori Amos)

Four other sets of hands on her naked flesh. She felt them all at once. Two sets of hands grabbed her ankles, one set for each ankle. She kicked madly, but their grip rendered her panicked struggles to mere twitches of her legs, making her hips wrack against the lap against which she was being pulled back. The lap responded, grinding hips into her back again. Another set of hands grabbed her breasts. Pinching, twisting, tugging, squeezing. The last set grabbed her hips just before their owner's hips pushed against her inner thighs. Naked hips pressed against her naked inner thighs.

"Blood Roses, blood Roses, back on the street now. Now you've cut out the flute from the throat of the Loon. At least when you cry now he can't even hear you. When chickens get a taste of your meat, when he sucks you deep. Sometimes your nothing but meat…" (Blood Roses –by Tori Amos)

She froze. She disappeared. Not her body, but her. She pulled inside herself again. She was remembering what was happening, what the entity, Nineteen, was forcing her to remember, and she couldn't she couldn't.

"Carol-Have-ta-find-Carol-She-saved-me-last-time-She-took-over-That-really-happened-She-can-do-it-again…" Rogue said, the words spilling out in time with her scrambling, stumbling through the dirty streets of the cityscape of her remembered mindscape. The streets were empty. The ghosts were absent. Rogue tripped and fell against a brick alley wall, out of breath. "Where-are-ya-Carol?"

"Carol's gone. Ya've been rid of her a long time."

A long pause as Rogue gasped for breath, keeping herself standing by leaning against the brick alley wall.

The voice spoke again, slower, dripping the words like acid, "Magneto rescued ya from her, remember?" [11]

On the other end of the catch, Gambit heard, and watched, helpless to aid Rogue. Dat's what he did for y', Rogue. He removed Carol's psyche from y'. Wonder how he managed dat. He couldn't help but marvel over the revelation he'd become privy to, that no one had ever known before. She'd never divulged what it was that Magneto had done that she felt she owed him for. They all knew that he'd done something to rescue her in the Savage Land, something she felt indebted her to him. A debt that seemed to only involve a respect and affection for him, if he'd asked anything at all.

Can't fault y' choice of debtors, dough, considering mine. Ol' Mags didn't ask as much in return, hein?

As much as Gambit had wanted to know more, to know the details of what happened between them in the Savage Land, he knew it wasn't relevant to what she was going through in the memory-nightmare. It was just a momentary escape from his helplessness. Besides, he didn't get a chance to wonder for much longer.

The cityscape wrenched away and Rogue fell impossibly forward.

Rogue's hands caught her from slamming into the concrete cell floor. But only for a moment. Hands shoved into her back. Forced her down. Her elbows buckled. Her chest slammed into the floor, her forehead bounded forward… and her upper body was wrenched back up, just enough to keep her head from smacking the floor. Two sets of hands lowered her back down by her arms and held her there. Two more hands held her by ankles, from the back. Her hips bucked as she tried to break free. A weight settled them down as the fifth magistrate climbed on top of her back and leaned over her, against her, breathing into her ear. "Can't bruise that pretty li'l face, can we, mutie. Who'd wanna touch an ugly mutie whore!"

"…Nothing but meat…" (Blood Roses –by Tori Amos)

Then he drove into her. Then the thieving hands shifted and another set of hips pressed her apart. Another one tore into her and another, still, shredded into her. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

"…You gave him your blood and your warm little diamond. He likes killing you after you're dead…" (Blood Roses –by Tori Amos)

And Rogue broke. She just broke. There was nothing else she could do. She couldn't escape. She had no powers. She had no control. She had no voice. All she had was pain. Touch was pain.

Merde! Stop! Leave her alone! Dieu! Get away from her. STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT! He stomped, he hollered, he threw charged card after charged card. There was no effect. The cards flew into the abyss surrounding him, out of sight, trailed quietly by the distant murmur of the explosions. He was in his own dreamscape. Black and laden and vacuous and rapacious. But he wasn't there with her. Her dream was inside her dreamscape self. It was bounced along his catch. It plagued him from within. And he was in his own dreamscape self.

He couldn't help her.

"Suffer, thief! See how she was stolen! And know ah'll nevah let YA steal her!"

"Fuck y', Onze!" Remy screamed at the formless voice. "Remy know its y'." He wasn't really sure, though, so he kept it to himself. It could be Nineteen. It could be a different entity entirely. The voice he was hearing then was clouded, disguised, unfamiliar, lacking in tamber and tonal quality, but not emotion. It was devoid of recognizable traits. Empty, absent, just like the dreamscape he was trapped in.

Remy collapsed to his knees, his head folded against his chest in defeat. Nothing he did was having any effect. Please don't put chere t'rough dis. Please. Remy begging y'. Just let her be. Dieu, just leave her alone. He crumpled forward, barely catching his head in his palms before slamming into whatever nothing substance that made the floor of his black and laden and vacuous and rapacious torture chamber.

Rogue's whimper bounced across the catch.

Remy saw Red.

"…You gave him your blood and your warm little diamond. He likes killing you after you're dead…" (Blood Roses –by Tori Amos)

He pummeled the floor with his fists. Over and over and over again. Each hammered clash throttled every single word he screamed at the entity. "Stop. It. Or. I. Swear. I'll. Rip. Ya. Out. Of. Her. With. My. Bare. Hands." So pointed was each word that his accent was lost in the fury of them.

"…God knows I know I've thrown away those graces…" (Blood Roses –by Tori Amos)

Pain seared him. Electric pain. Jolted him straight up like a puppet on strings. It entered through his chest, and split through him like a hundred splayed fingers. He clutched his chest, the entry point, trying to disrupt it. But he didn't.

"…God knows I know I've thrown away those graces…" (Blood Roses –by Tori Amos)

His hand closed onto the monofilamental thin string of web. He smiled. He'd found the catch. He charged it. He didn't want to explode it. He didn't want to sever it. He pushed the charge into it. Shoved it further and further down the catch. He chased it with his kinesthetic sense, his spatial awareness. Poured it into and along the catch. He followed it with his empathy, his charm powers. Then anything else of himself he could make go into it and across it and to Rogue's aid.

"..Nothing but meat…" (Blood Roses –by Tori Amos)

Rogue just laid there. Numb. Broken. Scarred. Pained. Shattered. Stolen. The last one spent himself with a final muddled groaning grunt.

"..Nothing but meat…" (Blood Roses –by Tori Amos)

Then they all got up from her. They stopped touching her. But, she could feel them where they were in the cell like her skin was swollen and raw and sensitive like it filled the universe, felt everything everywhere. They surrounded her, boasting their conquest, their taming. She saw nothing. She heard nothing. She tasted nothing. She only felt. All sensory observation was limited to her oversensitive, overtaxed skin. All she was—was touch.

"..Nothing but meat…" (Blood Roses –by Tori Amos)

She blinked.

"…And I shaved every place where you been. I shaved every place where you been…" (Blood Roses –By Tori Amos)

Stars? Rogue thought as the pin points of white specked the black above her… Blood Roses… They were growing…. Blood Roses… No, they were falling… Blood Roses… They were flurries… Blood Roses… White tinged with pink flurries. Snow? The first one landed on her cheek… Blood Roses… It wasn't cold… Blood Roses… She didn't bother brushing it off… It'd already touched her, didn't it? …Blood Roses… Besides, there were hundreds, thousands more falling towards her anyway.

"…God knows I know I've thrown away those graces…" (Blood Roses –by Tori Amos)

The flurries blanketed Rogue's Black and Laden and Vacuous and Rapacious and Absent dreamscape. The flurries made it so it was no longer Black. It was Black and White-Tinged-Pink. It was no longer Laden. She was floating. The Black and White-Tinged-Pink were fluttering and floating beside her and on her and around her. It was no longer Vacuous. The White-Tinged-Pink flurries lit the vast expanse, filling the Black. The White-Tinged-Pink flurries glowed against the Black. The trees the flurries fell from—where'd the orchard come from--breathed out oxygen as it sucked in her exhaled carbon dioxide. The flurries lit her and she almost had enough thought to be glad that they soon buried her and the Black that supported her like a floor, yet dropped ceaselessly below. They were rising, filling it up, like an ocean of petals. They armored her skin and it was no longer Rapacious. That part was over. It was remembered. It was a memory. It was Rogue's memory now. It didn't belong just to Nineteen. It belonged to Rogue now, too.

She didn't know it, but it was the another step to Union.

Rogue rocked with the lulling motion of the floating flurrying petals… Blood Roses… They held her effortlessly, like water, like salt water, like the tear that rolled over the edge of her lower eyelid and flowed over her cheek when she closed her eyes to settle in to the drowsy final rocking of the cherry blossom petal sea.

"It's your turn ta drown in it," came the chickory voice. It was more sad than threatening. It came from the edge of the left of Rogue's peripheral.

Rogue didn't bother to turn her head to seek a better perspective. She didn't even bother opening her eyes to seek out the speaker. Not that it would've helped. Nineteen would never be really seen again. Nineteen was a stolen thing. Nineteen was always just out of reach. Nineteen shared the burden, but that didn't change who she was. She was still on her own.

And she had pets. She had five magistrates with flowerpots for heads containing Nineteen's black withered blood roses. She kept her pets on leashes of withered thorny stems.

"It's yoh turn ta drown," repeated the chickory tone with even more sadness. She sent a shiver through the leashes. It entered the pets. And the pets obeyed their mistress.

"…Wrapped around your feet / wrapped around like good little roses…" (Blood Roses –by Tori Amos)

They leapt into the ocean of cherry blossom petals. One's leash looped Rogue's left ankle. Another looped the right one. Then each of her wrists. Then Rogue's neck. They sank into the ocean of cherry blossom petals. Soon their flower pot heads quickened below the surface and the leashes knotting around Rogue's wrists and ankles and neck became taut.

Yank!

Rouge was pulled under.

Non y' don't, chere. Gambit thought as he dove into the White-Tinged-Pink abyss after Rogue.

He'd traversed the catch, arriving to see Rogue being leapt upon by the pets. He'd run across a surface he'd not known was like liquid. The not knowing let him run across it. But, why would he have thought it was anything but solid everywhere Rogue wasn't? The moment before the pets had sunk, before Rogue had sunk, it appeared to him that she was lying, half buried in a drift of blossoms, on the solid petal covered ground of the cherry tree orchard he'd arrived in when he'd traversed the catch.

From the moment of his arrival, he'd seen a version of Rogue in the left of his peripheral vision. It was a corporeal form of Rogue that resembled the Rogue he'd seen as a crystal figurine in Sinister's menagerie. Her demeanor was the same cocky, indignant, and fierce independence that he'd seen in her crystal figurine back then. Her image was sensed, sort of like the memory of a lost and forgotten thing from long ago, more than seen. It was fuzzy, with several lines detailing the silhouette edge of her form. It was like a 3-D picture when viewed without the 3-D glasses. It was an exacting cut of her in triplicate. Each version layered the next, overlapping with the briefest of misalignment. It made her seem more vivid than life itself, like the 3-D picture when viewed with the 3-D glasses. Leashed from her ankles, wrists and neck were what appeared to be the same five magistrates from the memory dream that had been bounced across the catch. He couldn't be sure though because their faces were undefined.

There were to be no formal introduction, but somehow he knew that corporeal form on the edge of his peripheral was Nineteen.

Gambit had ignored Nineteen and had immediately sprinted across the blossom-covered ground when he saw the pets launch at his Rogue. But though Nineteen could never be seen, she wouldn't be ignored. All the while that Gambit raced to his Rogue, Nineteen remained in the same place in his peripheral. All the while, she sneered at him.

"Ssscoundralll," the chickory voice hissed. The moment the words escaped her lips they were smothered by the cloistered atmosphere of the orchard. But Remy had heard her. Somehow, he'd still heard her. The words slithered through him, slowed his motion for the length of the stretched word. He was trapped in slow motion for the length of the word and she shook with laughter over it.

When the word ended, he returned to his sprinting speed. He reached the edge of the drift that half buried his Rogue and he dove, speeding hands first into the blossom ocean. Only, he was stalled again.

"Thhhiefff," the chickory voice hissed, stalling his dive into slow motion for the duration of her slithery slow word. He hung there, poised over the drift, nearly immobile.

The word ended and Remy's motion was returned to its previous speed as he plunged into the blossoms. They feathered his face, tickling him as he swam down and down in search of his Rogue.

Hands brushed the inner span of her arms as his arms wrapped around her waist from behind and pulled her to him. She didn't flinch. She didn't care. She was numb. She was broken. She was done.

"Remy got y', chere," he whispered reassuringly into her hair as he snuggled her more protectively to him. His breath fluttered her hair, made it tickle her neck, her oversensitive skin. She leaned her head back against his chest. She felt his hair tickle her forehead as he leaned his head against hers. "Remy here… Remy won't let anyt'ing happen to y'… I swear it."

They continued to fall. Him wrapped around her from behind, her settled into his embrace. The longer he held her, the more alive she became, the less sensitive she became, the less she felt. Her skin was no longer a swollen thing. Her skin was just her skin. All she felt on it was the warm pressure of him and the feathery soft flutter of the blossoms as they plunged deeper and deeper.

Remy felt the change in her and he felt the tension release from him. He folded more easily around her. They both closed their eyes and enjoyed the moment of perfection of the embrace. Nothing else mattered. Only they existed.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Damn Cajun!" Eleven spat.

She was coalesced atop the Core digging wisps of her cloud form, as though they were fingers, into the webbed shielding of the Core in her frustration. But the wisps weren't fingers. She didn't have mass; she had no more substance than vapor really. She was nothingness, discarded thought, and at most she could only physically define herself into a cloud form. Gambit's catch floated within the cloud. The catch was brimming with electric pink energy, Gambit's kinetic energy. He'd actually managed to kick her out of the catch and it really, really pissed her off.

"Ya'll pay foh spoiling mah fun, swamp rat," growled her shimmering voice. A tremor coursed through the wisps into the web shielding of the Core. The Core shivered in response, in rhythmic time with a shimmer cascading in a wave across the shield itself.

Giggle.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Chere…" Remy whispered against her cheek.

"Yes, Remy…" she whispered back.

They were no longer falling. They weren't even floating. But they weren't standing or sitting or lying down. There was nothing around them. Blackness didn't even surround them. It was colorless. It was formless. It was existence just for them.

"Y' see dis… Y' feel dis…" he whispered as he snuggled his bare cheek against her bare cheek. There was no transfer.

Her hands instinctively grasped at her neck, but didn't find a collar there. She smiled. He felt the change of expression in the movement of her cheek against his cheek.

"We're touching…" she whispered happily.

"Oui…"

His smile broadened and she nuzzled her cheek against his, feeling the brazen texture of his stubble. "It's scratchy…"

"Oui…" He smiled.

But something was nagging him. It wasn't fair. It was childish and selfish, but that didn't matter. It wasn't fair. How could he let himself be angry with her for what she'd done with Logan only the night before if his concern for her every time she was endangered kept usurping that anger. As long as these episodes, these emergencies kept up, they'd never really get to discuss their own problems. They'd never get to work themselves out. They would remain in suspension much like they were right then in the dreamscape inside Rogue's mindscape. The problem with that was that this place didn't really exist. How long could they last in their purgatory?

~~~~~~~~~~~

"What are you up to?"

Eleven looked down from atop the Core and saw Emma's ghost looking up at her. She looked away as though there was never anything there.

"Ahem!" Emma's ghost said in annoyance as she glared up at the cloud atop the Core.

"Shoo!" Eleven said without even gracing Emma's ghost with another glance.

Emma's ghost rolled her eyes and sighed indignantly.

"You still here?" Eleven asked.

"Not like I can leave?" Emma's ghost, mocking Eleven, said.

"Listen, psi witch," Eleven said as she whirled her coalesced form down and around Emma's ghostly body. "Ah am Queen here," She threatened as she searched for Emma's catch, "And Ah've only just begun."

"Really?" Emma's ghost replied with an I-know-something-you-don't-know smirk.

"Huh?!" Eleven gasped when Emma's catch didn't answer.

Emma's ghost's smirk broadened. She held up her catch for Eleven to see. Emma's ghost whipped it up then down, sending a wave reeling along the catch to where it connected with the Core. Eleven expected the wave to disappear inside the Core, and part of it did. But, part of it did not, too. That part spread across the exterior sphere shaped web shielding of the Core. It spread across it like water ripples when a raindrop splashes into it. Emma's ghost and the coalesced form of Eleven moved around the Core, following the wave. On the other side, the wave met with a thin, tiny, barely noticeable strain of the web. They followed the wave as it traveled along this strain to where it breached the boundary of Rogue's mindscape and entered the commons of the astral plane.

Emma's ghost met Eleven's shocked expression with an even, guarded gaze and said, "Queen, my ass."

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To be continued in Chapter 10 - Roil

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FOOTNOTES:

[1] X-Men # 1. Magneto kidnapped most of the X-Men and brainwashed them into working for him. The moment any of them used their powers, they broke free of the brainwashing. Rogue was the first one to do this. She'd used her powers when she flew away from Gambit because of his first on panel flirtation with her.

[2] Gambit's authoritative aspects were hinted at in the short-lived Gambit series when he took on the leadership of the New Orleans Thieves Guild. However, I must give credit to Lori McDonald and Valerie Jones for the best and most memorable rendition and application of it (again I stress that everyone should read their thieves stories, even if Blind Sight still hasn't been finished). Gambit also lost and regained control of his charging powers in this series by way of Sinister.

[3] Credit must go to Valerie Jones for the theory of Mystique and Gambit having a history. It's been hinted at, sort of, in the comics, but Valerie flat out revealed it in Blind Sight. If you want details, read her story.

[4] English translation of the French word Onze is Eleven.

[5] That comment was for you, Jean 1. Though it was bound to make it in there in this chapter or the next anyway. It's all part of the puzzle.

[6] Uncanny X-Men # 236, Genosha story. (from the Claremont masterpiece days of comics). Yes, I know I'm taking liberties and messing with X-Men Canon. The Core is made up of blocked memories of Rogue's most traumatic experiences. I'm saying that Rogue "forgot" the worst of what happened in Genosha and only remembered what was shown in the comic. Also, # 236 didn't actually have the slave collars in it, but I'm pretending that it did.

[7] Again. Issue # 236.

[8] Uncanny X-Men # 239, Inferno story. I've added Gambit into the scene that was originally in the comic, as though he were off panel. I know he hadn't even been created, yet. His entrance was # 266. And yes, obviously this happened after the Genosha issue.

[9] My own imaginative deduction places the Seattle event—which Rogue absorbed from Gambit's memory—at the same time as the Genosha incident. That means it occurred in between the Morlock Massacre and the Inferno story lines. This conception of the Seattle Theater ordeal also marks a third loss of control of Gambit's kinetic powers (not just the two times that Xavier and the X-men know of in the comics, a knowledge I reiterated earlier in this chapter during the Gambit/Xavier meeting).

[10] This entire paragraph is a direct quote from issue # 236, pg. 19. Can you believe they actually numbered the pages at one point?

[11] The savage land, issue # 269.

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