Author's Notes: To all reviewers: Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you so much for your comments. I can't tell you how much I appreciate them.

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Seether

Chapter Fifteen – Chicanery [1]

By Randirogue

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"Had me a trick and a kick and your message. Well, you'll never gain weight from a doughnut hole. Then thought that I could decipher your message. There's no one here, dear. No one at all." (Doughnut Song –by Tori Amos)

"Okay. So, maybe this wasn't the smartest choice Ah ever made," Rogue said to the empty room once she fully took it in. She was on a cold slab table. She had tubes and electrodes running from her. Sinister was behind a glass and lead wall working the controls to all that was hooked up to her.

"It's your terms, Rogue..." Sinister answered. His voice sounded hollow and starched through the speakers.

What he said was true. He'd kept to her conditions completely thus far. As soon as she had gone from Caldecott with him and arrived at his base—surprisingly in the outskirts of Vancouver, Washington, only a skip and a hop from Seattle—first thing Sinister did was enact the conditions she had placed on him.

Before they had even left Caldecott Rogue had told Sinister, "My conditions, non-negotiable, are... One, Remy's debt is fully repaid. No more dragging him back in. That's it, finito. He has no more obligations ta ya."

Sinister had raised a brow at her audacity, but didn't get a word in edgewise.

"Non-negotiable. Ya don't agree Ah walk away right now. Your choice."

Sinsiter's brow stayed raised, but he nodded once, curt.

"Two," Rogue continued, "This Scott, Jean, Nate, Cable, Madelyne...stuff? All that stops. No more." That time, Rogue raised a brow to him, questioning his gall to tell her 'no.'

Sinister's answer was no more than a stoic silence rounded off with a burgeoning grin.

"Three, before Ah forget this point, Ah don't owe you anything for this. You came to me."

"And I suppose next you'll ask for me to dispose of my genetic sampling library?" Sinister's grin had grown, like a sign of pride, like he knew something she didn't.

"No," Rogue said. "If what ya had in mind was worth that much to ya, then Ah wouldn't be interested... Ah think ya know that."

"I'll find a loophole no matter what your stipulations are," Sinister said, oozing confidence.

"Maybe... but not on these points Ah'm insisting on. Ya sneak your way around them, and Ah'll come huntin' for ya. Ah promise ya that."

"Need I remind you how ineffective your powers were on me last time?"

It was Rogue's turn to grin. She knew he knew about her current power status... knew he had to be toying with her, but it was still fun to show him. She pulled off a glove, held her hand about a foot in front of her eyes, and concentrated for a moment. Then she blinked. When her eyes opened, Scott's beams shot from her eyes into her hand, where, using Bishop's powers, she absorbed the energy back into herself. Another blink, another moment of concentration, and she opened her eyes, free of Scott's power.

"Scott and Alex's powers always hurt ya, Essex," Rogue said as she pulled her glove back on. "Ah always wondered why that was..." [2]

"So, Remy and you debtless," Sinister said without any signs of being perturbed. He was unimpressed by her taunt. "And the Summers' and Grey's lineage research and productivity terminated... anything else?"

Rogue turned back to look at the water. The sight of a swirling and drowning eddie got her remembering her vision during that last meditation session with Logan before the team left for Caldecott. She decided she wasn't going to just react anymore. She was going to act. She wouldn't be a burden to the others anymore. These demands on Sinister, making this decision, this was one way of acting, of breaking her current trend, and it gave her a chance to help her friends in the process. She kept focusing on that, wracking her brain to make sure her conditions covered all major possibilities... knowing she couldn't logically tackle everything, but trusting herself that she'd covered the most important aspects.

She had to trust herself.

"Two more things," Rogue said, watching that miniature whirlpool unfurl back into the slow meandering current again. She felt triumphant that, for first time since these episodes began, she no longer felt caught up in an eddie of her own. "You answer all my questions as we go. Ah'm not naive enough to think you'll disclose it all. But, ya answer what Ah ask, when Ah ask it, explain what ya do as ya do it, or Ah walk."

"And?"

"And Ah'm not your prisoner while Ah'm there. Ah don't expect ya to let me poke through all your stuff, but Ah can walk around freely. No cells, no restraints, no inhibitor do-hickeys... none of that kind of stuff."

"Agreed."

"What ya want me for is worth all that to ya?" Rogue asked with incredulity.

"And then some."

Rogue just shook her head in disbelief. "I'm missing a catch somewhere. Ah just know it."

"Perhaps," Sinister said, "But we are both content with what each is receiving. The health and safety of you and your teammates are secured from my direct influence. Debts are considered paid in full. You aid me in valuable research into the state and being of mutancy in humans. You will not be harmed in this, but will gain insight into your own current problems, solutions even. You will not use this as an opportunity to lead the X-Men to my doorstep and take away all of my work."

That had been the sole condition of his: if the X-Men attacked during her visit with him—as he so politely put it—the deal was off. She wanted him to have one, at least one condition. If he allowed her too much say in all this, then she wouldn't have trusted the arrangement in the least... not that she trusted him as it was. But, that stipulation of his was why she hadn't left any word with Storm and the others. What could she have said to them? 'Hey ya'll, Ah'm takin' a vacation on my own, but don't worry, Ah'm not in any kinda danger?' She wouldn't lie to them, so she said nothing.

She'd done a lot of that lately... saying nothing... so she wouldn't lie to them. She was feeling rather guilty for it, but she'd learned long ago—with the help of Logan, Xavier, Gambit, Storm, and all the others—wallowing in guilt only tripped a person up. She'd seen it eat away at Gambit. She'd been infected by guilt herself on more than one occasion.

There was this sermon Ah heard when Ah was little... Ah think... by... by... Oh well, it ain't important now, Ah guess, since it's the theory that means the most.

Accept and move on. That's what they'd all taught her. Mystique, too, though in different words and under different terms. Too bad Rogue had found that she'd mixed up 'accepting and moving on' with 'ignoring'. Now she was trying to correct that problem. For all her skills and knowledge gained under Mystique and Irene's tutelage and rearing there was a reason she never proclaimed herself brilliant by any means. She made stupid mistakes as often as the next Joe did; got caught up in herself, in petty emotions, just like anyone else. The question was, would that moment—there and then with Sinister—be another one?

"We both will profit," Sinister had restated.

Rogue had bit her lower lip, thinking it over. Ah know Ah'm missing something. Ah know it. She met his stoic gaze. Well, girl, it's now or never.

"Ah know Ah'll regret this," Rogue said holding out her hand to him to shake on it.

Sinister laughed... a full-bellied laugh at the hand shake proposition from her... but took her hand and shook it. His laughter abruptly ceased when she lifted him into the air.

"Better give me directions 'cause we're traveling my way."

Her way had them flying over a dozen states to land atop an abandoned hospital on the outskirts of Vancouver, Washington.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"And if I'm wasting all your time this time, maybe you never learned to take. And if I'm hanging on to your shade, I guess I'm way beyond the pale." (Doughnut Song –by Tori Amos)

Bittersweet. Sage, Storm, Remy, Bishop, Neal, and Bobby mulled in the living room of the house Rogue had rented. They had another diary. They had information about the history of the burned down church, public records files on the family involved in it... people they were thinking were part of Rogue's past. Bittersweet. They had evidence that local officials were involved in some sort of cover up involving the church and Rogue's subsequent running off when she was merely eight years old. They also knew that the town's officials had possessed and protected one of the diaries. They didn't know why, though. Bittersweet. From various townsfolk, they'd learned Rogue was confronted by two men. One, they assumed was Vargas. The other, identity unknown... but some of the congregated group had their theories about just who he was. Bittersweet. Rogue had been in a fight with Vargas. Bittersweet. Rogue was gone without any word or trace... possibly with the unknown man. Bittersweet.

"It's a fake," Sage proclaimed as she turned the final page of the diary. She set the book on the coffee table, picked up her cup of tea and sipped it as the others stared at her...

"..."

...Waiting for more.

When Sage was done sipping her tea, she set that back down and flipped through the diary, showing it to them as she did so.

"All of these images are from the books we already have in our own possession," Sage explained. "The book's a pieced together duplicate. It's not exact to any of the books that we've seen. It was bunched all together to make us think it was real at first. But, even the ink is too new."

"We've been set up," Bishop said, sparing a harsh glance at Remy. "Figured there had to be too much of a coincidence with that painting."

"Yes," Sage agreed, "It appears that Irene predicted our search as it occurred."

"Well, she is a precog," Bobby said. His frustration and humor twisted into a not so light-hearted sarcasm. As he had spoken he added some sugar to his coffee, which seemed too bitter right then. Four spoonfuls just wasn't enough.

"But what purpose would that serve?" Storm asked, returning their focus back where it belonged.

"To mess wit' us?" Remy said with a sardonic chuckle. Like Bobby, he was overloading his coffee... but with honey instead of sugar. "From what Rogue's said, 'n Storm, Irene doesn't do t'ings wit'out a reason. We may not understand dat reason, but dere's one dere."

"And this," Sage said, flipping to a specific page and holding it open for the others to look at, "is the reason."

The picture resembled pictures from several other books they'd seen or heard about. The edges were bordered by drawings of Rogue stabbing Vargas in various ways. Within those boundaries were variations of other familiar images. Rogue, lying on Gambit with Vargas' sword through them. Rogue, clutching a bleeding chest wound, going through physical and power manifestations of those she'd absorbed before. Rogue, with leashes sprouting from her that lead to various forms of herself and others in black hound uniforms—including all of the members of the current rosters of the X-team's. There was one of Rogue in a boxy machine. All of the images crammed onto the page involved Rogue in some way except for four of them.

"These additional four are what Irene wanted us to see," Sage said. "I think."

"Impostor Eleven?" Bobby asked when he saw the swirls of smoke/cloud wrapped around a tall, spindly flower.

"Sinister..." Remy hissed when he saw the diamond splashed with red on one figure's face.

"But who are these two?" Asked Neal, pointing to an unspecified middle-aged man and an older man with a cane.

Storm leaned in for a closer look. "I don't have any idea. They could be anyone, with the way they are drawn. Nothing about them stands out at people we know of."

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

"!!!"

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

"I'll get it," Bishop said, brandishing his weapon. The others weren't far behind him as he opened the door.

"We know yer in there," came a voice muffled by the door, "Now open the damned door!"

Bishop pulled open the door to reveal ornery Joe's weathered face. At first sight of the enormous Bishop, Joe's mouth snapped closed. Joe's friend, wily Aaron, however, pushed his way in, ignoring Bishop and the others as he rushed directly to Bobby.

Well, rushed as much as the near-blind old man could rush.

"They took crazy Bryon," Aaron spat, almost accusatory, into Bobby's face. "Ya gotta help us get him. They're gonna kill him fer sure this time."

Aaron latched his wiry fingers onto the front of Bobby's shirt and started hauling Bobby after him as he headed back out the door. Bobby was so surprised, the old coot actually yanked him a few feet without much protest from Bobby.

THUNK!

The barrel of Bishop's weapon bumped the doorjamb to block Aaron's path.

"Nobody's going anywhere until you tell us who you are and what this is all about," Bishop said. His tone left no room for argument.

"We ain't got time," Aaron snipped frantically to Bishop. "They took Byron a couple hours ago... he could already be a goner. Ya'll are his only chance!"

"Awwww hell! Ah done told ya they wouldn't help us," Joe grumbled. "They're only here fer her. All anybody evah cares about is her. All o' us caught up in the middle are just slop fer the hogs." He gave a tug on Aaron's arm, jerking him, and by default, Bobby, a few inches forward.

"No," Aaron said stubbornly. His face was red with his intense panic and rage. "My sistah, Gawd rest her soul, would never forgive meh if Ah let Byron get killed like this. It's their fault he's in this mess, and by Gawd, they're gonna get him outta this."

"Small town's all be de same," Remy said, his voice surprisingly warm and calming. He gently took hold of Aaron's wrist and carefully began prying the old man's wiry fingers from Bobby's shirt. One of Remy's deft fingertips contacted with Aaron's tarnished gold wedding band. It was something he could charge if it came to that. Remy wanted to placate the scared old man, but he wasn't taking any chances. Continuing, Remy said, "Everybody's related some way or another t' everyone else, non?"

"Yeah," Aaron said. It was barely more than a half-choked whisper. Aaron was on the verge of tears. He was fighting it with the grit forged by a life of hard times, few luxuries, and relying on family and neighbors to get you through the day. It was grit common to many of the people in Caldecott.

Aaron allowed his hand to be removed by Remy. Afterwards, he just let his hand flop dejected, defeated to his side. His gaze soon followed suit.

"Aw hell, ya done broke the poor sap," Joe complained as he clapped a leathery hand on Aaron's shoulder. As abrupt and lacking of gentility as it was, the gesture was one meant to comfort his long time friend. "Always was too damned emotional fer his own good," he added, eyeing the group with annoyance. He gave Aaron's shoulder a good squeeze then pulled back.

"Y' want us t' help y' kin," Remy said. The calm and warmth was still apparent in his voice. "And, I'm t'inking dat if we help dis Byron, we'd be helping Rogue's kin."

Joe huffed. "It's a long story," Joe said, "Too long ta tell ya if yer ta have any chance of doin' Byron any good. Ah'll give ya the brief sum-up, though. Any questions ya get will just have ta wait 'till after ya done rescued him."

Storm stepped forward then. Her wise and soothing voice reassuring him as much as her words when she said, "We will do what we can to help you."

"Short version," Joe said, "We know the girl yer looking fer. Haven't seen her in a long while, though. Knew her from when she lived here. Her grand-pap was the preacher at that burned down church. He all but ran this whole county. Byron was one o' his older brothers. Aaron's sister was Byron's wife. A bunch of weird, nasty shit went on, back when Caitlyn up an' ran off, that got just about everyone 'round these parts bottled up tighter 'n—Ah don't know, rightly, but damn tight-lipped, ya know?"

A deep breath, then, he continued, "Byron was somehow caught up in it, sideways like. Saw more 'n was healthy fer him."

"They've roughed him up more times than we could rightly tell ya," Aaron interjected.

"Ya gonna let me finish, Aaron? We're sort of pressed for time, hear," Joe quipped harshly. Accusingly, he continued to the others, "Ya'll comin' 'round heah, poking yer noses everywhere, asking too many questions, got folks all riled up. The wrong kinda folks, if ya know what ah mean. They got wind o' Byron's jabbering with the fair boy there and figured Byron done loosed his lips. Ain't that a crock. Even if Byron said something, it's not likely it was even sane. He'd been roughed up so many times he's just a loon now."

"But they took him anyway," added Aaron gravely.

"Where is he being held?" Storm asked.

"Ah'll show ya," Joe said. He looked them over, then said, "We'll have ta take more than one car. Ain't no way all o' us fittin' in just one."

"You want to come with us?" Bishop asked, surprise, evident in his voice.

"Ah ain't got time ta draw ya a map, so yeah. It's quicker this way. Don't worry, we ain't got no pipe dreams o' gettin' in on the action. We'll stay a nice, safe distance back. We ain't idiots, ya know."

~~~~~~~~~~~

"And southern men can grow gold, can grow pertty. Blood can be pertty like a delicate man. Copper to steel to a hinge that is faltered that let's you in, let's you in, let's you in. Something's just keeping you numb." (Doughnut Song –by Tori Amos)

"Caitie ain't all sunshine and roses like yer delicate Lily was," Byron said, his voiced deadened by the straw strewn on the ground and piled along one rotting-wood wall. Still, the other occupants had no problem hearing Byron's ramblings.

There were seven men there. Overkill for someone like Byron, but it wasn't only for Byron. Three of the men weren't local. Henry Peter Gyrich, dressed in suit and tie, was there along with two secret service types of his own. Gyrich winced as he watched two of the locals, burly thugs land blow after blow onto Byron.

Still rambling, Byron said, "She made friends with an ice-maker—"

BAM! Another blow.

Byron didn't even shake it off. He just kept on jabbering with nothing more than a mildly confused expression washing over him after ever blow. He didn't understand why they kept hitting him. If they just stopped hitting him he could tell them the good news... which reminded him...

"—If ah gave him a handful of milk and a chocolate bar, do ya think he'd make me some ice cream? Ah ain't greedy, mind ya, Ah appreciated those diamonds. Boy was Ah grateful fer them—"

"Shut him up!" hollered Dominic Beauregard, mister high and mighty youngest-nephew-of-the-old-burned-down-church's-famous-preacher.

Fancied up in his Mayor's suit and tie, Dominic was still an oily man. He had black hair, slicked back. He was constantly smearing on chapstick or rubbing lotion into his hands. Everything about him seemed greasy. Even though he wasn't as smooth around the edges as his forefathers he was still a Beauregard, through and through. With his name and family connections he could've been a lot more than just Mayor of that small town in Caldecott where his uncle's old burned down church was a historical site. He always claimed his position was by choice; he wanted to stick close to his roots. A Beauregard's first priorities always had been family and neighbors. Truthfully though, he was just addicted to how he had the run of the place.

Dominic's outburst halted Byron for just a moment. A confused look, a blink, and Byron kept right on talking.

"—But ice cream would be like heaven, ya know, with our heat. Should ah ask him? Ah'd sure love ta sit back and have a cone with Caitie. Now she could put back a few, that li'l one!"

Crack!

A fist caught him square in the mouth.

Byron rubbed his jaw, coughed, then spit out a loosened tooth. Tears started down his cheeks when he picked the tooth up out of his lap. Drool, tinged with blood, dripped from the violently removed treasure as Byron held it forlornly.

"Did ya have ta do that?" Byron asked with a quavering voice. "Ah don't got many left. Ah'm trying real hard ta make 'em last."

Gyrich threw up his arms and marched for the exit. "That's it, I'm leaving." He stopped, facing off to Dominic. "This is ridiculous. The old man has completely lost it, Dominic. He didn't tell them anything 'cause he doesn't know anything. He's talking riddles about my dead daughter and kitchenware for crissake! Doesn't any of this strike you as pointless?"

Byron looked straight at Gyrich and said, "Now Ah'm regretting saving a pumpkin fer ya every Halloween, Henry Peter. Yer don't deserve it. Talking 'bout yer li'l girl like that. Ya oughta be ashamed o' yerself."

Dominic shook with fury. He had to get the old coot to shut up before Gyrich caught onto the truth mixed into all the gibberish. A frantic shuffle of feet got him to Byron's side. He raised his own cane—an item he used to help him emulate his great uncle, the former preacher—intending to whack Byron hard enough to finally shut him up once and for all.

"Stop it!" Gyrich yelled as he raced up and shoved the cane before it could impact Byron. "Why are you bothering? He isn't a threat!"

"Soft," Dominic muttered angrily and he set his cane to rights and rested his bulbous weight on it. From the lengthy talks with his uncle, he knew exactly what buttons to push to manipulate Gyrich. He didn't have his famous uncle's magic touch with words, but he'd make do. Continuing, Dominic said, "Things would've turned out so much better if Lily had been married off to someone else."

"Well, it's too late now, isn't it?" Henry Peter Gyrich took out his handkerchief and tossed it into Byron's lap. He'd just about had enough with all the crap the Beauregard's had put him through. He was so sick and tired of how much they used his lingering attachment to his dead wife against him he almost wished he had never met her.

I still wouldn't have her or Caitlyn, but at least Lily might still be alive... And maybe this guy would have some sane thoughts left...

Gyrich didn't have very many good intentions left, but there was at least one he held onto with great fervor. It was caught up in that attachment to Lily and Caitlyn.

"He's human, Dominic," Gyrich said. "He's your family. Treat him with at least some dignity and respect."

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha."

Dominic shook so much from laughing, Gyrich thought he looked like a demented, devilish Santa Claus.

"Ain't this all the kicker, Gyrich?" Dominic continued. "Look at you sticking up for the loon. Why? Because he's my uncle? Because he's Marshall's brother? Because he's human? The things you don't know, the things you never wanted to know..." Grave, almost repenting, he added, "You didn't deserve our Lily. Never did. No wonder she ran off, six months pregnant. Simple as she was, she still caught on to your weakness. And Caitlyn? Oh, don't even get me started on that one... ha ha ha..."

Gyrich stomped the ground, stirring up a small cloud of dirt. That last statement of Dominic's was their hold on him. When the Beauregard's had re-entered his life a few years back, it was words like those, little stabs and hints about Caitlyn that kept Gyrich hooked. They had him dangling on an adamantium-wire tether and it made him boiling mad.

While Dominic was prattling on and Gyrich was throwing a conniption, Byron had wrapped up his tooth in Gyrich's handkerchief. He was tucking it safely inside an interior pocket when Marshall started up on Caitlyn.

Byron jumped up, toppling himself and Dominic to the ground. "Leave Caitie alone, ya damned bastard!"

Byron was having a poorly timed moment of clarity. His thoughts were sound, even as the thugs dragged him off of Dominic and pounded on him. All along, Byron kept on screaming.

"Ya ain't nothing but a cheat and a liar! That church burnin' down was the best thing to evah happen ta her. Got her outta here, it did—"

BAM!

"Ah saw myself a picture of her. Her beau showed it ta me—"

BAM!

"She growed up pretty and strong and smart. She was luckier than Lily. She was—"

Silence.

A whistle.

Wind?

The rusty lock on the wide barn doors snapped off, cutting the air and clipping the shoulder of one of the burly thugs that had been beating on Byron, as the doors were forced open.

The X-Men X-Treme team had arrived.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"You told me last night you were a sun, now, with your very own..." (Doughnut Song –by Tori Amos)

The metal slab was nothing more than a muted sensation beneath her. The fact that she could feel it was almost a consolation. The nausea wasn't calming, the dark room was still swirling—not spinning, since that would connote that the room wasn't imitating Edvard Munch's painting, The Scream—and her body hadn't yet reconnected to her mind. All in all, it felt like she'd been flipped inside out and back again... and was still waiting to return to her senses.

What did he do to meh?

She sat up, swung her legs over the edge of the slab, but didn't feel the motions more than the continued nausea and swirling. The deadened sensation of her toes contacting the black and white tiled floor was something though, right? Reveling in that, all that she had, she asked him, "What did ya do to me Essex?"

Her vomit splattered the tiles. She hadn't even felt her stomach lurch.

"I've merely designated all of the Core's persona's, Rogue," Sinister answered. "Just like I explained I would."

"Just like that? Ya opened it all up in one fell swoop?"

"No. I've just identified them. There's a few more steps before that."

She pushed off the slab and tried to stand. It worked... sort of...

"Then why do Ah feel like—"

"Like you are in your own mind and body, but separate from it?"

Rogue looked down at her feet on the floor, to the side of her expunged stomach contents, then to where her hands gripped the slab. She'd vomited so abruptly, and with her senses working the way they were, it was almost like it wasn't her that had vomited. Other than that, her feet were unwavering, her knees not trembling, but she couldn't feel them. They didn't feel numb. They felt amputated, not there. Her fingers were white knuckled on the slab, but even they felt detached. No matter how tight she squeezed the slab, it was nothing more than a faint blah-ness. It was worse than feeling the world through gloves.

She asked, "Yeah, that?"

"Dissociation. I needed direct links to each of them to pull them free one by one. To do so otherwise would be a breach of our contract. I do believe the shock of it would kill you."

"Ya call this stickin' within my parameters?"

She bore her sight through the glass where she saw him bent over staring at his readouts as though she could will him to look at her.

He did.

"Please try not to move around too much," he said, the previous subject closed and final, according to him. "You could tear your stitches."

"My what?"

Too late, his attention was back on the readouts.

She looked down the front of her body. This time, she noticed the unbuttoned lower half of her blouse. Biting her lower lip with grim resolve, she lifted the blouse and looked. There, dipping down under the loose waistband of her jeans was a row of stitches. She gently unzipped her pants and peeled them open to see the stitches arc at its lowest point to curve back up. The other end of the stitches stopped about an inch below the waistband. It was almost a perfect half circle and she felt every bit of it with the tips of her fingers.

She wasn't sure which bothered her more, that he had performed a surgical operation of an unknown sort on her or that she couldn't feel the stitches any more than she could feel the tiles under her feet and the slab under her palms and back.

She closed up her clothing. She still felt exposed though, when she was done, since she couldn't feel the clothes. But sight told her she was covered up, and sight was all she had at the moment, even swirling as it was. So, it was by relying solely on her sight that she clutched her way through the room to the door in the lead and glass wall to confront Sinister in what she deemed a breach of their agreement: cutting into her and not divulging it first. She watched each footfall, each touch for support... growing more and more weary and more disturbed and more scared with each one.

She reached the door separating the two rooms. She opened the door. Before she laid eyes on Sinister in there, she heard him... them.

Guess the speaker system has a filter on it, she thought wryly.

"This ztztztztzt calls thirty-two today ztztztztzt operation trickery only way ztztztztzt kill you maybe Union It free ztztztztzt joining marriage IT control possibilities ztztztztzt mutants Union IT catches possibilities ztztztztzt no, everyone...."

All of them... the free ones... all at once.

Chickory Static Tart Sad Static Giggle Haunting Edgy Static Everywhere Bitter Taunting Static Nowhere Static.

Speakers. Microphone. Monitors.

Static Haunting Everywhere Chickory Static Tart Giggle Edgy Static Sad Taunting Bitter Static Nowhere Static.

Sinister was talking to... them.

Nowhere Static Giggle Bitter Sad Static Haunting Edgy Static Chickory Tart Static Taunting Static Everywhere.

The static, she somehow realized, was those still trapped inside the Core.

GiggleTauntingSadStaticGiggleTartNowhereGiggleStaticHauntingGiggleEdgyStaticChicko ryGiggleBitterStaticGiggleStaticEverywhereGiggleEverywhereGiggleEverywhereGiggleEv erywhereGiggleEverywhereGiggle.

White knuckled on the door's frame, though she couldn't feel it. Vomit on the floor, again, though she hadn't felt it.

"Rogue, I would advise that you return to the bed," Sinister said without looking up from his monitors.

"What did ya do?" DidAah ask him or did Ah just think Ah asked him? Better ask again, just in case. "What did ya do to me?"

"Another one is about to—"

White washed over her. The world was ending. And then she blinked, and she could see it was hell she was in again.

A momentary stray thought—Who's Orpheus? Eurydice? [3]

"Ztztztzthello?" Sunshine and chimes. "Wow, why's it so.... blah in here? It was so bright before."

There was an odd echo effect for Rogue. She heard the voice through the speakers and within her mind. It was like a strangely set up surround sound system, actually.

"It's temporary, sugah," Impostor Eleven's voice said to Sunshine-and-chimes, sounding through the speakers. "Everything will be bright again soon."

Rogue was regaining feeling. Her senses were returning. She was balancing. Yet, the strange echo came with Impostor Eleven's voice as well. She could hear them both inside and out. Doubly odd, since Impostor Eleven's shimmering voice sounded everywhere and nowhere all at once within Rogue's mindscape.

"Oh Gawd, the wave!" Sunshine and chimes. "Ah'm dead, aren't Ah? Gambit too. We're—"

"Hush, hush," Soothed Impostor Eleven lovingly. "It's nothin' like that. Remembeh, Sugah, ya know ya aren't dead. Ya've just been—"

"Released."

"Everyone, meet Twenty-two," Impostor Eleven announced proudly.

"Ahhhh, their first kiss," Sinister said neutrally.

"That's what that feeling was," Rogue said, making it a question. "Ya forced it out? That's what Union is, isn't it?"

Sunshine and chimes. "Only half of it, Sugar." Twenty-two.

"You really should return to the table, Rogue," Sinister said. "You may feel better now, but it's not over yet."

A wave of nausea hit her right on cue. Her knees gave out. She grabbed the ledge of Sinister's workbench to keep her from smacking to the tiled floor. Sinister helped her up and guided her to the table in the other room. She couldn't fight him. She felt like shit. She needed to lie down. She could feel the web strands reaching throughout her, taut and quivering, like a plucked guitar string, like a fly had been snagged in the web and the spider was making it's way to him to devour him.

But who was the spider, who was the fly, what was the web really? Who was Orpheus, who was Eurydice, Hades, Persephone, Hermes, the Furies, the Maenads?

Who was she?

And then Magneto was led in, bound and collared, strapped onto the second table in the former hospital nursery. That's where they were, she realized with a jolt. She knew this was an abandoned hospital, but the exact rooms Sinister had set up the procedures in hadn't crossed her mind. She didn't care at the time. She was too caught up double checking the wisdom of her demands, making sure he complied with them, asking him what he was doing... and he'd left out some parts.

How fitting, a nursery. Guess Ah am giving birth, in a way... but why's Magneto here?

"Why's he here?" Rogue's question was barely audible, barely shushed out.

"I told you, Rogue," Sinister explained as he connected wires between them.

Rogue avoided the pained and angry expression that Magneto regarded her with. She tried to ignore that for the moment. He'd looked at her like that before. What was new to her was his disheveled, stupor he seemed to be in. He looked intoxicated. Not fully, but enough that he would be more malleable for whatever Sinister had in mind for him.

"The key is in the duplication. One inside you, one outside you. You retained nothing of me. Magnus here, is within you, however."

"But ya cut me open... ya didn't..." She trailed off. The dizziness was swallowing. She could feel her insides trying to become her outsides.

"I explained all about the nannites," Sinister said as he continued taping wires to her and Magneto, and double-checking all of the sensors as he went. "They do for me much what Xavier's telepathy would have done for him in conjunction with Cerebro."

"Eggs... Egg... zay..." She gave up saying the Professor's name. It was just too difficult to pronounce. She went for something easier. "Suh... Sah... ree.." Her tongue was an oversized mass of dry sponge. She couldn't make it work like it was supposed to.

"Cerebro, yes," Sinister said. He figured out what she was getting at. "Haven't you ever wondered why Xavier never really did anything to try and help you? I procured all this equipment by way of an alias of mine with connections to the administration that worked with Operation: Zero Tolerance. It came from the X-Men's Westchester base, Rogue. It's Cerebro, modified to work by way of my nannites in place of telepathy. Some of those inside the Core were near to escaping already with Impostor Eleven's help and your own biology and emotional circumstances as of late. Others are more stubborn. So, as I explained before we started, I need assistance, something inside and outside of you at once. Magneto fills that role."

Sinister, satisfied that everything was properly ready, headed back to his observation room to check things on that end and make adjustments. Through the speaker system, he said, "All those people at the mansion you'd absorbed at some time or another, yet, never once did Xavier search for a link still existing between them and you. Then again, maybe he did know, and chose not to pursue it. After all, I refined my theories of you after the information this equipment granted me."

An electrical buzz.

Inside-out.

A thousand plucked strings.

Sensory loss.

A purplish pink glow around Magneto. His back arched. His mouth opened in a scream she couldn't hear.

A matching glow around her. She felt nothing. She was dimming.

A last thought before blackness—Magneto.

That was the point she'd overlooked.

Magneto was in Sinister's clutches, and the X-Men were likely planning a search and rescue under Xavier's insistence.

She'd forgotten that when making her careful list of demands.

She hoped they wouldn't arrive before she escaped. Sinister's one stipulation was that she did not lead the X-Men to him.

Would he hold it a breach of their agreement if the X-Men showed up for reasons other than her? Would he believe she hadn't led them there? Had he figured on that all along? What would it mean, if he considered it a breach?

Blackout.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Devoted satellite. Happy for you, and I am sure that I hate you. Two sons too many, too many able fires." (Doughnut Song –by Tori Amos)

Moses parting the sea—that was what it looked like. Loose dirt in an updraft rising from the ground and curling at the peaks high above their heads. The phenomenon spanned the interior of the barn from splintered doors to back wall. The guards by the door and settled back from the main attraction—the interrogation of Byron, center stage—were thrown back into the old wood walls with the wind play. One guard, Dominic, Gyrich, and Byron were all that remained untouched by the winds.

"Release him, now," Storm demanded as she led the other members of her team along the path her rises of wind and dirt had formed.

Bobby didn't wait for them to comply. An ice slide took him straight to Byron. He iced Byron over, unsure of his injuries and thinking it best not to jar any possible broken bones or internal trauma, then propelled them both back out the way he'd come in. He didn't see any more of what happened inside the barn. He knew they'd fill him in afterwards. His objective was the removal and tending to of Byron; a job he volunteered for eagerly.

Storm noticed the relief that washed over Gyrich at seeing Byron removed to safety. Then it occurred to her—

"Gyrich?"

"We aren't afraid of yer parlor tricks," Dominic said. His family arrogance reappeared. "Yer in over yer heads."

Dominic's goon reached around his back.

A card danced with light, poised between two fingers before Gambit even spoke, "I wouldn't advise that."

Storm gestured to Bishop and asked, "Bring them in here. I want to get to the bottom of this." A nod to Neal and Sage, then, "Their weapons."

"What's going on?" Henry asked as Neal and Sage retrieved weapons from the guard. Henry looked the X-Men over in disgust. Venom-laced, he said, "What are you... mutants doing here?"

"These folks said they'd rescue Byron," ornery Joe said as he entered with Bishop and Aaron. "What are you doing here, Henry? We hadn't expected ta see ya 'round these parts since—well, evah again, rightly."

Sage searched Dominic for weapons and found a shiny hunting knife in a snakeskin case and an Ivory handled, customized Derringer styled gun. The Derringer was comical to Sage, considering Dominic's girth.

"You'd think that wouldn't you," Gyrich said wryly, giving a sidelong glance to Dominic. "My only attachments to this godforsaken place died a long time ago."

"If ya feel that way," Aaron spat, "then Ah really don't know why ya did come back."

Neal was trying to search Gyrich, but Gyrich's near thrashing around in his anger was making it impossible.

"How else should I feel? They're dead!"

Neal had the light bulb idea. "But, Joe, didn't you say that Cait—"

"Ha ha ha ha ha." It was Dominic again. It was more menacing this time, though. "Boy, you best be staying out of our business if you know what's good for you."

Bishop raised his plasma gun to him. "I think you should remember who's in control right now."

"If this don't beat all," Dominic said as he quirked a brow at Gyrich. "You and your boys gonna let this here bunch of muties talk to us like this."

Nobody caught the flicker of Dominic's gaze pausing ever so slightly in the distance beyond the rising walls of dirt and dust like Moses' parted sea when he shifted looking at Gyrich to Bishop.

"You're not as good as Marshall is, Dominic," Gyrich said. "Not even close. You two have been laying hints on me thick about her. Strangling me along for long enough." Gyrich gently grabbed Neal's arm. Earnestly, he asked, "Do you know something about Caitlyn?"

Neal, unsure, looked from Storm, to Joe and Aaron, to Gyrich, and back to Storm, who nodded. Back to Gyrich, Neal said, "Joe and Aaron said that Caitlyn is our missing teammate."

Gyrich deflated.

"What?" Neal asked him, more confused than ever.

"Nothing," Gyrich said. "Just, I was hoping... But you're not talking about the same person."

"But they said—"

"Don't you know when to quit, boy?" Dominic again.

Bishop shoved Dominic back with the plasma gun. Nothing too serious, just a jolt to his shoulder.

"Stop interrupting," Bishop told him.

"All this over my cousin," Dominic said with a chuckle, "Who'd have guessed it? That little bitch isn't worth all of this shit."

Gambit tossed the card to Dominic's feet. The minuscule explosion made Dominic jump back in terror. It was comical to see, but Gambit wasn't laughing.

Dominic regained his composure and said, "Can't say I didn't try." Then, as if resigning himself to his fate, he hefted his girth into the chair Byron was formerly occupying. He dipped his hand into an inside breast pocket—

"Don't," Bishop said.

"It's just chapstick, Bishop," Sage said. She had been the one to search him.

Dominic smeared on the lip balm, then reached into another pocket.

"Lotion," Sage preemptively told Bishop.

Dominic rubbed the lotion into his hands. He felt powerful in that moment. All conversation had ceased. All attention was on him, as if waiting on him. He knew more than the rest of them combined. He was feeling powerful indeed. Still, it wouldn't be enough...

A chuckle bubbled up out of him. His greasy blubber shook with his mirth at the situation. "Marshall's gonna be pissed." He shook harder. It was creepy.

Blam! Blam! Blam!

Storm's walls of updraft wind, dirt, and dust, collapsed. Gyrich's guards had guns.

"And if I'm wasting all your time this time, I think you never learned to take. And if I'm hanging onto your shade, I guess I'm way beyond the pale." (Doughnut Song –by Tori Amos)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Chicanery—(1) The use of sly or evasive language, reasoning, etc. To trick or deceive. (2) A tricky or decietful maneuver; subterfuge.

[2] Okay, I don't remember if Scott and Alex's powers effecting Sinister was from the comics or the original animated series, or both. I'm including it, regardless.

[3] The Greek Tragedy of Orpheus and Eurydice. It was referenced last chapter. The full tragedy is noted last chapter as well.