"Still here I carry my old delicious burdens;
I carry them, men and women—I carry them with me wherever I go;
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them;
I am fill'd with them, and I will fill them in return"
-Walt Whitman

Green. That's all Rogue saw. The color that symbolized hope, life, growth and nourishment. How she loved to see any color other than the cold, silver walls that imprisoned her; but now after two days of trudging through the damn forest, she was getting pretty sick just looking at it.

Rogue snapped another tree limb in half, a precaution just so that if she was traveling in a circle, she would realize it by the numerous tree branches she snapped. She shook her head in disbelief, she would have never thought one of Scott's numerous rants would come in so handy. Who would have guessed that he actually knew what he was talking about or more surprisingly that she actually remembered it?

But soon exhaustion, hunger, and thirst overpowered her, trying to stop her from continuing on. Rogue momentarily submitted to those feelings; she stopped and put her hand against the trunk of a tree as she caught her breath. Trudging up and down the various hills in what seemed to be an endless forest was quite tiring. But her memories and eagerness to see her family aided her to overcome anything as if she was a mindless robot with only one thing on her mind. And that one thing was keeping her alive and as sane as she could pretend to be.

Rogue crossed her arms and rubbed her hands up and down them, trying to give warmth to her limbs with the cunning use of friction. She then looked towards her left and saw a clearing about 200 meters ahead of her. Her heart fluttered. Each step she took was another step away from that place and another step towards her home. And now she was finally going to be out of those damn woods.

Rogue finally emerged from the woods. The sun still stung her eyes, but it was a pain she was willing to bear. She exhaled a sigh of relief; she made it. She finally made it. She blinked back the tears. She wouldn't allow herself to celebrate her freedom until she was back in her home, where she planned to spend her days appreciating each blade of grass, the sound of birds chirping, the refreshing feeling of the wind blowing against her face but until then she would have to keep her focus. Rogue then quickly climbed the hill to look down at what laid before her.

A dirt path divided a thick carpet of green grass. Rogue followed the dirt path with her eyes; it led to a small one level building about a mile from where she stood. Rogue hesitated as doubt clouded her mind. Would it lead her to her enemies' hands? Would this be another trap?

She shook her head as her way of forcing out the pessimistic thoughts from it. She was out of that nightmare. The worst part was over. And now she was breathing the fresh air, smelling the strong scent of pine, walking in freedom, and filling her head with memories of her dear friends; she could handle anything.

She shuffled down the path, with the shoes clunking on the dirt each time she stepped forward. Rogue's pace quickened as she closed the distance between herself and the building. She squinted to read the sign out front of the building, which read Mo's Diner. Rogue smiled, what wouldn't she give for some money right now? The sight of the diner erupted the sensations of extreme hunger and thirst she tried to conceal.

And Rogue's thoughts once again drifted back to that place that haunted her. They fed her but it was only enough to sustain her, enough to keep her alive, so they could continue on with their plans. Rogue had even stopped eating. She thought if she was too weak and ill, they would give up on her and put her out of her misery.

But no, they wouldn't let her out that easy. They sedated her, and put her on IV, forcing her body to take the nutrients it was denied. Rogue shook her head, clearing her thoughts away. Why the hell was it, whatever she thought of or saw, her mind always wandered back to the place she desperately wanted to forget?

But her thoughts were once again cleared from her head when she looked up and caught her breath when she saw the building. It was vandalized, the windows were knocked out, there was a massive hole in the roof, and rubble surrounded the perimeter of the building. But that wasn't what made Rogue stop. Her blood ran cold when she gazed upon what was written in red on the outer walls of the building. Mutie. Freak. Mutant scum. Die. Piece of shit. Rogue looked away. She didn't want to see any more.

Despite her will to continue on, something compelled her to investigate this diner further. Maybe it was the values the X-Men instilled in her that compelled her to do so. Rogue stepped closer to the diner as she pulled the collar of her shirt up over her mouth, trying to deflect the horrible stench that this place emitted. She stepped through a large hole in the wall and looked around. It looked like it might have been a nice quaint little diner. But now it was a mess. The stools that were supposed to be at the counter were now lying on the ground out front of the diner. The once yellow wallpaper was torn down. Rogue tried to make out the rest of the furniture but it was all in ashes. Whoever did this must have set this place on fire but it must not have spread that far since the walls were still intact.

As she gazed around out the words of hate that decorated on the interior walls, Rogue's heart dropped. She must be further away from Bayville than she thought. No one around there would be so cruel and have this much hate towards mutants or to anyone.

Rogue brought her right hand up to wipe away the beads of cold sweat from her brow causing her to look at the bandana that was still wrapped tightly around her knuckles; it turned a deep maroon from the blood it soaked. It was a sign that she could no longer ignore; she needed to clean and dress her wounds before they would become infected.

She carefully walked to the back and pushed a wooden door open with her shoulder. She walked over to the sink, hoping it was her lucky day and that the water pipes were still intact. She twisted the knob, and thick brown clumpy water dripped out of the faucet. 'Great' she thought as she kicked the wall. Trying not to be defeated so easily, Rogue looked around the small bathroom for other supplies. She stopped when she saw her reflection in a broken mirror on the floor.

She fell to her knees and slowly reached out with shaking hands and picked up a large piece of the mirror. She raised it to eyelevel so she could get a better look at herself.

Her hands trembled.

She did not even recognize the person staring back at her. Her face was no longer innocent and young; her suffering caused her to age well before she was ready to. Rogue traced her face as she stared at herself in disbelief. Her prominent fiery emerald eyes now had a dull, glazed look about them. But with a closer look, one would be able to see the emotions brewing behind the glassiness, like a hurricane about to strike.

She slowly made her hand up to her hairline. Her long auburn and white streaked hair was her favorite attribute. It was what set her apart from the others. But now it was no more.

Rogue ran her hand over her hair, letting the bristly hair tips of the crew cut they gave her rub against her hand. She always knew they cut her hair but she never knew how short since they forced her to wear bandages around her head. Rogue then turned her head to the side and gasped at what she saw. There were numerous lines where her hair did not grow. Scars. Scars from the numerous operations. Some new, some old. Just how many she had, she had no idea. Rogue touched one of the scars lightly, afraid to cause herself even more pain.

Emotions flooded her head. It was unbearable. Rogue threw the piece of glass against the adjacent wall where it shattered.

She collapsed backwards, the wall supported her as she released all her emotions by screaming. Screaming for all her anger. Her youth stolen from her. The unwanted stares. The smirks. The trials. The continual sessions. As she continued to scream, her eyes began to fill with tears. And slowly her screams turned into cries.

Tears streamed down her face. She cried for her past. For all the endless days she thought would never end. For all the pain. She cried for her future. For her broken spirit. Her cries of happiness for being free melded with her cries of realization of being free. Her body was free, but her mind would always be imprisoned by that damn place. How was she supposed to continue with her life when her past would always haunt her?

Her shoulders then began to shake as her sobs became deeper. She just needed to free all the emotions. The emotions she kept hidden. Hidden from the guards, the men, "the doctors", and especially him. She tried to not let them know how much they broke her. At first, the only emotion she allowed herself to show was anger. She had yelled, kicked, screamed, swore and punched anything. But that just seemed to amuse her captors, which fueled Rogue's rage even more. But she had faith the X-Men would rescue her, it would just be a matter of time. How much time, she had no idea

However, Rogue wished she could have continued with her strong exterior, not to let them know how much they hurt her.

It didn't take long for her to realize the truth. The X-Men weren't coming. She was alone and the suffering was endless. Her anger became mixed with tears and she had spent many nights crying in the corner of the room, dreading the next day.

Her prayers of rescue and freedom were replaced with a silent hope that they would imprison some else along side of her. As horrible as that was, to wish the torture and pain upon another, Rogue didn't care; she was desperate. She couldn't endure it alone. She needed someone to share the misery with. So she could have support, feed of some one else's strength and words of hope to replace her dwindling spirit. It was a lot easier to be brave for someone else.

But most importantly, Rogue didn't want to be alone. No one answered her cries. She didn't want to die alone. But that didn't matter, every organic life form died alone and she would be no exception. She just didn't want to live alone anymore. And maybe if she wasn't alone, she wouldn't have crumbled the way she did.

But one day, the tears stopped and an eerie silence overcame her. She had not spoken a word to anyone. Instead of defying her captors with her anger and rage, she defied them with her silence. A bitter silence. And her muted anger was just another way they broke her.

Rogue continued to cry on the bathroom floor in an abandon-vandalized diner. Her cries slowly turned into dry sobs. The stirring and releasing all her emotions exhausted Rogue and she would have laid there longer if it wasn't for her undying thirst. It had been almost a day since her last sip of water. Her lips were dry, she had cottonmouth, and she was starting to have a horrible headache. Her throat felt like she had swallowed the shards of glass that laid at her feet. She needed to find water, even if she had to trudge back through those damn woods to find a small stream.

Rogue slowly stood, and caught her reflection in the shattered remains of the mirror once more. She couldn't go outside like this. She would attract too much unwanted and unneeded attention. She looked like death but there wasn't anything she could do about that. She needed to cover her head, to hide all the pain that took the form as scars. Rogue ripped the bottom of the long shirt along her waist and tied it around her head like a bandana to cover her scars. She looked at her reflection once more.

She still looked horrible. But maybe people would think she was a heroin junkie and just leave her alone.

She wiped away the last remains of her tears and headed out of the diner. As she walked through the diner to the same hole she used as an entrance, a feeling of uneasiness rushed over her. It felt like someone was watching her. A feeling that she had unfortunately became accustomed to.

She stopped short of the hole and stood with her back against the wall. She slowly inched towards the hole, to see if anything was out there. But all she saw was the dirt road and more trees in the background.

Rogue let out a sigh of relief at her paranoia. She walked out the large hole and did not walk a few steps more when her suspicions were confirmed. Twenty feet away, three people stood in a semi-circle, each in the defense stance.

But before Rogue could react, a muscular arm wrapped around her neck. Rogue panicked at this sudden attack; she dug her fingernails into the forearm that was around her neck. She squirmed and kicked. But due to her weak vigor, her efforts were futile. The arm tightened even more around her neck; it obstructed her airway causing her to collapse to the ground as she slipped into an unconscious state.



A tall man gracefully walked down a sidewalk, his tattered trench coat flapped behind him in the sharp autumn breeze. The moon was concealed by the thick gray clouds, allowing the man to be draped by the blanket of shadows. His pace was slow, as if he was taking an indolent stroll on a hot summer's night.

The man suddenly stopped. He stroked his beard as he looked around at the mansions that lined the exclusive street. He let out a sigh of annoyance. It was the excellent condition of the mansions that irked the most; not even thirty miles from this picturesque neighborhood a war was raging on. Buildings, homes, and towns that once stood tall were now debris that littered the streets. Families were torn apart. Mutants were fighting for their survival. Chaos was unavoidable.

And for so long he was curious as to how people were affected by the struggle between men and mutants. And now he was disgusted by the answer he longingly sought after. They weren't changed at all, their lives continued normally. Parents kissed their children goodbye as they parted ways in the early morning. Pumpkins and Halloween decorations adorned at each house. Children played in the streets while their parents were making dinner. How could they pretend they couldn't hear the faint sounds of explosions in the background? How could they pretend life was fine when it was being destroyed thirty miles down the road?

The man then turned to his left and stared at the mailbox. It had a hand painted duck swimming in water on the side of it and underneath the duck, was 'The Dackson's' written in black paint in fancy script. He loathed them.

Unable to contain his anger, he gave a swift kick to the mailbox, knocking the mailbox off the pole where it was so proudly displayed. His strength caused the mailbox to fling off the pole and crashed into a tree with great force. Upon contact the mailbox shattered into tiny pieces as if it was made out of glass.

This caused a small smile of triumph to displace on his face but quickly vanished when he looked down at the bag he was carrying. He threw the bag over his shoulder and ran into the neighboring woods; he needed to get out of that place before he was tempted to destroy the whole neighborhood.

Once he was a decent distance away, he let his thoughts occupy him while he made the long journey back to the abandoned house.

It was funny how circumstances can change someone. Before the war, he could do whatever he wanted, when he wanted. He was a commitment phobic who never stayed in one place too long. Hell, he had decks of cards that lasted longer than the amount of time he let the numerous women stay on his arm. He was one of the most sought out thieves in the world. He seized each day to the fullest extent.

He was Remy Etienne Lebeau. Gambit. The self-proclaimed King of Hearts. A Master Thief. The Ragin' Cajun. Le Diable Blanc. The Prince of Thieves. He had so many identities in his young life but none were as important to him as the one he was now currently referred to Gambit, Leader of the Mutineers.

He was now committed to thirty other people. He was their leader. He was what saved them from dying. And he needed them almost as much as they needed him. And instead of his missions for artifacts that were worth tens of millions of dollars, he was stealing food and water that was worth no more than twenty dollars. How priorities can change.

Remy hurdled over a large trunk of a tree that was laying horizontally on the ground. It was one of the few markers that indicated the house was close. He looked to the left and sure enough he saw a candle light flicker in the distance. Remy quickly ran in a sprint to the source of light. He slowed his pace when he saw the rickety old stairs that led to the abandoned house; he hung his head while he climbed the stairs. The house was old and falling apart; but that didn't matter. This place was remote; it was hidden well by a thick forest preventing anyone from tracking them there. It was a nice temporary hideout and they were only going to stay there for one more night before they continued on with their mission.

He walked in the house and into a kitchen where he threw the bag on a table that only had three legs; a chair was used as a substitute for the fourth leg. The steady glow of a fire in the corner of the small kitchen lit the room remarkably well, providing a warm glow in the dark house.

"How did it go?" he asked the tall man that was looking out a broken window.

"Well," he sighed and continued without turning around, "...The mission was completed."

"Well, dat's good," he nodded while sitting down. The old chair creaked as a small resistance to the pressure of his weight.

The tall man turned around and gave a half smile to greet his friend. "Did you find anything?"

"Oui, tons. But I had t' narrow it down. Y' wouldn't believe how many types of caviar dey had. It was ridiculous," he half joked as he motioned to the bag and then continued with a more somber tone, "It was a completely different world dere. So segregated from de trauma and anguish. While people were dying, they were feasting and laughing. It was sickening, Piotr."

Piotr looked at his leader and long time friend. Remy's change of attitude had a immense affect on him. His cool and confident attitude was one of the many reasons that made people want to follow and fight for him. They flocked to him as if his nonchalant attitude was a contagious disease they desperately wanted to catch. But Piotr knew it was just an act; Remy couldn't let the others know his spirit and will was on the verge of breaking, it would crush all the remaining hope they had.

Piotr put his hand on Remy's shoulder to comfort him. He lingered there a moment longer before he moved over to the table and started emptying out the contents of the bag. He cleared his throat as he lifted an object in the air so Remy could see it as well. It was a carton of cigarettes.

Remy smirked and shrugged, "It was a moment of weakness."

Piotr smiled and threw the carton on the kitchen counter. He turned back to the bag and pulled three more large cartons of cigarettes. He held them in his hand as he turned back to face his friend. He raised an eyebrow in response to the new collection of cigarettes.

"Okay," Remy grinned, "It was a long moment."

Piotr smiled as he piled the cartons on the counter. He then turned to the bag and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. "I see you came back with the essentials," he said teasingly with his thick Russian accent.

"Mo' or less," Remy replied as he watched Piotr continue to unpack the bag. "Hey dat one is for y', mon ami," he said when Piotr held up a bottle of vodka to which Piotr replied, "Well thank you for remembering me."

Remy stood up and walked over to the sloping table. "I t'ought y' guys deserved dem. Y'know, sorta take de night off from everyt'ing."

Piotr nodded in agreement as he continued to remove a few cans and bottles of water from the bag.

"Where is John anyway?" Remy asked curiously since John did not greet him as he usually did.

"Blessing the house with his infamous fires," Piotr mumbled while he examined the label of a large can he held, "I'll put sumthing together."

Remy nodded. It was a relief to be with just his best friends again. At this moment he could forget about everything: the burdens, obligations, the importance of this mission; and just be with his best friends, just like the old times when they were alone in Magneto's base. He could just be himself, and take a well-needed night to pretend things could be as they once were. But of course, as much as he wanted it to be, things could never be the same.

"Oye," a voice from the doorway called.

"Oui," he answered tiredly.

"I think you better come see this, mate," the tall red headed Australian said as he turned around and walked into the adjoining room.

Remy gave Piotr a questioning look before following John and Piotr did his best to avoid Remy's gaze. When Remy walked into the next room, John nodded his head towards the couch. Remy walked around it, to get a better angle at what he was motioning to. And there on the couch covered with dust, was a lean figure dressed in black. Why didn't Piotr tell him about this? And how could he have not sensed her?

Remy sighed. "I t'ought I told y' t' drop off de ot'ers y' find at a local safe house," he ran his hand through his wild hair, "We can't support any mo'."

"I know, we tried but they didn't want her."

Remy scoffed, "Well doesn't dat defeat de purpose of a refuge?"

"They claimed they couldn't risk everyone's safety on an unknown," John sighed and continued, "Do you recognize her?"

Remy looked at the girl on the couch once more as if one more glance would help him determine if he did or not. She had a piece of black cloth over her head. There were dirt smudges and scratches on her face that contrasted greatly with her ghostly white skin. Her bone structure and full lips signified that she was once pretty and her clothes seemed to practically swallow her skinny body. He deduced that she was probably a runaway or a junkie.

Remy sighed and shook his head, "How did she get 'ere?"

Pyro glanced at him, "Well, we saw her roamin' around. We sorta gave her a scare and Pete knocked her unconscious."

Remy nodded, "And she's still asleep from dat?"

"Gave her a sedative when she started to stir. She'll be out for the night."

Remy looked at her once more. At first glance, she looked peaceful but now as he continued to stare at her, it wasn't a peaceful but instead a distressed look upon her face. Remy scratched his forehead with his thumb and asked, "Do you know if she is a mutant?"

"She didn't give any signs to indicate if she was a mutant," John replied somewhat confidently. Remy was thankful for John's short and to the point answers. Remy was not in any mood to deal with the details of what exactly happened. It didn't matter anyway; what was done was done and now they just had to fix it.

"Did anyone see y' bring 'er here?" he asked cautiously. It wouldn't be safe for them to harbor an 'norm' especially if she was an agent that could jeopardize everything.

"Nah, I kept my loud mouth shut"

"Dat be a first," he half chuckled as he looked at his friend out of the corner of his eye, "Where did she come from?" He needed to know what he was getting into or more important out of.

"No clue, we found here about that diner place. But I haven't a clue what the hell the shiela was doing there."

"Well, we'll find out tomorrow," he continued to examine her. He then notice her blood soaked bandana around her hand. He bent over and nimbly untied it, revealing the blood and deep gashes. Some of the gashes still had shards of glass stuck in them. 'Well whoever she is, she sure was in a rush to run t' or from somet'ing' he thought.

"What are we going to do with her?"

Remy stood silently stroking his beard as he lost himself in thought. This was new habit of his. It gave him the aura that reflected the maturity, wisdom and experience he earned in his young life. John observed his friend as he waited for an answer.

"First, I'm gonna fix her 'and. Den we'll see what 'appens from dere," he sighed and faced John. "Can y' go get some med supplies?" he stated more than asked.

John nodded, "Sure thing, mate." He turned and made his way to the kitchen.

"And some cigarettes," Remy yelled to him in the next room. It was going to be a long night.

Well, sorry for the slow pace and the overload of details and narrative paragraphs but they were important background info and its necessary for the feel of the story. But the good news is now that most of it is done we can move on, yea!

Yea, this chapter was quite an emotional one for Rogue. I tried to piece somethings together but I apologize if I left any of you confused. To those who I didn't confuse: I'm impressed you could follow my madness. And to those who I did confuse: Hang in there, it will all be over before you know it, lol. The next chapter will explain more of the whats, whys, and hows.

But yea, please review and tell me what you think of this so far! Your feedback is my favorite part!