That would not be the last time Irene Adler would hold her foster daughter as she cried. A few times more over the years Rogue would let down her defences for Irene and tell her how her heart had been broken that day. For instance, the one or two times she'd completely embarrassed herself in front of boys she would have sold her soul for, or when teachers picked on her. She'd learned not to let such things get to her. Oddly when she looked back on crying on Irene's shoulder she didn't want to shoot herself from embarrassment quite so much.
Over the years Rogue had been in Irene's care, they had formed a bond rather like that of a traditional mother and daughter. And Irene was cool for a foster mother- she could be extremely stupidly strict about things like homework or curfews, but she didn't make Rogue call her Mom or Aunt Irene or anything like that. So she should be able to ask her for one little favour, right?
Ask her already, she thought irritably. It ain't like she's gonna hurl lightnin' bolts or somethin'.
It had been a slow day in the life of Rogue, whose surname at school was Adler. At home she didn't have a surname. She didn't like the surname Adler. It sounded weird with her first name, anyway- too short, too plain for her erratic personality, like a bundle of tape clinging to a vial of some deadly drug.
She'd gone to school by bus, as usual, daydreamed through each class, volunteered just enough intelligent answers to fool her teachers into thinking she cared, eaten a donut for lunch and noticed nothing. She had not looked upon the sky and found it wondrous, had not described her emotions to paper. She'd come straight home after school, made herself a plate of something or other, played her Korn CD and pinned up the frayed hem of one of her skirts.
So, basically, for the last day in her life when things would be average for Rogue, it had been pretty boring and- well, ordinary.
"'Lo, Rogue," said her foster mother evenly, nodding her head in time with the opera CD she liked to play sometimes.
Man, it was freaky when she did that.
"Hi, Irene," Rogue said quietly. "Um, Ah was thinkin' that instead of hanging around here all night, it might make a change if Ah went to this, um, dance that's goin' on down at mah school..."
She trailed off; almost hoped Irene would try and talk her out of it. What would she do at a dance? What the hell was there to do except dance, or (she shuddered to think) TALK to those morons who populated her classes?
Rogue was leaning against the doorframe with folded arms and made a sour face as Irene said loftily, "Don't you think that would be a little reckless, Rogue? After all, the condition- your skin-"
Some adults worried about drink and drugs. Irene, she started worrying about Rogue's skin condition. It had a long Latin name. When Rogue had been diagnosed she had been told she was one of about three people in the USA who had the condition. Like it was something to be proud of.
Irene, blind, face beginning to show lines of age, dignified in her armchair, was all for Rogue sticking around at home. Not to keep Irene company, just to keep Rogue isolated. Rogue was nearly sixteen and called no-one her friend.
But even with the worrying, Irene was an all right mother. Rogue didn't exactly love her, somehow couldn't allow herself to love her, but she did her best. She was Rogue's only companion.
"Ah swear Ah won't go near anybody, Irene! And Ah'll cover up from neck to toe. Please? Just this once?" Rogue straightened up and put her hands on her hips.
Irene seemed to be suffering an intense internal battle. She bit her lip and finally managed to smile. "I suppose just this once wouldn't hurt."
Rogue wasn't overly happy over this. Rogue nodded her head and murmured, "Thanks a bunch."
"When does it start?"
"Uh, in an hour or so. Ah think."
"And when are you going to be home?"
"Ah should think... um... nine?"
"All right. Do you need any money to get there and back?"
Rogue didn't say anything.
"Take what you need out of my purse. Do you have something nice to wear?"
Rogue had been turning on her heel to go. She paused and looked uncertainly down at her clothes, the ones she always wore around the house. Tight black shirt (no sleeves- oh, how rebellious she was in private), long black trousers, dark green socks. She'd just been hanging out in her room, after all, there was no reason to cover up.
People at school named her with the goths, but she didn't hang around them. Or anyone else. She had decidedly Gothic habits, though- she had a pile of Anne Rice novels beside her bed, and her favourite ever book was Bram Stoker's Dracula. She'd read some tame kiddie version when she was practically in diapers and only a year or two ago had decided to give the real thing a try.
...Though she wouldn't go to the library or anything. She was very proud of the fact that she'd never owned a library card.
People didn't even know her name. If they had to reference her in some way, she was That Girl Who Wears Dark Clothes. Rogue found this annoying- she just dressed the way she felt, what was wrong with that?
She was a loner through and through- she hadn't gotten a letter from anyone in years, never called kids from school, never went around town with anyone. Hey, if she couldn't ever be like them then why should she try and kid herself?
"Um, yeah. Ah might put some, uh, wrist things on though." Studded bands on her wrists might look OK, and she had a choker with identical studs.
But it wasn't like she had anyone to show them to.
"Good. Lock the door on your way out, won't you?" asked Irene.
"Yes, Irene," said Rogue meekly.
A pause. "Have fun, Rogue."
"Yeah. Mmm."
Rogue went to her room and carefully looked through her clothes. She produced some black tights (without ladders), one of her five black skirts, black boots and a filmy green top. All these went on. Rogue couldn't be bothered to change her shirt; besides, it looked pretty good underneath the see-through top, she thought. She brushed her hair, made a mental note to trim it when she got the time, tried tying it back, hated the way it looked tied back, tried a different parting, decided she'd liked it the way it was and brushed it again, but impatiently.
All right. Wristbands and choker- these went on first because they were fiddly to do up if you were wearing gloves, like Rogue had to wear all the time. She selected black gloves and pulled these onto her hands.
When she'd been a kid, Rogue had dressed in long sleeves. She'd slathered on sunscreen at all times of the year, rubbed all kinds of stuff into her skin so it would become less lethal. All the staff at her schools had been warned never to touch her skin unless it was absolutely necessary, and she'd kept her hair long so she could hide behind it. She'd never been encouraged to socialise with the other kids- she had even been encouraged not to.
She had deadly skin. Toxic- Rogue didn't like that word, it was an ugly one but it served a purpose. She imagined poisons coursing through the delicate veins and arteries, a green hue, hissing and bubbling and waiting for her to slip up.
Upon becoming a teenager, Rogue's general look had changed. She dressed the way she wanted, the way she felt, and cut her hair short. It felt better. It was strange hair because it was white in the front, around her face. It had been ever since she could remember, probably since she'd been born. People thought she dyed it that way, and she wasn't about to tell them otherwise.
Hmm. Her face was looking a bit bare. Some of her makeup would fix that. She had a hundred different medicated makeups like a small army camping out on the table she used for a desk.
A white face. That didn't take a lot- Rogue didn't get much sunshine holing up in the house, or else in shade of trees or awnings. Nice and white. Dark lipstick. Since it had dawned on her a few years ago that makeup could substitute sunscreen, she'd worked at learning to do it right and consequently had mastered the fine art of not getting lipstick on her teeth. Dark makeup underneath her eyes- lots of it. There, all ready to go.
She slunk into the hall. The house was a dry, tidy place and every now and again a picture of Rogue made a sideboard or dresser its residence. Most were quite recent, a year or two old, and Rogue thought it odd for someone who couldn't see to have a home decorated with photographs- let alone photographs of someone who wasn't even a blood relative.
Some were proper and posed, the subject gazing obstinately into your eyes. One Rogue secretly liked was one where she was twelve, astride a black horse. Rogue had enjoyed riding a few years previously- after all, she was allowed to touch horses- but she hadn't gone recently.
In the photo, her hair was longer than it was now and pulled back. Her hair hadn't looked so bad pulled back when she was young. Twelve-year-old Rogue, hardly discernable (in her own opinion) from the present one save for some increase in height, was giving the photographer a slightly broader smirk than usual. This indicated that she had meant to give the camera the expected cheesy grin but hadn't been able to psych herself up quickly enough.
The youngest Rogue picture in the whole household had never been framed. Rogue wasn't sure she was even meant to see it. She'd been rummaging through a drawer trying to find a stapler one afternoon when she'd come across some papers concerning her fostering- boring- and one seemingly ancient image of a small girl half-asleep in an uncomfortable-looking chair.
She was Rogue, no doubt about it. Right down to the pale skin, greyish-green eyes (just visible under drooping eyelids) and tufts of white making a border for her features, shocking next to the auburn shade of the rest of her hair. In the picture she wore black trousers, white gloves and smart shoes with a white shirt and a grey jacket buttoned over the top. Her hair was already long.
The photo was ripped, coarse with dust, had a massive crease that made tiny Rogue's leg bend unnaturally. On the back, in beautiful copperplate handwriting, were the words: She will come to you when the time is right. My own hectic schedule of late has been taxing for her, but it is best if she remains where she is awhile longer. There was a date too, meaning she had been five when the picture had been taken.
Unlike the twelve-year-old likeness, Rogue wasn't sure whether she liked the photo. It was OK- she looked decently cute and all. But it made her feel strange that, like everyone else, she had an early childhood- but one that she found it incredibly hard to remember. She wondered who'd taken the snapshot. Her social worker, most likely.
Humming along with the oh-so-familar strains of Faust that drifted from the living room, Rogue took some money for the bus and her ticket in out of Irene's purse. Without hesitation she took a few more notes- she might as well treat herself to something on the way home.
Rogue left. She caught the bus in (got quite an earbashing from some relic of a person re. the length of her skirt) and walked through the streets toward her school, careful to stay out of the dying sun in case it melted her makeup at all.
Berridge High School was quite an old one, and small as high schools went. She saw girls rushing in to meet their partners, or the extra-smug ones who'd been picked up beforehand, and hesitated, wringing her hands like Irene did sometimes.
C'mon, have some guts. Most likely someone will spike the drinks and one of the basketball team'll end up pukin' everywhere- by comin', you can say that YOU were there as well, thought Rogue, and sneered as she walked inside.
Someone from the student council was stamping hands at the door. She looked incredibly surprised to see Rogue- and no wonder, Rogue hadn't shown up to a single school function since she was a freshman and Irene had dragged her along (practically kicking and screaming) to a parent-teacher interview.
"Oh! Hey, uh... Rouge?" asked the girl tentatively.
Rogue immediately morphed from Timid Teenager to Pissed-Off Ice Queen. "Very funny. R-O-G-U-E. Geez, they're lettin' anyone onto the student council these days." Rogue gave her a vicious look that the jumpy student council member hadn't the bravery to return and stormed inside without getting her hand stamped.
It was bright. Obscenely bright. Rogue shaded her eyes against the glare- she pictured herself shrinking away with a vampirical hiss Anne Rice would be proud of and sneered again. This was even more pathetic than she'd pictured it
She wandered, found herself in a corner and watched.
A half-hour snailed agonisingly past and still not one person had even waved at Rogue. Oh, they knew she was there. They glanced at her and commented in undertones; they began to move toward her, thought better of it and bounced erratically off to talk to their real friends; they sniggered at the excessive amounts of makeup she'd put on. But nobody bothered to say hello.
Rogue thought longingly about how she could be at home, making up tunes on her guitar or rereading The Vampire Lestat or brushing her hair or trying on all her clothes or walking around the neighbourhood in the dark... Ugh, the tedium was sky-high. The hand on the clock over the door indicated that another half-hour had gone by- it felt like a few years.
"Ugh, what am Ah doin' here?" she said in disgust, and strode outside.
She stood out there a long time, watching the action inside through the windows. It was much too bright in there for a soul-sucking, compassion-crushing creature like her, Rogue thought wryly. Bright and boiling with the body heat of a hundred dancing teenagers. Most people were laughing so much they went red in the face. Rogue touched her own cheekbone to check she wasn't any hotter than she strictly had to be.
Then she turned around and saw that the sun was setting. Rogue wasn't the type to gawp at natural phenomena nightly, obsessively, but she had nothing better to look at so she watched it and felt coloured light recede from where it had been lighting up her face. Rogue stared dejectedly at the stream of cars that could be glimpsed over the trees by the athletics field, propping her chin in her hands. She felt lonely and angry and annoyed.
And she hadn't a clue that would be the last sunset she'd ever see as a (for lack of a better word) normal person.
Rogue sighed. She'd go home in a few minutes. This had been a pointless endeavour, and now she was short ten bucks. Stupid teenagers. Stupid world.
Footsteps. She stiffened, prepared to snap curtly in case it was a couple seeking privacy but heard two male voices exchanging banter. Something about pod people.
She smirked. If THEY were about to get physical at all they could damn well find someplace else. Let nobody ever accuse her of being accomodating.
She tuned them out for a few seconds and then heard the clatter of one stumbling quite nearby. She turned around and, for some odd reason, the feeling of wanting to yell ebbed slightly.
It was some guy in a Berridge High football jacket and a friend standing behind him. She recognised him vaguely from some class- Science, maybe- and said, very intelligently, "Huh?"
She elaborated. "Can Ah help you?" Rogue said in the most polite voice she could muster.
The blonde one wearing the football jacket blustered, "Uh, dance? Ah mean, would you like to? With me, that is. Together, uh..."
His friend was nodding in the background. She gave him a rather pitying look and said, "Ah'm really just kinda hangin' out here and..." She trailed off. The boy was looking downcast.
Who was she to be rejecting people? If she was going to do anything worthwhile that night it might it might as well be to dance with some boy for a few minutes.
"Aw, hey, why not?" she said, her tone a good deal more warm, and the boy perked up immediately. Amused, Rogue firmly went on, "After all, where's the harm in one dance?"
"What's y'name?" asked Rogue as she went inside with her prospective dance partner, who looked dazed for some reason, and his friend.
The friend fielded that one. "Ah'm Ty, this is Cody. What's yours?"
By this time they had re-entered the gym. Rogue didn't answer- Ty seemed to think she couldn't hear over the noise and didn't ask again.
"Um, uh, Ah see ya around a lot but Ah never get the chance to talk to ya," said Cody sheepishly, as Ty moved away to ask some redhead to dance.
"Maybe that friend of yours could clear a path for ya," said Rogue dryly.
"Heh, heh. Yeah."
Rogue realised too late that she couldn't dance. She tried her best for his sake. There were giggles and sneers as she jerked awkwardly to the music, but Cody seemed appreciative. He was smiling so much at her it looked like his face was going to snap.
The song, called Who Am I Now, wasn't bad either. Rogue was starting to enjoy herself.
Look at me, Ah'm with a guy at the school dance, thought Rogue, laughing out loud. Ah can be normal if Ah try.
All in a second, she was knocked rather roughly to the ground, along with Cody. She hit her elbow against the floor and grimaced. The lights seemed to whirl and her skin prickled strangely.
All over her body, her skin smarted. Just for a moment. It felt more poisonous in that second than it had in her whole life- like she was a stranger in her own body. A part of her wanted to scream a warning to the crowd not to touch her, and yet she was reaching her hand up towards Cody. He missed her gloved hand, grabbed her exposed wrist.
There was pain. Although after that time an absorption of another human's abilities and memories would not be painful for Rogue- just unpleasant- in that first moment when she pulled someone right through their own skin and consumed them without wishing to, Rogue's wrist, and then her whole body began to sting.
It stopped, and she screamed anyway because Cody was screaming, because... she felt so disoriented all of a sudden. Like she'd been turned upside-down and righted suddenly. She forgot what she was and had barely any sense of where she was: she was on the floor and yet she wasn't, and Rogue was falling and yet remaining stationary.The pain from falling on her elbow disappeared and then came back again, and she was scrambling to her feet...
... looking down at herself lying on the floor. Blonde hair, Berridge football jacket. How could she be in two places at once? Cody Robinson, she thought immediately. Ah'm Cody Robinson.
No, she was- she was Rogue. Rouge, Rogue? How did you spell that, anyway?
Rogue. Wasn't she? Rogue had happy pictures in her head, more childhood memories than she knew she had. She couldn't let go of them, but they frightened her because they were alien to her.
"Mah head... these images," she stuttered, staring wildly down at her comatose body. "What's happenin' to me? What am Ah? Who am Ah?"
Ty, her friend, was stooping down to her body- the one that was on the floor- and shaking her. "Cody? Cody, what's wrong?"
Ah'm right here, she thought in eerie calm.
Ty turned to her angrily. "What did ya do to him?" he demanded.
Rogue- Cody? It was so hard to tell. She turned on her heel and bolted. Ty ran ahead and blocked her at the door.
Why was he so angry? He was her friend. She had- lots of friends, but none would come to her aid, even though all of them were there.
Ah don't have any friends, thought Rogue desperately, charging towards him. This revelation brought on a burst of aggression. In this new form of Cody/Rogue, she flashed back to being on a football field and shoved Ty out of the way.
She ran. She didn't care where she went at first, but it was like she'd forgotten the basics of walking, once she slowed down. She bumped into things, tripped over. The world spun around her and when she tried to run the way she had she got a bad stitch.
Rogue remembered all kinds of people. One memory puzzled her- it was of arriving late to Science class and having the teacher make some crushing remark. Everyone laughed, and her eyes trailed to a girl sitting alone in the back corner, next to the window. She wasn't laughing. She didn't look especially sorry either. She was supporting her chin in one hand and staring out the window boredly.
And she remembered feeling that she'd never appreciated how pretty that girl was, how her moody green eyes seemed brighter when they reflected the light, how icy-white her bangs were in contrast to the rest of her auburn hair and how she never dressed like any of the other girls.
Pretty? she thought suddenly. That girl? Yeah, right. What was Ah thinking?
She touched her cheek thoughtfully, expecting to find it marred with stubble and stiffening when it proved quite the opposite to what she remembered. Frantically she traced the lines of her face.
She was that girl. That girl, whose name was... Rogue, who lived with a blind lady named... I- something...
That girl Rogue had stolen Cody's thoughts. Or maybe Cody was stuck in her body. This wasn't right. This body wasn't hers!
Clutching her head, she gave a wild shriek and went careening into a wall. She gave her head quite a nasty knock and shook it slowly, staring around as though expecting to see the girl running guiltily off.
She staggered on, feeling the ground dip slightly under her as she fell off the sidewalk. Again with a sudden sense of calm, she continued to run.
And she was lit up cruelly.
Too bright. Much too bright. It hurt her eyes. She sucked in a breath so hard it hurt.
A car had swerved to miss her and hit a lamp post instead. People standing around gaped as she dithered uncertainly, unsure of where to go.
"Hey, what are ya, nuts? Crazy kid!" barked the driver angrily, climbing out. Sick with alarm, she was already running.
- - -
DISCLAIMER: None of the X-Men belong to me. I am only a slightly sad individual who, despite being in her teens, feels that Rogue is a Tragic Heroine on a par with Anna Karenina or all those ladies from Dickens. : ) All this belongs to WB, Stan Lee, Marvel Comics, whoever you like. Dracula belongs to Bram Stoker (as does some book called The Judge's House... I oughta read that someday), Korn belong to themselves, Faust probably belongs to some dead composer guy (or girl, this at least being the age of equality), The Vampire Lestat belongs to Anne Rice and Anne Rice belongs to herself.
NOTES: My take on the first... er... forty seconds of Rogue Recruit. Somehow, I think this fic will be very long.
Over the years Rogue had been in Irene's care, they had formed a bond rather like that of a traditional mother and daughter. And Irene was cool for a foster mother- she could be extremely stupidly strict about things like homework or curfews, but she didn't make Rogue call her Mom or Aunt Irene or anything like that. So she should be able to ask her for one little favour, right?
Ask her already, she thought irritably. It ain't like she's gonna hurl lightnin' bolts or somethin'.
It had been a slow day in the life of Rogue, whose surname at school was Adler. At home she didn't have a surname. She didn't like the surname Adler. It sounded weird with her first name, anyway- too short, too plain for her erratic personality, like a bundle of tape clinging to a vial of some deadly drug.
She'd gone to school by bus, as usual, daydreamed through each class, volunteered just enough intelligent answers to fool her teachers into thinking she cared, eaten a donut for lunch and noticed nothing. She had not looked upon the sky and found it wondrous, had not described her emotions to paper. She'd come straight home after school, made herself a plate of something or other, played her Korn CD and pinned up the frayed hem of one of her skirts.
So, basically, for the last day in her life when things would be average for Rogue, it had been pretty boring and- well, ordinary.
"'Lo, Rogue," said her foster mother evenly, nodding her head in time with the opera CD she liked to play sometimes.
Man, it was freaky when she did that.
"Hi, Irene," Rogue said quietly. "Um, Ah was thinkin' that instead of hanging around here all night, it might make a change if Ah went to this, um, dance that's goin' on down at mah school..."
She trailed off; almost hoped Irene would try and talk her out of it. What would she do at a dance? What the hell was there to do except dance, or (she shuddered to think) TALK to those morons who populated her classes?
Rogue was leaning against the doorframe with folded arms and made a sour face as Irene said loftily, "Don't you think that would be a little reckless, Rogue? After all, the condition- your skin-"
Some adults worried about drink and drugs. Irene, she started worrying about Rogue's skin condition. It had a long Latin name. When Rogue had been diagnosed she had been told she was one of about three people in the USA who had the condition. Like it was something to be proud of.
Irene, blind, face beginning to show lines of age, dignified in her armchair, was all for Rogue sticking around at home. Not to keep Irene company, just to keep Rogue isolated. Rogue was nearly sixteen and called no-one her friend.
But even with the worrying, Irene was an all right mother. Rogue didn't exactly love her, somehow couldn't allow herself to love her, but she did her best. She was Rogue's only companion.
"Ah swear Ah won't go near anybody, Irene! And Ah'll cover up from neck to toe. Please? Just this once?" Rogue straightened up and put her hands on her hips.
Irene seemed to be suffering an intense internal battle. She bit her lip and finally managed to smile. "I suppose just this once wouldn't hurt."
Rogue wasn't overly happy over this. Rogue nodded her head and murmured, "Thanks a bunch."
"When does it start?"
"Uh, in an hour or so. Ah think."
"And when are you going to be home?"
"Ah should think... um... nine?"
"All right. Do you need any money to get there and back?"
Rogue didn't say anything.
"Take what you need out of my purse. Do you have something nice to wear?"
Rogue had been turning on her heel to go. She paused and looked uncertainly down at her clothes, the ones she always wore around the house. Tight black shirt (no sleeves- oh, how rebellious she was in private), long black trousers, dark green socks. She'd just been hanging out in her room, after all, there was no reason to cover up.
People at school named her with the goths, but she didn't hang around them. Or anyone else. She had decidedly Gothic habits, though- she had a pile of Anne Rice novels beside her bed, and her favourite ever book was Bram Stoker's Dracula. She'd read some tame kiddie version when she was practically in diapers and only a year or two ago had decided to give the real thing a try.
...Though she wouldn't go to the library or anything. She was very proud of the fact that she'd never owned a library card.
People didn't even know her name. If they had to reference her in some way, she was That Girl Who Wears Dark Clothes. Rogue found this annoying- she just dressed the way she felt, what was wrong with that?
She was a loner through and through- she hadn't gotten a letter from anyone in years, never called kids from school, never went around town with anyone. Hey, if she couldn't ever be like them then why should she try and kid herself?
"Um, yeah. Ah might put some, uh, wrist things on though." Studded bands on her wrists might look OK, and she had a choker with identical studs.
But it wasn't like she had anyone to show them to.
"Good. Lock the door on your way out, won't you?" asked Irene.
"Yes, Irene," said Rogue meekly.
A pause. "Have fun, Rogue."
"Yeah. Mmm."
Rogue went to her room and carefully looked through her clothes. She produced some black tights (without ladders), one of her five black skirts, black boots and a filmy green top. All these went on. Rogue couldn't be bothered to change her shirt; besides, it looked pretty good underneath the see-through top, she thought. She brushed her hair, made a mental note to trim it when she got the time, tried tying it back, hated the way it looked tied back, tried a different parting, decided she'd liked it the way it was and brushed it again, but impatiently.
All right. Wristbands and choker- these went on first because they were fiddly to do up if you were wearing gloves, like Rogue had to wear all the time. She selected black gloves and pulled these onto her hands.
When she'd been a kid, Rogue had dressed in long sleeves. She'd slathered on sunscreen at all times of the year, rubbed all kinds of stuff into her skin so it would become less lethal. All the staff at her schools had been warned never to touch her skin unless it was absolutely necessary, and she'd kept her hair long so she could hide behind it. She'd never been encouraged to socialise with the other kids- she had even been encouraged not to.
She had deadly skin. Toxic- Rogue didn't like that word, it was an ugly one but it served a purpose. She imagined poisons coursing through the delicate veins and arteries, a green hue, hissing and bubbling and waiting for her to slip up.
Upon becoming a teenager, Rogue's general look had changed. She dressed the way she wanted, the way she felt, and cut her hair short. It felt better. It was strange hair because it was white in the front, around her face. It had been ever since she could remember, probably since she'd been born. People thought she dyed it that way, and she wasn't about to tell them otherwise.
Hmm. Her face was looking a bit bare. Some of her makeup would fix that. She had a hundred different medicated makeups like a small army camping out on the table she used for a desk.
A white face. That didn't take a lot- Rogue didn't get much sunshine holing up in the house, or else in shade of trees or awnings. Nice and white. Dark lipstick. Since it had dawned on her a few years ago that makeup could substitute sunscreen, she'd worked at learning to do it right and consequently had mastered the fine art of not getting lipstick on her teeth. Dark makeup underneath her eyes- lots of it. There, all ready to go.
She slunk into the hall. The house was a dry, tidy place and every now and again a picture of Rogue made a sideboard or dresser its residence. Most were quite recent, a year or two old, and Rogue thought it odd for someone who couldn't see to have a home decorated with photographs- let alone photographs of someone who wasn't even a blood relative.
Some were proper and posed, the subject gazing obstinately into your eyes. One Rogue secretly liked was one where she was twelve, astride a black horse. Rogue had enjoyed riding a few years previously- after all, she was allowed to touch horses- but she hadn't gone recently.
In the photo, her hair was longer than it was now and pulled back. Her hair hadn't looked so bad pulled back when she was young. Twelve-year-old Rogue, hardly discernable (in her own opinion) from the present one save for some increase in height, was giving the photographer a slightly broader smirk than usual. This indicated that she had meant to give the camera the expected cheesy grin but hadn't been able to psych herself up quickly enough.
The youngest Rogue picture in the whole household had never been framed. Rogue wasn't sure she was even meant to see it. She'd been rummaging through a drawer trying to find a stapler one afternoon when she'd come across some papers concerning her fostering- boring- and one seemingly ancient image of a small girl half-asleep in an uncomfortable-looking chair.
She was Rogue, no doubt about it. Right down to the pale skin, greyish-green eyes (just visible under drooping eyelids) and tufts of white making a border for her features, shocking next to the auburn shade of the rest of her hair. In the picture she wore black trousers, white gloves and smart shoes with a white shirt and a grey jacket buttoned over the top. Her hair was already long.
The photo was ripped, coarse with dust, had a massive crease that made tiny Rogue's leg bend unnaturally. On the back, in beautiful copperplate handwriting, were the words: She will come to you when the time is right. My own hectic schedule of late has been taxing for her, but it is best if she remains where she is awhile longer. There was a date too, meaning she had been five when the picture had been taken.
Unlike the twelve-year-old likeness, Rogue wasn't sure whether she liked the photo. It was OK- she looked decently cute and all. But it made her feel strange that, like everyone else, she had an early childhood- but one that she found it incredibly hard to remember. She wondered who'd taken the snapshot. Her social worker, most likely.
Humming along with the oh-so-familar strains of Faust that drifted from the living room, Rogue took some money for the bus and her ticket in out of Irene's purse. Without hesitation she took a few more notes- she might as well treat herself to something on the way home.
Rogue left. She caught the bus in (got quite an earbashing from some relic of a person re. the length of her skirt) and walked through the streets toward her school, careful to stay out of the dying sun in case it melted her makeup at all.
Berridge High School was quite an old one, and small as high schools went. She saw girls rushing in to meet their partners, or the extra-smug ones who'd been picked up beforehand, and hesitated, wringing her hands like Irene did sometimes.
C'mon, have some guts. Most likely someone will spike the drinks and one of the basketball team'll end up pukin' everywhere- by comin', you can say that YOU were there as well, thought Rogue, and sneered as she walked inside.
Someone from the student council was stamping hands at the door. She looked incredibly surprised to see Rogue- and no wonder, Rogue hadn't shown up to a single school function since she was a freshman and Irene had dragged her along (practically kicking and screaming) to a parent-teacher interview.
"Oh! Hey, uh... Rouge?" asked the girl tentatively.
Rogue immediately morphed from Timid Teenager to Pissed-Off Ice Queen. "Very funny. R-O-G-U-E. Geez, they're lettin' anyone onto the student council these days." Rogue gave her a vicious look that the jumpy student council member hadn't the bravery to return and stormed inside without getting her hand stamped.
It was bright. Obscenely bright. Rogue shaded her eyes against the glare- she pictured herself shrinking away with a vampirical hiss Anne Rice would be proud of and sneered again. This was even more pathetic than she'd pictured it
She wandered, found herself in a corner and watched.
A half-hour snailed agonisingly past and still not one person had even waved at Rogue. Oh, they knew she was there. They glanced at her and commented in undertones; they began to move toward her, thought better of it and bounced erratically off to talk to their real friends; they sniggered at the excessive amounts of makeup she'd put on. But nobody bothered to say hello.
Rogue thought longingly about how she could be at home, making up tunes on her guitar or rereading The Vampire Lestat or brushing her hair or trying on all her clothes or walking around the neighbourhood in the dark... Ugh, the tedium was sky-high. The hand on the clock over the door indicated that another half-hour had gone by- it felt like a few years.
"Ugh, what am Ah doin' here?" she said in disgust, and strode outside.
She stood out there a long time, watching the action inside through the windows. It was much too bright in there for a soul-sucking, compassion-crushing creature like her, Rogue thought wryly. Bright and boiling with the body heat of a hundred dancing teenagers. Most people were laughing so much they went red in the face. Rogue touched her own cheekbone to check she wasn't any hotter than she strictly had to be.
Then she turned around and saw that the sun was setting. Rogue wasn't the type to gawp at natural phenomena nightly, obsessively, but she had nothing better to look at so she watched it and felt coloured light recede from where it had been lighting up her face. Rogue stared dejectedly at the stream of cars that could be glimpsed over the trees by the athletics field, propping her chin in her hands. She felt lonely and angry and annoyed.
And she hadn't a clue that would be the last sunset she'd ever see as a (for lack of a better word) normal person.
Rogue sighed. She'd go home in a few minutes. This had been a pointless endeavour, and now she was short ten bucks. Stupid teenagers. Stupid world.
Footsteps. She stiffened, prepared to snap curtly in case it was a couple seeking privacy but heard two male voices exchanging banter. Something about pod people.
She smirked. If THEY were about to get physical at all they could damn well find someplace else. Let nobody ever accuse her of being accomodating.
She tuned them out for a few seconds and then heard the clatter of one stumbling quite nearby. She turned around and, for some odd reason, the feeling of wanting to yell ebbed slightly.
It was some guy in a Berridge High football jacket and a friend standing behind him. She recognised him vaguely from some class- Science, maybe- and said, very intelligently, "Huh?"
She elaborated. "Can Ah help you?" Rogue said in the most polite voice she could muster.
The blonde one wearing the football jacket blustered, "Uh, dance? Ah mean, would you like to? With me, that is. Together, uh..."
His friend was nodding in the background. She gave him a rather pitying look and said, "Ah'm really just kinda hangin' out here and..." She trailed off. The boy was looking downcast.
Who was she to be rejecting people? If she was going to do anything worthwhile that night it might it might as well be to dance with some boy for a few minutes.
"Aw, hey, why not?" she said, her tone a good deal more warm, and the boy perked up immediately. Amused, Rogue firmly went on, "After all, where's the harm in one dance?"
"What's y'name?" asked Rogue as she went inside with her prospective dance partner, who looked dazed for some reason, and his friend.
The friend fielded that one. "Ah'm Ty, this is Cody. What's yours?"
By this time they had re-entered the gym. Rogue didn't answer- Ty seemed to think she couldn't hear over the noise and didn't ask again.
"Um, uh, Ah see ya around a lot but Ah never get the chance to talk to ya," said Cody sheepishly, as Ty moved away to ask some redhead to dance.
"Maybe that friend of yours could clear a path for ya," said Rogue dryly.
"Heh, heh. Yeah."
Rogue realised too late that she couldn't dance. She tried her best for his sake. There were giggles and sneers as she jerked awkwardly to the music, but Cody seemed appreciative. He was smiling so much at her it looked like his face was going to snap.
The song, called Who Am I Now, wasn't bad either. Rogue was starting to enjoy herself.
Look at me, Ah'm with a guy at the school dance, thought Rogue, laughing out loud. Ah can be normal if Ah try.
All in a second, she was knocked rather roughly to the ground, along with Cody. She hit her elbow against the floor and grimaced. The lights seemed to whirl and her skin prickled strangely.
All over her body, her skin smarted. Just for a moment. It felt more poisonous in that second than it had in her whole life- like she was a stranger in her own body. A part of her wanted to scream a warning to the crowd not to touch her, and yet she was reaching her hand up towards Cody. He missed her gloved hand, grabbed her exposed wrist.
There was pain. Although after that time an absorption of another human's abilities and memories would not be painful for Rogue- just unpleasant- in that first moment when she pulled someone right through their own skin and consumed them without wishing to, Rogue's wrist, and then her whole body began to sting.
It stopped, and she screamed anyway because Cody was screaming, because... she felt so disoriented all of a sudden. Like she'd been turned upside-down and righted suddenly. She forgot what she was and had barely any sense of where she was: she was on the floor and yet she wasn't, and Rogue was falling and yet remaining stationary.The pain from falling on her elbow disappeared and then came back again, and she was scrambling to her feet...
... looking down at herself lying on the floor. Blonde hair, Berridge football jacket. How could she be in two places at once? Cody Robinson, she thought immediately. Ah'm Cody Robinson.
No, she was- she was Rogue. Rouge, Rogue? How did you spell that, anyway?
Rogue. Wasn't she? Rogue had happy pictures in her head, more childhood memories than she knew she had. She couldn't let go of them, but they frightened her because they were alien to her.
"Mah head... these images," she stuttered, staring wildly down at her comatose body. "What's happenin' to me? What am Ah? Who am Ah?"
Ty, her friend, was stooping down to her body- the one that was on the floor- and shaking her. "Cody? Cody, what's wrong?"
Ah'm right here, she thought in eerie calm.
Ty turned to her angrily. "What did ya do to him?" he demanded.
Rogue- Cody? It was so hard to tell. She turned on her heel and bolted. Ty ran ahead and blocked her at the door.
Why was he so angry? He was her friend. She had- lots of friends, but none would come to her aid, even though all of them were there.
Ah don't have any friends, thought Rogue desperately, charging towards him. This revelation brought on a burst of aggression. In this new form of Cody/Rogue, she flashed back to being on a football field and shoved Ty out of the way.
She ran. She didn't care where she went at first, but it was like she'd forgotten the basics of walking, once she slowed down. She bumped into things, tripped over. The world spun around her and when she tried to run the way she had she got a bad stitch.
Rogue remembered all kinds of people. One memory puzzled her- it was of arriving late to Science class and having the teacher make some crushing remark. Everyone laughed, and her eyes trailed to a girl sitting alone in the back corner, next to the window. She wasn't laughing. She didn't look especially sorry either. She was supporting her chin in one hand and staring out the window boredly.
And she remembered feeling that she'd never appreciated how pretty that girl was, how her moody green eyes seemed brighter when they reflected the light, how icy-white her bangs were in contrast to the rest of her auburn hair and how she never dressed like any of the other girls.
Pretty? she thought suddenly. That girl? Yeah, right. What was Ah thinking?
She touched her cheek thoughtfully, expecting to find it marred with stubble and stiffening when it proved quite the opposite to what she remembered. Frantically she traced the lines of her face.
She was that girl. That girl, whose name was... Rogue, who lived with a blind lady named... I- something...
That girl Rogue had stolen Cody's thoughts. Or maybe Cody was stuck in her body. This wasn't right. This body wasn't hers!
Clutching her head, she gave a wild shriek and went careening into a wall. She gave her head quite a nasty knock and shook it slowly, staring around as though expecting to see the girl running guiltily off.
She staggered on, feeling the ground dip slightly under her as she fell off the sidewalk. Again with a sudden sense of calm, she continued to run.
And she was lit up cruelly.
Too bright. Much too bright. It hurt her eyes. She sucked in a breath so hard it hurt.
A car had swerved to miss her and hit a lamp post instead. People standing around gaped as she dithered uncertainly, unsure of where to go.
"Hey, what are ya, nuts? Crazy kid!" barked the driver angrily, climbing out. Sick with alarm, she was already running.
- - -
DISCLAIMER: None of the X-Men belong to me. I am only a slightly sad individual who, despite being in her teens, feels that Rogue is a Tragic Heroine on a par with Anna Karenina or all those ladies from Dickens. : ) All this belongs to WB, Stan Lee, Marvel Comics, whoever you like. Dracula belongs to Bram Stoker (as does some book called The Judge's House... I oughta read that someday), Korn belong to themselves, Faust probably belongs to some dead composer guy (or girl, this at least being the age of equality), The Vampire Lestat belongs to Anne Rice and Anne Rice belongs to herself.
NOTES: My take on the first... er... forty seconds of Rogue Recruit. Somehow, I think this fic will be very long.