A/N: Here's the next installation of Crimson Bullets, and I'm quite pleased with it. I hope you enjoy.

I am Agent 4734. I exist to complete my purpose. I am in cell 832, Sector 6, Entry code 8240. My life, or lack thereof, is in the hands of the man I call "Sir."

His name is Trask.

He has trained me to be able totouch and to control the powers of those I absorb. He had taught me to command the people in my head. I am able to shoot optic beams, phase through walls, teleport, and use kinetic energy, among other things. I do not know where I gained these powers, or when. Trask does not tell me.

It is he that gave me the three purposes I am to complete. They are simple. Find the X-Men. Absorb their psyches. Kill them. I do not know who the X-Men are. I do not know why I must kill them. I do not know my name, or my age. I do not know the color of my eyes or hair, because there are no mirrors or reflective surfaces from which to gather this information. I do not know where I was born or who my parents are. I do not know where this building is located. But most importantly, I do not know why I am here.

I dreamed again last night. Trask says that dreams are not real, but merely overactive receptors in the brain. I believe him because I must, and because there is nothing else to do. Trask tells me not to worry, and so I don't. My dream, or whatever you wish to call it, involved only voices. There was no visual quality, only darkness. I told him this, and he insisted that it was not real. This is true because he says it is. I recall my dream.

"Like, come on Rogue, we're going to be late!"

A female voice, perky and almost carefree. I am reminded of a ticking pink watch. I do not know why my overactive receptor broadcasts it. I do not know many things. Who is this "Rogue"? Why does this voice call out to her? To where are they going to be late? What is "late"? I no longer remember time.

"You will go around the east corridor and disable the alarm system."

Another voice, male and commanding. I do not know why, but when I hear this voice, I think of red sunglasses. Who is this person, and why do they command me? I am commanded by Trask. It is my job to be obedient. It is what I do. I know longer wonder why I think or breathe or eat, but I know that I must. I ponder on the ability to see. It is a useless quality here. Here there is no color, and so sight is not valued. There is nothing that is worth seeing. I no longer remember sight.

"You can't resist the fuzzy dude!"

The voice is male, higher than the first, and loud. My heart warms but a little at this voice. I think of blue fur and food. Food no longer exists. We are given intravenous tubes, filled with the vital nutrients. If we are lucky, we might receive some water. I no longer remember taste.

"I'm going to the mountains Stripes, you wanna' come?"

A harsh voice, deep and rumbling like the growl of a dog before it springs. I remember the smell of cigarette smoke and beer. I reflect on the tang of mountain air and motorcycle exhaust. Smell is nonexistent. There is nothing to savor here. Everything is sterile, everything is clean. I no longer remember smell.

"Chere, Remy'll see you soon. Tout l'amour dans le monde1"

That is the last voice. The last thing from my dream, overactive receptors or not. The voice, thick with a Cajun accent, is dear to me. I seem to recall something when I hear it. The ghost of something, some feeling stirs within me. But it is only a spirit, and it is gone so quickly I wonder if it ever existed at all. I no longer remember feeling.

"4734. Get up."

A guard. They look like some perverse cross between a doctor and bird. They wear all white, with large shoulder pads that makes it seem that they have wings ready to burst from beneath their white cotton uniforms. It might be funny, I'm not sure. I no longer remember what "funny" is.

I stand up from my position on the floor of my cell. My hands, calloused and pale, are extended before me. The beeping of the scanner, the small answering beep of the embedded microchip, the quiet, deadly whoosh of the door opening, these are the sounds of the Compound. The sounds of…

The sounds of home.

I walk forward, out of the cell and into the blinding white of the hallway. I have become accustomed to the sights. A woman in the cell next to me screaming out, hands scraping against the plastic shield, her eyes rolled back until only the white part shows. A little boy, crying as the doctor puts in the microchip. A dying girl, still gasping and flailing as the guards bash in her skull. This is all I ever see.

My days are filled with numbers. There are thirty cells in each hallway, and two mutants for each guard. Eighty cinderblocks make up my cell. I have twenty scars on each arm, from what I do not know. To get to Trask's training room I must take two left turns, then three right turns, walk seven steps, and turn ninety degrees.

And here I am. The door slides open, it takes only two seconds.

Numbers, numbers, numbers…

"Agent 4734."

Trask addresses me.

"Yes, Sir."

The click of the guard's heels as he walks away, and I stand, my eyes looking at the ground. There are forty tiles in this room.

"How are you feeling today, Agent 4734?"

"Fine, Sir."

"How is your head?"

"Fine, Sir." Trask is always preoccupied with my head. He thinks it should be loud. I can recall a time when it was. I can recall a time when dozens of voices were in my mind. I can recall wanting so badly for there to be silence within the confines of my skull. And I can recall the overwhelming loneliness that consumed me when my want was realized.

"You will begin your mission tomorrow 4734."

"Yes, Sir."

"Does this bother you?"

"No, he's, like, lying!"

Pink Watches…

I do not know why it would. These X-Men have nothing to do with me.

"Believe me. Only we know zee truth!"

Food and blue fur…

I do not know them. They are only a name.

"Are you really going to betray us again?"

Red sunglasses …

They are only a part of my mission. I must complete my mission.

"You okay, Stripes?"

Beer and cigarettes…

I will complete my mission.

"Control the psyches. You are stronger than they are."

The hum of a wheelchair and a voice with no emotion…

I have no feelings for these X-Men.

"You wanna' come wit' Remy?"

Playing cards and Louisiana Gumbo…

Feelings no longer exist.

"Agent 4734."

"Yes, Sir?"

"Does this mission bother you?"

"No, Sir."

"Good."

Well…I hope I didn't disappoint. If I did…sorry! And for those who missed it, Agent 4734 is Rogue.

The next chapter isn't written yet, so no preview. I know you're all devastated crickets chirping Damn.

Translations:

1: All the love in the world.