A/N: A shorter chapter this time, but I hope you enjoy it irregardless.
Absorption
This was easy.
Incredibly and unbelievably so.
The figure in black quickly and stealthily scaled the trellis of a large brick building. A few little ivy leaves broke from their stems and clung to the spandex of the figure's clothing, but a pale hand brushed them away. The quietest whoosh, like the breath of a baby, sounded as the person vaulted onto a window ledge. A small, muffled click and the window swung silently into the interior of the building. A radio buzzed, "Good. All exterior security systems have been disabled. Take two steps inward and destroy the motion sensor. It is hidden by a painting. Do not destroy the cameras." An answer rang out into the night. "Affirmative. Why should I not disable the camera?"
"We want them to see you. It is a..." silence on the other end of the radio, "it is a calling card of sorts."
"Yes Sir"
The softest of squeaks sounded as the figure's feet met the lush carpet, and a pale hand pressed itself to the floor covering. "So…soft."
A creak of bones and one black-clad leg swept through the air, crashing against a painting with the tiniest of force. A beep and the motion sensor dropped to the floor. "Sensors deactivated."
"Take ten steps and a ninety degree turn to the left. You will be facing the door of two mutants, 'Iceman' and 'Spyke'. Complete your objective."
Another answer, as if the voice had been crafted from steel or ice. "Affirmative."
The directions were followed with amazing precision, and the agent was almost completely inhuman in its completion of the task assigned. Ten steps, equal paces apart, and an exact turn. The door was of a dark wood, with an inlay on the doorknob. The hand grasped it softly, and the quietest of sighs, rather like the cry of a summer wind, exited from the figure's lips at the feeling of the smooth metal.
The door was opened, and three more paces were taken into dormitory. Two beds, each with a sleeping figure enveloped in blankets. The agent's lips curled into a sardonic smile at the calm and undisturbed breathing. A hand, so pale it seemed like a cloud, or perhaps moonbeams made flesh, reached out into the darkness. The offending appendage was pressed softly to two foreheads, two sighs echoed into the stillness, and two voices were lost in the spinning, multi-hued abyss of an empty mind.
And so it went, on and on for an hour. The buzzing of a radio, the answer, and the doing. On and on, as patterned and normal as the moon's wax and wane. On and on, the agent's slow and deliberate destruction of the occupants. On and on, the names sounded out into the night. Jean Grey, Scott Summers, Katherine Pryde, Kurt Wagner, Remy Lebeau, Hank McCoy…On and on, until only one room, one soul, one voice, was not lost in the mind of the figure in black.
This door was largest, a multi-paneled door of blue and silver. The disturbing smile on the agent's face softened at this door, and the hand which stole souls stopped for only a moment to savor the lifeless wood and gilt trim. "The room has two motion sensors and a camera. The motion sensors are in the northwest and southeast corners. This room belongs to Professor Charles Xavier. If he wakes, make quick use of him."
"Yes sir."
The door was pushed open, sliding across the carpet like the whispering touch of a lover's fingers. Darkness greeted trained eyes, and the agent took one catlike step into the room before vaulting onto the decorative trim about six feet off of the ground. It was a small strip of decorative wood, maybe protruding an inch at most, but the figure balanced on one foot like it was the easiest thing in the world. Slowly, it turned cartwheels, foot over foot over hand over hand over foot, until reaching a corner of the room. The person sprung, one arm making a graceful arc in the room and ripping circuitry and wires from the motion detector. Similarly, a leg destroyed the other. Turning a midair flip, the figure landed in a crouching position in the middle of the room, curled into a ball of arms, legs, and black spandex. Rising, the agent approached the large, aristocratic bed. A few inches of satin sheets trailed over the edge of the bed, and the form stopped again to savor its feeling. A whispered sigh escaped, and the Professor woke.
His upper body came to be at a right angle in the bed, staring straight out into the room, but no one was there. "I must have imagined it…" he said quietly, his voice soft and lethargic. He slowly sank back into the mattress, and let out a scream, for standing above him, in all her sinister glory, was Rogue.
"Hello, Professor."
"Rogue? What, how, when…" At last he remembered. Rogue was gone, and had been gone, for over a year. His eyebrows plunged into a frown as he fought the urge to vomit. "What have you done to the students?"
"They have been absorbed. They will wake up in exactly four hours and twenty seven minutes."
"Why are you here?"
"Because Trask has sent me here."
"Rogue, I…"
"Who is Rogue? Why is her name familiar? Why do you care for her so?"
"You…you are Rogue."
The radio at Rogue's waist buzzed, and a gravelly, demonic voice resounded from the tiny speaker, "Not…Any…More."
Then the Professor and his thoughts were yielded up to darkness by the touch of an angel's hand.
Later That Day
"Why has she done this Professor?"
"Are we, like, positively sure it was her?"
"How can we fight Trask if she has all of our powers?"
"How the HELL did she get in, anyway?"
"QUIET!"
The cacophony of voices died in an instant, swept away by the harshness of the Professor's tone. He rubbed his temples in agitation. "One question at a time please!"
The tumult threatened to begin again, but was stilled by Jean's angry voice, ringing out in the metallic desperation of the tactical room. "Professor, are we sure it was Rogue?"
"Yes. Hank, put in the tape please." A screen on the wall flickered to life, and the blankness was replaced by the hallway to the girl's dormitory. "This was at three forty four A.M," the Professor added as the students became entranced by the image. There, in the left corner of the screen, was a flash of black. And suddenly, she appeared.
Her hair had been pulled back tightly into a knot at the base of her neck. It was its normal auburn, though the brownish-red was lost in the black and white tape. However, the white streak had become more pronounced and seemed to have spread. It now extended until just before her ear, fading softly into the russet locks. "The increase in white is probably from stress."
She was clad in a black suit that zipped up the front. A belt wrapped around her hips, and on it was a small radio hanging from one loop. Her shoes were steel-tipped boots, and they laced up at the front.
"How were we able to determine that she was working for Trask? Void said that most of the mutants in the Compound were sold."
"She told me that she was here because Trask had sent her."
It was Kitty who raised her hand now; the young woman looked near tears and was shaking, though it wasn't clear why. "Why is she doing this? Why doesn't she fight back?"
"I can answer." Arashi sat in repose at the table, her snow-white form clad in blue jeans and a sweater. "Trask has developed a serum, derived from several naturally occurring compounds, that suppresses individual thought. Through shutting down specific sectors of the brain he is able to turn anyone into a machine who exists only to do what they are told. Among the things suppressed are memories, emotion, the ability to see color, and the knowledge of right and wrong. At the Compound, we were not fed. Instead, we were given intravenous tubes that contained all of the nutrients needed to sustain life. Rogue is probably unknowingly receiving the serum through the I.V."
"How did she get in?"
"Rogue appears to have extensive knowledge of the security measures of the Mansion. She was able to enter by the one window without steel-reinforced glass and knew the approximate location of all the motion detectors."
"How did she know? Was she using her memories?"
Another answer from Arashi. "No. Rogue's memories were repressed by the serum. It is possible that she may have told Trask the location before the memories were wiped…"
Scott's took on a horrified expression. "She told? Why would she tell him anything?"
Arashi's glacial stare turned towards his, and her voice was as cold as the ice she seemed to be sculpted of. "Have you ever been tortured Cyclops?"
He squirmed under her gaze, "No."
"Rogue and I, in fact all of the mutants of the Compound, were tortured daily. Rogue was subjected to both physical and psychological pain. Trask bound her, cut her, shocked her, burned her, attacked her, and pierced her with needles among other things. He left her without sleep for days on end, and didn't give her food or water for weeks at a time. We were all destroyed Cyclops. Now you tell me if you wouldn't tell Trask what he wanted, if only to make it end."
His eyes, and in fact the eyes of everyone on the room, were as wide as saucers. Scott trembled, his hands coming up to his face in an effort to shield himself from the frost eyes of Void.
"She didn't tell him," continued Arashi, "She never told him anything. That was why her sessions lasted longer than anyone else's. It was because he couldn't break her, even though he tried. So tell me now Scott, who should be blamed."
He shivered and was silent. Then and only then, did Arashi turn away from him.
Amara timidly raised her hand, and her voice was small and meek. "Why did she attack us?"
No one replied. The stillness persisted, like another question that wanted, needed, to be answered. So many questions and so few reasons. "Why…"
A/N: I just realized how much I vilified Scott in the chapter. However, I do believe his reaction was appropriate. I think it is the universal reaction to the thought of close information being betrayed to your worst enemy. Anyway, I do hope you enjoyed the chapter…
A note to Denial: I was looking over my emails a couple of days ago, and I reread my email to you in regards to your opinions on the Professor's chapter. While reading, I was struck by how my reply could have been construed as condescending. It truly was not my intention, and I apologize for any harm I caused.