"Have you ever died young?"

"No." The answer was automatic, accompanied by a slight sneer at the absurdity of it.

"Liar."

Her mouth was dry. So she swallowed hard, trying not to choke on the dust caught within her throat. "What?"

Eyes the color of August sky turned to her, looking over a fair skinned shoulder.

"You're a liar." Her companion spoke carefully, enunciating each worth with extraordinary precision as one would a small child.

She jerked back as if she'd been slapped, her cheeks burning.

"Come here." Her companion beckoned, crooking a finger in her direction.

Stubbornly, she shook her head, refusing to budge.

"I have something to show you."

"No," she replied adamantly.

"Rogue." Her companion was insistent now. "Come here."

At the sound of the name – her name – she came forward. Shuffling closer to the companion with midday eyes. Eyes fixed firmly upon her. "I don't want to see."

They stood at the ledge now. Her gaze was drawn beyond the edge to the bleak landscape stretching below. Twilight amid the wastelands had been struck her as pretty before, especially knowing what had killed everything from it. She felt the gaze of her companion weighing on her, as oppressively so as the thick head drawing moisture from her pores.

"You have to." No quarter given, not from this one. "There's still much to do."

And she did, because it was impossible not to. Staring out into the vastness where everything was dead, she felt dead too. Something was missing – no, lost – in the landscape. The kind of something that was vital.

"So," the voice with the August eyes was behind her, murmuring into her ear. Cool hands caressed down her arms. Coaxing. Soothing. "Have you ever died young?"

Standing at the edge and so very tired of gazing down at the desolation, she closed her eyes. Cold settled into her limbs, deadening them. Her weight shifted and she pitched forward, spreading her arms to fall.


The Present.

2009. Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico.

Rogue came awake with the kind of instantaneousness that only comes from a life of waiting for things to come for you in the dark. In the dark of her room, sprawled out upon the big bed, she stilled her breathing, ears straining to catching anything. She was not alone. The knowledge filled her with wary predation instinct that suppressed all semblance of fear. She waited for a moment, listening to the silence.

Nothing.

She was not fooled. Her eyes flickered over the darkness, although her night vision was nothing to speak of. She waiting for her unknown visitor to make his presence known, willing herself to remain still. It would do her better to feign sleep than to alert the intruder of her awakening. But Rogue had never been the most patient of people. She threw the blankets back, hurtling from the bed with the smack of bare feet against cold stone. It was hard to be intimidating while wearing pajamas, but Rogue wasn't particularly concerned with that. She was rarely unintimidating. Most would tremble at the sight of her – hair in disarray, teeth bared. She was the Rogue. Her touch could be deadly, but her glare alone could freeze a man's blood. Even the bravest of Apocalypse's Hounds were wary of her temperamental streak. They skulked around her with resentful apprehension. With the more timid, it was outright avoidance. Many wouldn't even meet her gaze. It was something of pride to Rogue, to have achieved such status. It was also a stigma – to be forever separate from the others, even after she'd been given what was long denied to her.

The intruder had taken no pains to hide himself from view, even in the darkness of her bedchamber. The arrogance alone of such an act might have given her pause, but Rogue just wasn't in the mood. Not after another night of dreaming things she couldn't quite remember. There was someone in her room and they were not going to be welcomed warmly. With a furious press of her palm against the mechanism, Rogue flipped on the alien equivalent of a bedside lamp on, illuminating the windowless room in a soft blue glow.

"What the fu-" Her rant of righteous fury was cut short as the identity of the offending trespasser became clear. Her anger faded into suspicion warring with curiosity and, rising to the fore, dread. "Jamie?"

The boy stood beside the bedroom threshold, unblinking in the sudden light. His dark eyes were vacant of expression as his gaze fixed upon her. Not even twenty years old, the sullen boy looked both older and younger than one would expect. Rogue was one of the few who occasionally still referred to the boy by his first name. Fewer still even knew him by anything other than his designation.

Multiple. One of the many.

He held himself stiffly at her door, brown eyes vague and unfocused. She knew the look. The more duplicates of him running around mean greater concentration from the original – wherever he happened to be. That was information even Rogue was not privy too. Apocalypse kept his secrets to himself.

She no longer questioned his presence in her quarters. Nor his methods of getting in undetected. Multiple was the messenger. It was his job.

"You've been summoned to Interrogation." He spoke tonelessly, the words eerily detached from the synchronized movement of his lips. Without emotion or life. "There's been an incident."

4?
End of History
ChaosCat

The Present
2009. Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico.

Rogue had been to Interrogation on multiple occasions in the last year. All new arrivals, both friends and hostiles, were brought to the holding area first. Newly arriving mutants underwent extensive testing before being allowed to join their brethren within the walls. Those that passed swelled the growing ranks of Apocalypse's army. Those that failed were not spoken of. The same was said for the humans brought here. None of them had ever left. Since the 'Path Surge in 2007, there had been no new psionic mutants recruited. It was rumored that none of them had even survived in North America. Without them, prisoner interrogation often rested upon Rogue, although only in cases Apocalypse himself regulated. In actuality, it proved more useful than the usual tactics, as her abilities could determine truth from untruth with a mere touch. Even so, usually more standard techniques were practiced. That she was awoken from sleep meant something big was happening.

There was another Multiple awaiting her outside the cell, his arms clasped behind his back. Next to him stood the werewolf girl, Wolfsbane, her yellow eyes watching their progress down the stone passageway. Rogue met her wide-eyed gaze unflinchingly. She didn't like the half-feral Scottish mutant. There was something not right with her, as evident from the shaggy, auburn fur sprouting haphazardly from her lanky, hunched body. Rogue experienced a vague sense of wrongness when she was around that had little to do with her physical appearance. The feeling was mutual from the way the girl stared back, regarding Rogue was one might expect animals to look at prey. The analogous thought was apt enough to give Rogue a moment of amusement.

Rogue dismissed her without hesitation, turning her gaze upon the two Multiples at the door. One stepped over to the other and, as Rogue watched with heavily veiled interest, stepped into the other. It was like watching two bodies of water meeting and melding into a single, fluid unit. She knew how the process worked – their thoughts, feelings, and memories becoming one as they joined. Then, the newly birthed, single Multiple stood next to the door, eyes flickering back and forth methodically as his memories were sorted.

Impatient, Rogue prompted him. "Well?"

"Subject's alias is Forge, true identify unknown. Known mutant, although the nature of his abilities is further unclear. We discovered him during the Sentinel deactivation protocol. He was one of the x-gene active prisoners in the labs."

The latest mission had apparently been successful. Sentinel manufacturers were becoming more frequent of late. Funny, considering they were supposedly illegalized in 2003. Rogue was not always privy to the Horsemen's latest assignments; this was news to her.

"Odd." Multiple blinked. "He is thought to be in league with the renegades."

Rogue sneered at that. Mutants in league with humans, the would-be-slaughters of their species. She had little use for them, personally. Apocalypse had even less. Yet, what would one of their kind be doing as fodder for the Sentinel program? Had Trask run out of innocent mutants to persecute already?

"You're to retrieve that knowledge. As well as a catalog of his abilities," Multiple continued.

"We oughta just kill him." Wolfbane's thick brogue took a moment to decipher.

"Anyone ask for your opinion, Sugah?" Rogue's honeyed voice was deceptively sweet, her accent especially thick on the last word. She smirked as the Scottish mutant bristled at the faux endearment.

"Nae." Her voice, a deep-throated growl, promised violence. "But maybe ye should. It's a mite better than yours."

"You don't wanna play this game," Rogue warned, warming up to the prospect of violence.

"What's wrong? Squeamish? You turning into an X-Man now? Little late for that."

Rogue froze, lips curving into a humorless smile. Her voice was low when she spoke. "The X-Men are dead."

They stood closer now, the lycanthrope looming over Rogue's petite frame. They must have looked quite the sight for the onlooker. Rogue all in black with her pale skin in stark contrast. Much like the streak of white in her dark hair. Grey-green eyes dark with the promise of hostility. Wolfsbane with teeth bared and exposed skin further darkened, fur rippling beneath as it sprouted up. There was something fascinating in the way Wolfsbane transformed. Horrifying and beautiful at the same time.

"That's right." Wolfsbane let out a chuckle. "Killed one of them yourself, didn't you?"

The sound of Rogue's fist connecting squarely with Wolfsbane's face was a satisfactory one. The force of the blow nearly knocked the lycanthropic mutant right off her feet. It sent her tumbling backwards, arms flailing for just a moment. With a snarl, the wolfgirl righted herself and lunged at the pale skinned mutant, claws extended to bed embedded in her throat. Rogue caught the other girl's wrists before those claws could do any damage, using Wolfsbane's momentum against her to jerk her forward and drive her knee into the other girl's solar plexus. Wolfsbane wheezed, doubling over as Rogue released her. Smirking, she stepped back.

"I warned you," she began.

Unexpectedly, the other girl righted herself, throwing her weight towards Rogue in fury. The shorter woman took a step back, unprepared for the sudden viciousness of the attack.

"Enough."

The words themselves might not have been enough to halt the sudden battle. But the sudden barrier of gleaming adamantium between the two combatants was. There was a sharp, canine whine as Wolfsbane bounced off the obstacle with an audible 'whump' and landed on the floor in a crouch, more wolf than girl now. Ignoring the semi-stunned mutant, Rogue drew her gaze along the length of finely crafted adamantium feathers to the body that owned them.

Dressed entirely in black, the man standing there would have been an impressive picture without the massive metal wings sprouting from his back. Tall and slender, he had the look of a pale aristocrat, far displaced from his era. Framed by that extraordinary wingspan, he was a biblical vision. Cold eyes stared at her and Rogue found herself nearly flinching away from them. And that she hated. She would not be intimidated by him. Even if he were one of Them.

"Archangel," Wolfsbane spat, hackles rising.

The blonde turned his gaze upon her for just a moment. And she did shrink back, not quite cringing. But the action was close enough to give Rogue a moment of satisfaction. He slid his wings in, folding them so that the twin metal monstrosities rested at his back.

"You have someplace to be."

There was no room for suggestion in that voice. Her eyes narrowed at the slight but still Wolfsbane slunk back, saving the rage-filled gaze for Rogue as she disappeared down the hallway. She may not have liked it, but none of the Hounds defied an order from one of the Horsemen. They knew the penalty for such an act. Once she was gone, Rogue became aware of Multiple standing at her side.

He'd been watching, she realized. Watching and waiting to see who had been the victor. For there was no place for the weak in the Citadel. Archangel's interference had shifted the balance. Yet Multiple did not seem disappointed. Nor, she reflected, did he seem anything at all but indifferent towards the entire event. Not surprising. She turned to regard the sullen mutant with an unhappy look.

"What's he doin' here?" Rogue jerked her thumb back over at Archangel, her disapproval at his presence evident. Whatever feeling of unease she felt around Wolfsbane being near Archangel amplified about tenfold.

"Security."

Her brow furrowed at this. "Why?"

"Archangel was present when the subject was seized. Lord Apocalypse requested he be present during the interrogation." The Multiple paused for a moment, his eyes flickering. Then he continued. "It is time to begin."

"Sure," Rogue drawled, avoiding the feeling of unease growing within her at the presence of the winged mutant. "Let's get this over with."

With one last look in his direction, Rogue turned away from Archangel.

---

The Past
2006: New York City.

He hadn't learned to make a silent entrance yet, she mused with a wry smile. The whoosh of air and swish of feathers announced him just as easily as footsteps. She waited, arms crossed, as he approached.

"Rogue," he greeted cordially, stepped up beside her on the rooftop.

She didn't look at him, but nodded her own greeting. "Angel."

They stood for a moment, watching the bustle of street life below. From the height, the world looked like a child's plaything, no more real than a man with wings or a girl who couldn't touch.

"You're back." His tone was conversational but she could catch the undercurrent of speculation.

She flashed him a look. "Not permanently."

"I see," he replied, gaze still upon her. "So you just happen to be in uniform, standing in a rooftop in the middle of the night?"

There was humor in his voice. Rogue shifted her weight, turning slightly to face him, and responded in kind. "I get restless."

"I noticed. Where's your partner?"

"Around." She shrugged, nonplussed by the insinuation. "Didn't think he needed a chaperone."

"He's not the one I'm concerned about."

"Worthington, I'm fine." She was beginning to feel exasperated, voice rising slightly in pitch.

"So you say."

She frowned deeply this time, flinging a look back at his costume, the red and white bodysuit hardly matching her own green attire. "You're not even one of the X-Men, what do you care?"

"You are a friend, Rogue." He was no longer unruffled, the ire in his voice now becoming more apparent. "A friend that disappeared months ago. So yes, I do care."

Her lips thinned into a line. His concern was unexpected, but too overbearing. She was tired of people worrying about her and tired of thinking about it at all. "I'm still fine."

"Of course." He didn't believe her. She wasn't surprised. None of them did. "Why are you here?"

"Taking care of some things." She was purposefully vague.

"Do any of the others know?"

"No," she answered, surprised at the sadness that accompanied that admission. "We'll be gone before they can."

---

The Present
2009: Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico.

The prisoner might have been attractive under all that blood. With the extensive battering he'd taken, it was impossible to tell. One eyes was swollen shut and the other had died blood at the corner. The same blood was matted in his dark hair and had dried a reddish brown down the side of his face, obscuring most of it from scrutiny. The purpling bruises marring his cheek, jaw, and throat didn't help matters either.

Rogue wasn't sure of his ethnicity. His skin was darker than she'd expected, making her ponder the possibility of his heritage. Not that these things were important at any rate. She had a more pressing agenda.

Still, she'd almost felt sorry for him. His wounds hadn't been tended yet, leaving him looking more like a raw lump than a person. The Pale Riders were not known for their compassionate natures, unsurprisingly enough. Rogue found herself startled at the paltry amount of concern she felt over his condition, especially considering the possibility that he wasn't a "friendly." She wasn't known for being especially compassionate herself.

She shook the feeling off with vague annoyance, brushing past Multiple and Archangel. Both men had flanked her as she'd entered the room. She hadn't liked it, but had decided it better not to say anything. It wouldn't change anything.

The prisoner was looking at her intently with his one good eye, as unfocused as it appeared to be. They had to be conscious for the procedure. She could absorb those who weren't but it was more difficult to find the information she wanted. The soul-sucking vampire part was easy; it was shifting through the memories that had always been more difficult.

She approached slowly, watching the dazed wariness on the coppery skinned man's face. She knew the impression she made. Kohl-lined eyes and skin pale not for fashion but for the lack of days spend in the sun. She'd grown out of her childish "gothic-wannabe" wardrobe, although she still preferred the dark hues of her youth. Only know they were worn less conservatively.

"This will only hurt for a minute." She drawled, a bit of Mississippi in her voice.

She was reaching to touch the side of his face when the tentative sound of her name spoken, slurred and as unfocused as his vision, reached her ears.

"Rogue?"

But by then it was already too late.

"Hey kid."

She didn't respond to the gruff inclination of that voice, nor did she bother to be annoyed at the moniker anymore. After all, she'd heard it a thousand times. Besides, anyone younger than him was deemed 'kid' or something equally as demeaning and everyone was younger than him.

In all truth, she was more annoyed that she'd been disturbed at all. She only needed a few more minutes to work the kinks out of this one anyway. She rarely had any time for tinkering the workshop anymore. Not since she'd signed on with these people.

"Yeah?" She didn't bother glancing up.

Somewhere, she recognized this as a memory not her own.

"It's time. Suit up."

This time, she did look up. The man was leaning against the doorframe to her workshop, smoke curling around his face. The face was grim, teeth gritted around the source of the smoke, a rather battered cigar. His brow was furrowed in a perpetual look of fierceness, most often a frown.

She remembered seeing him smile occasionally. And once, he'd even laughed. Not the sly, gruff noise he made sometimes, but a real belly laugh. She knew this man, the grizzled face beneath the wide-brimmed cowboy hat. Something sucked the air from her lungs, leaving her empty.

Nodding absently, she went back to the device in her tanned (pale, they were pale) hands. She only needed a few more seconds before the transporter would work properly.

"Now, kid!" he barked.

"Alright." She dropped the offending contraption down on the workbench, frowning. "I'm coming, Wolverine."

Wolverine.

The name struck her suddenly from another context. The voice of a dead man. The memory from – Forge, his name was Forge – shifted, a million others clamoring to take its place. The wash of images from a life she'd never lived was overwhelming in her moment of shock. The assault pushed her away from any coherence of thought beyond the face in the memory.

He was dead.

The man she'd known was dead. Like all the rest of them. Dead and buried. She'd seen it. The broadcast.

Too many memories fought for dominance, like children bringing presents to a favorite teacher. She couldn't keep up with them all. Whispers in her mind, catching up to her.

Not again.

When she came back to herself, she became aware of a high-pitch, keening scream. For a moment, she didn't recognize the sound of her own voice. There were other voices, but in her own confusion she didn't know whose. It was so hard to concentrate on anything but the noise in her head. Too much of that and nothing else got in.

The prisoner, Forge, was slumped forward in his bonds, her hand still at his temple. Horrified, she yanked her hand back, vision blurring. The momentum left her tumbling backwards, bouncing off something – someone – solid and sliding to the ground. Her head struck cold, hard rock with a dull thump. Pain exploded behind her eyeballs; for a moment everything went black.

---

The Past
2005: Nevada; The Desert.

"Cut the shit."

"Excuse me?" Rogue pivoted, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Kid, you ain't-"

Her companion didn't get any further. Rogue's temper flared, her voice shrill and close to a snarl. "And I ain't a kid anymore, Logan. I case you hadn't noticed."

"Then quit acting like one," he returned, rummaging around in the meager duffel bag for a clean shirt. She doubted he'd find one.

She put her hands on her hips, facing him from across the room. "I'm not."

Logan snorted. His response was to fling the wet towel at her from across the cramped hotel suite. The offending article slapped her in the face, much to her shock. Her stocky companion let out a bark of laughter at the indignation of her features. "You are too. Shower's free."

"Jerk." It wasn't a very original retort, but Rogue wasn't feeling very witty at the moment. She threw the offending towel down on the floor, dismissing it. "I'm not being childish about this."

"Then why won't you just admit it?" Water glistened on his back, a testament to how little he bothered using the towel at all. In the sweltering heat, she didn't really blame him.

"Because there's nothing to admit!" She didn't like this conversation. Didn't want to have it. "I'm fine, whether you believe that or not."

She felt uncomfortable under his stare, knowing that he could see right through her flimsy lies. He'd been there the night before when the nightmares had come again. He'd held her while she shook and sobbed in the darkness, ashamed that she needed someone and yet not willing to let him go.

"Right." It was his only response before he changed the subject. "How long you planning to stick around here?"

Instead of pulling a shirt from his duffel, Logan withdrew a cigarette. He lit it, much to Rogue's annoyance, and collapsed into the single chair the room had to offer. Wearing only his blue jeans, Logan wasn't about to waste the effort on more clothing when it was only going to get hotter after the sun rose. Rogue didn't feel like layering much herself, although she didn't have much of a choice. Or quite as much body hair to conduct heat, she mused.

"Haven't thought about it," she replied, running a hand through her hair. The soft curls were gritted from the dirt in the air, she could tell that through the slim gloves she was wearing. She hadn't bothered blow-drying it straight since they'd been there. With the heat and humidity in the air, it just wasn't worth it. "Why? Ya getting' anxious?"

"Hotter than flamin' hell around here, Rogue," he grumbled. "I'm ready to sleep in a room with air conditioner for once."

"Didn't know you had such high standards, Wolvie." She smiled at that. Wolverine complaining about their living conditions. Rogue knew the truth of the matter, however. He had the wanderlust again. Always ready to get back on the open road.

"Shut it."

She was ready to leave too, she realized. It was part of both of them, this wanderlust that struck. Neither of them was good at settling down anymore. Logan had tried once. And Rogue, she didn't know if she could stop. It was too easy to run. Too easy to forget when you were doing that.

"Alright," she replied amiably, plopping down on one of the twin beds adorning the cramped room. "What do ya suggest?"

She didn't like the heat either. It was a different kind than the one she was used to. Mississippi heat was thicker, and wetter, somehow. The desert dried you out, made you feel like a withered husk, chafing in your clothes.

"Anywhere but here, darlin'," he grunted, puffing out thick white smoke. "Anywhere but here."

---

The Present
2009: Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico.

She would have given anything to be anywhere else, right then. Her skull was throbbing fiercely, only part in due to her nasty little tumble. The rest, she knew, was the result of having lost control of herself during the interrogation. It was an occurrence that had not been repeated in sometime now. Uncertain about what had triggered it this time; Rogue frowned, willing herself to remember.

She stood, nursing a soon-to-be-swelling bruise on her forehead in addition to her injured pride. She would have rather just had to deal with the pain. The events of the interrogations itself were blurry. Once she'd initiated contact with the prisoner (Forge, his name was Forge), her recollection of events were hazy. There'd been memories. Some of them had been his. And others, they had been hers. She didn't want to think about those, or what they meant. She was too ashamed now after her performance earlier. She'd nearly fainted and had to be carried out by The Fallen – the winged Horsemen.

"You understand how important my work is, Rogue." Apocalypse stood with his back to her, gazing out from one of the few slitted windows the citadel had to offer. Invisible from the outside, Rogue herself wasn't even sure how it worked.

She stood rigidly, knwing that an answer was not required of her. After the fiasco downstairs, she'd been called – carried – up to him for a report. Unfortunately, due to her loss of control, she had little information to give him. It had taken her some time before she could even process the scattered bits of the prisoner's psyche still lodged in her brain. She'd been lost in other psyches before, but this one had been different. Apocalypse seemed disturbed about this train of events, not that he would share any information with her.

"You know that it is not possible without this." He was speaking again, only now he had turned to stare at her. His sallow features became increasingly decrepit by day, it seemed.

Rogue blanched, startled to see the ancient face before her. The lines, wrinkles, and spots creeping across his visage like some mysterious disease. Age. She remained where she was, hands clasped behind her back, as he came towards her.

"Such exceptional gifts," he muttered. Had it been anyone else, it might have been a compliment. But not him. "Yet you remember nothing. I have given you life. And you cannot perform your duty. All your training has been for naught."

Ashamed, she fought the urge to drop her gaze. She owed him; unlike she had ever owed anyone in her entire existence. He'd given her back something she'd lost. Still, he came closer.

"I need to know only one thing." Her took her chin in his hands, tilting her face up to him. A cold, hard pit settled in her stomach at his touch. Despite the grandfatherly appeal of his aged features, they were still alien to her. The nose just a little off. Grayed skin so wan and wrong. And his eyes, no humanity burned in those depths. Only a blank foreignness.

Her pulse quickened, not in desire but in dread. She'd reported all the could remember, paltry information about the prisoner. The man in question was still unconscious and expected to remain so for some time. Most of his memories had faded, leaving her with vague snatches and ghosts of foreign thought. Trying to grasp any of those muddled threads only made her head hurt, which was something she'd had quite enough of already tonight. Now, she only wanted to sleep.

"This Forge," the name rolled from his tongue like a disease. "This maker, can he fix the Chamber?"

Enlightenment came in that instant, leaving Rogue momentarily flabbergasted that she hadn't come to the conclusion herself. The answer came unbidden, formulas she could only half understand danced behind her eyes. But the words stuck in her throat as she considered the outcome of that decision. The path shifted as two worlds opened up before her. But what did they mean? Her moment of hesitation was no longer than the blink of an eye. No one kept the Lord Apocalypse waiting.

So she spoke, her decision made almost without her consent.

As Apocalypse pressed cold hands to her face, Rogue wished again to been anywhere but there. It would be sometimes before she remembered that The Maker had known her name; by then, it was already too late.

NOTES: That's right. I'm back. Bet you thought I was never going to finish this? Only took me three times of writing this chapter to completely retool the story from where it was originally going to go. Honestly, I think you'll like this version better. Know that I do.
I'd like to thank everyone who's still reading this. And everyone to nagged, snapped, and generally just bugged me until I wrote it. Thanks. You're the reason this is being written, you know. Don't worry, more to come. Although I am looking for a beta reader, if anyone out there is interested?

As always, questions, comments, and hatemail are requested, loved, and very much appreciated! Oh, and theories, I always love those!