Rogue was experiencing a strange sensation. In the beginning she wasn't sure if this was good or bad, but soon enough, she could recognize what she felt as elation. Elation at being in her own mind. The notion was utterly mad, she knew, but the veracity of it was evident. She had hated her mind, abhorred the depths of a consciousness that continually plagued her, that was filled with uncontrollable excess psyches. But now, everything had changed. Now, she had control—complete, utter control. And it was wonderful.
She didn't really understand why, or how, or even when exactly, but she knew it to be true. The psyches were still present in her mind although were now kept dormant in a powerful mental cache. Annabel's last words echoed in Rogue's mind: They're not real, Rogue. They never were. Deep within, she understood the meaning of the words; consciously, they made no sense at all. But Rogue didn't care because she was elated. She felt control in its sheer quintessence; it gave her such a sense of security and self-assurance that she was almost giddy.
No more screaming. No more headaches. Only peace—calm, placid, tranquil peace.
Rogue leisurely opened her eyes to impure darkness and strange aloofness. Soft hums, whirs, and bleeps assured her of being in the Med Bay. Faint lights from monitors and instruments prevented the domination of total darkness. Her vision slowly adjusted and shadowed shapes came into view. She languidly perused the area, saw several beds with occupants she couldn't discern the identities of. She counted five, but vaguely remembered that there should have been more because there were more comatose people; because the victims numbered at least nine; because the mutant predator had put them there... Her thoughts crashed to a halt, the fallacy of her convictions detected. Her strange euphoria immediately disappeared.
Annabel woke up. Annabel let go. Annabel fell and...
Everyone will be freed, including your psyches, Rogue, but you know how to deal with them now.
Her breathing came in short gasps as everything returned to her, an assault of unpleasant and sickeningly distressful memories. She felt tears burn her eyes, sear the flesh of her cheeks as they trickled down her skin. Pure, touchable skin. No more poison.
There's no other way. I was being selfish for so long. So angry, so resentful...but now I see. I understand that this way it's fair.
"No," Rogue whispered to herself. "It wasn't fair. It was never fair for you." She hugged her knees to her chest, buried her face in her arms. Not fair at all. It had never been fair and should not have ended the way it did. She should not have ended the way she did.
Tell Remy I'm going to miss him.
Rogue felt her heart wrench. She gasped and swallowed the lump in her throat. She crawled out of the bed, visualizing his gun-shot chest, his blood-soaked uniform. She remembered watching him die, remembered feeling the world blacken to an unbearably cold, cold despondency. More tears sprang into her eyes as she crept through the Med Bay. Where was he? Did they save him? Where had they taken him? They...
Ray and Roberto stood by the mansion, eyes wide, mouths hanging open. She stumbled out in a weak heap and someone was picking her up...
She shook her head, not caring to recall the events of her return. Where was he? She crept through automated glass doors, heard voices somewhere near. They were low tones, deep and guttural, alto and feminine. Logan? Storm? But how could it be—they were all still in Austria...
Rogue froze, her breath catching in her throat. There.
He lay in the same cot as when he first came to the Institute for help. She lingered fondly on the thought. That first night seemed so long ago. So much had happened since then... Many sheets covered his lean form, a few thin and a thicker comforter. He was cozily supported by pillows, his head lolling slightly to one side. Intravenous tubes fed nutrients and narcotics into his veins while a heart and head monitor blipped at steady intervals.
Rogue released a silent breath at seeing him so relaxed, in such peace. She slowly approached. Strangely, she felt awkward, hesitant from being near him. Something nagged at the back of her mind and she couldn't quite place it; probably wouldn't want to anyway.
He stirred, turned his head slightly.
"Remy?" she said softly, a hushed whisper.
His eyelids fluttered slightly. His arm bent in attempted movement.
Rogue entwined her fingers through his, knowing nothing would happen. His skin was warm and soft against hers. She relished in the feel as though it was her first, tracing her fingers along his hand, his forearm. Touch once so coveted, touch now so cherished.
He weakly squeezed her hand. Rogue smiled.
Hoisting herself onto the bed, she eased herself down beside him. She draped an arm gently over his chest, reveled in his radiating warmth. She saw his half-open eyes gaze dreamily at her, the red irises glowing with amber softness through the dark. She released a sigh and burrowed her face in his shoulder. He let his chin rest atop her head.
It was then that the nagging thing surfaced in Rogue's memory. Something Annabel had said... Don't judge him by his mistakes. Don't throw away what you have because of the past.
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It was good to be home. When they had first arrived, his deep foreboding seemed to be confirmed by the state of the Institute that greeted them. But as his students came out to hail their homecoming, his fears melted away by the sight of their glorious faces. He was immediately informed of the current events and the state of the students. No one was comatose. In those moments of debriefing, the Professor could not remember a feeling of greater assurance. His X-Men had been put though a trying test and they had passed without casualty. It proved to him that they were very capable in his absence, that all these years of training had poignant influence upon their choices and actions.
But their present tribulations were not yet resolved. Strangers resided within the Institute, ones cooperative and others with stubborn tongues.
"You are only making matters more difficult, Mr. Farrat." Matters were quite difficult, indeed, what with the psychic barriers this man seemed to possess. The Professor theorized that it might be some innate mutant ability he was unaware of. If his sister had been a mutant, perhaps the traits were merely recessive in his genes and therefore, the adeptness latent and unknown.
Theodore glared icily at the Professor but remained silent. He continued to sit worldlessly bound to his chair. His calm demeanor and unrelenting tenacity had quickly become perplexing. Logan constantly extended and retracted his claws, rubbing his knuckles for intimidation purposes. His glares were as hot and angry as Farrat's were cold and indifferent.
The Professor rubbed his eyes. The hour was late and the flight from Europe had been long. He was beginning to lose his patience with this man. "Mr. Napes, Mr. Perry, and your pilot have already informed us on the general events," he said. "We know who you are and what you have done."
Farrat no longer tried containing his contempt. "Good help is so difficult to find these days. Even mindless blokes like Napes and Perry cannot do a job effectively," he huffed.
The Professor frowned, "I suggest you cooperate, Mr. Farrat. We released your men without punishment, but you will not be so fortunate. We are quite willing to turn you over to the police for child abuse and kidnapping—as well as any other crimes we may pin on you. Trust that we will be as thorough and creative as possible."
"Better if we just kept him here," Logan grumbled. The light glared off his adamantium claws. "How many ways to slice up an old, perverted kidnapper?"
"You think you scare me," Theodore muttered. "Mutants are nothing. You are nothing."
"Then why all the effort?" the Professor asked. He hid his concern well; he did not allow anyone to view just how worried he was with what Ray, Roberto, and Jubilee had told him. "It was your men that invaded this institute, your men that gathered the comatose students for extraction purposes, your men that indefatigably pursued Rogue." He narrowed his eyes, radiating anger in its most pacific state. "Now I ask you for the final time: why are you targeting my X-Men?"
Theodore looked at him as though he were a child. "You know it is not solely my efforts. Your student witnesses must have informed you." He huffed, "Americans, always 'beating around the bush'."
The Professor's frown deepened. Patience. Much of his work called for patience. "Yes, Mr. Farrat, my student has informed me of such. But she spoke of a versatile shapeshifter and a bearer of evil red eyes. Who is this man with red eyes, Mr. Farrat?"
The man snorted, "You have him here under medical attention. His name is Gambit."
"You know that is not to whom I refer."
For a moment Theodore seemed to deflate. His glacial eyes drooped towards the carpeted floor of the study. He looked tired and old. "I don't know," he muttered.
"You don't know?" the Professor echoed.
Theodore bristled, "Are you bloody deaf? I don't know his name or where he comes from. He provided me with useful information and I was returning a favor. But you and that Rogue have denied me of that."
"Why is he collecting mutants?" Logan demanded impatiently.
"I don't know, why does anyone want mutants?" Theodore shot back. "It seems all mutants are good for is firepower and experimentations. Seeing as how the man was a scientist, you can imagine." His cold eyes flashed with an imponderable emotion. "Maybe he could have helped Annabel...had I thought of it at the time..."
Logan huffed, "Un-freakin'-believable. Stop acting like you ever cared about that girl. You were usin' her for her father's money. Your sister's kid, your niece, your friggin' family."
"I know who she was to me!" Theodore bellowed angrily. "Don't you dare throw those words in my face like I don't understand their meaning! I did not intend for any of this to happen! You X-Men shouldn't have interfered—it is all your wrongdoing!"
Xavier massaged his temples. "All this misfortune would have occurred in one way or another, Mr. Farrat," he said calmly. "You must help to amend the situation to repent for your crimes. I see how this has eaten away at your conscience. Help us and maybe regain some peace of mind."
Theodore fixed his cold gaze on the floor. "I already told you," he voiced tonelessly. "I do not know who he is or exactly what he planned. Only a dropoff point, a laboratory."
"What is the location?"
The man hesitated, his mouth opening then closing. He seemed to give in, the vehement gleam fading from his cold eyes. This was the end; there was no victory fighting the tide. "Warehouse sector twenty-nine just outside Jersey City. My men were to take her there after Annabel and I were safely settled in Cuba." Then he added dryly, "As you see, that didn't go as planned."
Xavier turned towards Logan, who was already heading for the door.
"I'm on it, Chuck." He was gone the next moment.
"Don't be stupid," Theodore said. "If the scientist knew his plans were spoiled, he would not linger at the lab. He knows I would betray his location."
"Nevertheless we shall be thorough." Xavier gently clasped his hands together. "I'm sure the Count has been weighing heavily on your mind," he said slowly.
Theodore noticeably twitched.
"We attempted to contact Armand a few hours ago. His servants informed us that he has departed from Austria."
Theodore laughed sardonically, "So villains do indeed get their dues."
Xavier frowned, "He will not pleased with what happened to his daughter, that is apparent. I am concerned about how he will approach you."
"I don't require your concern. Let go of those excessively humanitarian impulses, Charles Xavier. They will only cause you more pain and perturbation in the end."
The Professor opened his mouth to reply but a knock sounded at the door. "Come in."
Surprisingly, it was Scarlet Witch who entered. She stepped in to speak with the Professor, but noticed the man bound to the armchair. Her eyes darkened and she pointed an accusatory finger at him, "You're the asshole behind all this, huh? I ought to--"
"Wanda," the Professor interposed, "did you need something?"
She pursed her lips in disgust. She kept her eyes on Farrat while speaking, "You have visitors. Some guy calling himself a Count. He's got other people with him, too."
A curt, guttural laugh escaped from the prisoner.
"Thank you, Wanda," the Professor said. He wheeled himself towards the door. "Can you keep an eye on Mr. Farrat while I greet them?"
"Gladly," Wanda said, a spiteful gleam in her eyes. She frowned at the disapproving look the Professor gave her, found herself feeling guilty. What was it about this man's authority? Without the potency of despotism he was obediently followed, and willingly so. Wanda began to understand why the X-Men were so gung-ho about Xavier's dream of mutant-flatscan peace--the man selflessly wanted a better world and devoted actual effort towards achieving that goal. "I'll try not to hex him too severely," Wanda gritted.
The Professor nodded and left the room.
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Ororo warily eyed the Count. She stood with her arms crossed, eyes focused in a stern gaze. It would be a while before she forgot Armand's prodigious maltreatment of his guests. She still felt sore from days of being locked away in a dungeon. Momentarily turning her attention from the august man, she scanned the other strangers in the parlor.
The Count had not arrived alone. Three Austrian guards of an elite order stood at designated areas of the room. Stern-faced, stiff-backed, and gun-eager, they carried about an air of harsh discipline and strict authority. Ororo was neither impressed nor intimidated, ready to strike them down lest they attempt anything.
Finally, the Professor arrived. He wheeled into the parlor and immediately locked eyes with the Count, who rose to his feet.
"Charles."
"Armand."
A few seconds of tense silence followed. Locked within each other's eyes, the pair of eminent men continued to gaze in an unerringly austere manner. The Count's bodyguards seemed on the brink of violence.
Suddenly the Count released a breath of air and rubbed his eyes tiredly. The tension immediately dispersed.
"About your daughter," the Professor began.
The Count held up a hand, "I've been informed. I don't vant to hear it again." He looked down at the floor, a strength seeming to disappear as he stood there so despondently. "It iz my fault. I never should have given her to Theodore. She should have lived vith me, her father..." His eyes closed, lids clenching together tightly and displaying many wrinkles along his forehead and temples. When he opened his eyes, they gazed with a piercing hardness. "I vant Theodore."
"Armand," the Professor said, "I understand that you are angry and hurt. Theodore has undoubtedly deceived you in the most blasphemous of ways...but it would be wrong to--"
"I vill not kill him," the Count interrupted. "I vant him to suffer."
"I cannot allow--"
"It is not your decision to make. Theodore is not a citizen of the States. He is one of my countrymen, has been since moving to Austria vith his sister."
The Professor fixed him with a level gaze, eyebrows arched and slanted in a deploring manner. "And you plan to exact your own form of justice," he said coolly, "with the power of your counthood."
"Vhat else vould you expect me to do, Charles?" the Count inquired, almost nonchalantly. Anger, resentment, and despair were obvious upon his face, in the way he stood and clasped his hands, in the flicker and glare of his eyes--but he kept himself under such royal composure that Ororo thought he might soon explode. "Even you cannot presume to be vighteous enough in such a position. You spoke of a son. Vould you vish Theodore long life and happy endings if it vas your son that was degraded and perished so?"
All eyes focused on the Professor, whose expression had not changed.
"She 'must have jumped'," the Count continued. He shook his head incredulously. "Must have...must have...vill I ever find her body, I vonder?" A hand went up, fingers wrapping over his mouth and chin.
The Professor closed his eyes. When he opened them again he gazed at the floor. "I realize this is beyond any jurisdiction of mine." He lifted his face, a tenacious expression of request in his eyes. "But I must ask you, Armand, to reconsider. No matter how much you may hate him, he is still a human being. He is still Patricia's brother."
Whether or not the final statement had affect on the Count, none could not tell. "Where is Theodore?" he asked solemnly.
The Professor did not reply. He shook his head and released a resigned sigh.
Ororo offered, "Second floor, left hallway, third door on the right."
The Count flicked his wrist and his guards were on the move. As he walked past the Professor, he placed a hand on his old friend's shoulder. "He does not deserve your compassion, Charles."
"Neither does he deserve your blind hate."
The Count removed his hand, dug it into the pocket of his dark wool coat, and moved past.
"You are angry with yourself. You blame yourself for Annabel's death; you blame yourself for Patricia's death," the Professor continued. He did not turn around, did not see the Count miss a beat in his step. "And now you will release that self-hate upon an undeserving man who has wronged you. The punishment you have in stored for him is disproportionate to his crimes." He rubbed his eyes, argued his case a final time before fully submitting to events beyond his control, "Inflicting pain upon another will not vanquish your own, Armand."
Ororo stared at the Count's back. She half-expected him to turn around and retort in some bitter way. But he did not, only continued walking. The Professor's words had been more trenchant than he would ever allow them to see.
A heavy silence befell the parlor. The Professor continued to sit and brood. Suddenly he wheeled himself around with surprising adroitness and left the room. Ororo followed close behind. They entered the foyer just as the Count's men came down the stairs with a languid Theodore Farrat in their hold.
The Professor said nothing, mouth set in grim dissatisfaction. Ororo could see that his inability to help Farrat was plaguing. His natural tendency for compassion and understanding would only eat at his conscience--prompt the question, "Was there something else I could have done?"
Theodore Farrat did not spare a glance towards the X-Men. Walking cooperatively, he was led out the freshly-fixed door and down the steps. The Count bowed his head towards the Professor and put on his hat. The door shut lightly as he disappeared on the other side.
Ororo placed a hand on the Professor's shoulder. "There was nothing to be done, Charles," she said. "Trust that Armand will empathize enough not to be cruel to Theodore."
The Professor sighed in resignation. "These dire events have taken a toll on all of us--the Count and Theodore especially. How does one cope with such circumstances?"
Ororo shook her head, "I do not know."
"It's a tragedy, Storm," the Professor said. "I could not help Patricia, and I did not have the chance to try and help Annabel...both whose mutations were a curse upon their lives."
Ororo hugged herself, a deep sorrow swelling in her chest. Poor Annabel, poor Patricia--trapped within themselves and unable to contend with Fate. One would end within the burning lick of fire, the other by the cold suffocation of water... Ororo sniffed, blinked back tears. She realized that the Velkonnens were not the only mutants who suffered so, knew of many others afflicted by the bodies they were born into. "They are together now," she said for consolation. "By the Goddess, they are together now."
The Professor lowered his head, an acknowledgement to death and hope for the beyond.
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The last pile of rubble fell into the trash bag. Jubilee set the dust pan aside and tied the bag shut, shoved it over to the growing heap of junk in the kitchen. She sighed and brushed back her hair. "I am exhausted!" The flotsam and jetsam of the kitchen had been cleared: every bit of debris swept away, every unbroken utensil, dish, and appliance returned to its proper location.
A sharp thunk replied to her declaration as Ray slid the newly-installed patio door shut. He patted the smooth glass in satisfaction. "Can't do better than this," he said proudly. "Completely perpendicular."
Jubilee lackadaisically clapped her tired hands, "That's great--are we done now?"
"There's still broken glass on the patio," Roberto yawned.
Jubilee groaned, covered her face with her hands.
"I can take care of it," Ray said. "I'm not tired. You guys can go."
"You sure?" Roberto asked. "It's almost twelve-thirty--"
"Thanks, Ray!" Jubilee exclaimed and hugged him despite her weariness. "You're my favorite person for the day."
"Greeeat..." Ray drawled. He waved them off and grabbed the broom.
Jubilee left the kitchen with Roberto following behind. "Do you realize we haven't slept for nearly twenty hours?" she asked as they entered the foyer.
Another yawn tested the flexiblity of Roberto's jaw, "Seems longer than that."
They walked through the foyer and started up the master staircase. "The work isn't even over yet," Jubilee sighed. "There's still that plane in the backyard, for one thing."
"Jesus," Roberto breathed, as the enormity of what had occurred hit him. "How did Rogue do all that anyway?"
"She hasn't woken up yet to tell us. But honestly, I'm more worried about who those guys were."
"They worked for that Farrat man. Wonder what's going to happen to the geezer..."
"No, I'm not talking about those three lackeys. The other two--the shapeshifter and the one with red eyes..." Jubilee shivered as she started up the stairs to the girls' dormitory. "They're after us and we still have no idea who they are or what they want."
Roberto frowned, remembering the shapeshifter. There was no way to tell if it was truly a male or female, but Roberto had been able to sense that something was not quite right about the mutant. Something was missing, void in those blank eyes and placated facial expressions. "Do you think they'll come back?"
Jubilee hugged herself, "Probably not, since the X-Men aren't so vulnerable anymore. Honestly, I don't know. Ugh, makes me nervous just thinking about it." She turned and started towards her room. Suddenly she stopped, turning her head so Roberto only caught her profile. "I have a really bad feeling about all this."
Roberto looked at the floor, noticed the depth of the shadows in the hall. "So do I."
"You think something bad's going to happen to us all?"
"I don't think we have a whole lot to do with what's happening."
Jubilee turned to face him, "Meaning what?"
"Who's been involved in everything from the start?"
A worried frown creased Jubilee's forehead as she realized his point. "Rogue." She bit her lip then shook her head furiously. "This hasn't all centered around her."
"She was being kidnapped. Some freak mutant wanted her. Probably the same one that attacked us."
"But she's been through so much already. I mean--God--how much can one girl take?"
Roberto shrugged, the only gesture he deemed appropriate. "She's a fighter. She'll deal, like she always does. That's something we can count on."
Mmm, more speculations from the X-Men. I put all this stuff here for the purpose of foreshadowing--in case any of this seems superfluous or redundant (I know you all want to get to RR but time, time). I know it doesn't have the same affect if I just come right out and tell you but couldn't help it.