Disclaimer: Not mine. Marvel's. They can do whatever they like to their characters and none of us can say ballyhoo about it. I'm just tinkering about with them. Which makes this pretty much- yeah, definitely- an AU.

A/N: Hey! People actually read my chapter! That's very, very good! So, thank you to Chica De Los Ojos Café for reviewing. (Brown-eyed girl, right? Or girl of eyes the color of coffee? I'm desperately hoping I did well on my evil Spanish midterm from hell right about now, but I survived them and now I'm off so I'm happy).

ishandahalf- It was very neat to see you reviewed my story because I'd read yours while I was supposed to be studying and left a rather random and obsessive compulsive review, so it was really fun to see you'd read mine. And said such nice things! I was having fun writing it, so it's lovely to see someone besides me actually liked it. Belle should always, always be evil. Nice and innocent is pretty far from my idea of an assassin, but conflict is good. Villains are fun, especially when they're really evil but kind of cool anyways. I have plans for her. Good job nailing her right off and yep, Mystique was the other woman- good guess. As to your questions- see below… And though I try (midterms! I cry!) I'm not quite a bunny on crack. Maybe a turtle on amphetamines. But I try! And it's long, since I just kind of wrote a lot at once and I'm dead if anyone finds out I'm still awake and writing at this hour.

Jean Duex- I'm very flattered you'd create an account just to review my story! Très cool! I really appreciate you saying I made the scene from Ultimate X-Men "my own", since it means you're obviously familiar with the scene, and I was kind of uncomfortable with doing it, since although I love throwing in lines from, say, Princess Bride or Lord of the Rings or some random thing to see if anyone'll catch it, I've never really borrowed that much of anything before. But I really liked that bit and wanted to establish sort of that side of Remy, if you're following my insane train of thought, so I started with that. And I was very, very happy and immensely flattered by you saying I hooked you with my first paragraph and about my last line, since my father has the whole thing about how the first line of a book is the most important and I can never, ever manage to get it just the way I wanted.

So thanks much for reviewing and, if you read this, for reading my rambles. I hope you like the following. As always, I'm iffy about it. When I really like something, I get nervous it's not good enough, and when I'm critical about something, I've been told that's my best ever- and I'm kind of, huh? with the puzzled expression of my cat when she tilts her head. So I don't know. Tell me if you like it, hate it, have no idea what is going on, think I've lost my marbles, think I belong in literature books, or should be roasting in the pits of hell for writing so terribly. Whichever. Honest opinions begged for. I was far happier with my last chapter, especially since this one's kind of cluttered and talky and annoying but I needed it to move on and I have a very fun chapter for next time. Thanks if you're still here. Carry on!

The girl had a haunting face. There was no other word for it. The woman flicked an impatient, red-nailed hand out to snatch the fax and dissected the girl's features in a matter of seconds. She tilted her head to the left, holding the phone against her neck as she reached a hand out for the other one impatiently, tugging it before it was all the way through.

In the photograph which had been sent, the girl's face was half turned from the camera, caught in trying to escape such a picture. Her face was neither quite heart-shaped nor round, somewhere between, and countered with a determined hint to her jaw. The somewhat sullen pout on her face probably accounted for that. Belladonna's assessment was brief. Dark, lonely, cautious eyes, annoyed expression, youthful and with a softness to her, equaled an easy target. Probably some simple-minded little brat absorbed in the pitifulness of her life.

Venom in her voice, she swiveled about, ignoring the hindrance of the phone cord. "Dis is what y' kept me waitin' for six months on?" she demanded of the woman. "Y' want to kill some lil' fille? What, y' couldn' manage to work up de backbone t' jus stick a knife in her throat?"

The voice on the other end let out a slow, deep little chuckle that sent the hairs on Belladonna's arm standing on end. She resolved to imitate it. "You aren't to kill her," the woman said with bemusement. "I simply need her back… and apparently, of my options, you will produce the best results. It certainly isn't the reason I originally acquired your services… I perceived you would be useful in the killing of a woman who is something of a thorn in my side, but perhaps we can discuss a fee for that at a later date. This is an immediate and necessary concern."

Belladonna found herself incapable of believing her ears. "I'm sorry," she said sharply, "I t'ought I jus' heard y' say y're intendin' to use me as a delivery service!" Her tone bordered on becoming dangerously insolent, but the woman's knowledge regarding Remy could not fall into her father's hands simply because she lost her temper and swore at her, so she restrained herself.

"The skills of an assassin may, in fact, be necessary. If she cannot be returned in the condition I prefer… and you must do everything in your power to insure that, or I will know of it," the voice on the other end of the phone said dangerously, "then it is better she die rather than taking the risk she fall into… other hands."

Belladonna glanced at the other sheet. Brief run down of facts and scarce few connections the girl had, as well as giving her current age. She frowned at the use of a pseudonym, a handle, then glanced for the girl's real name. Ah, there. Her frown deepened. Now she already didn't like her. The name carried unhappy connotations for Miss Boudreaux. "She a mutant?" she demanded of the woman, eyes flashing. "What hands we talkin' here? Who're y' so scared'll get their grimy lil' hands on de fille? Essex? Shaw?"

"At the moment, just insure she does not get to Boston. And she took a book. Get that back, whatever happens to her."

Belladonna blinked, rocked. "Boston? We talkin' Frost?"

There was silence on the other end.

"I t'ought y' worked wit' Frost?" Belladonna demanded, a hint of a question rising at the end.

"Upon occasion. When it suits me. At the moment, it does not."

"What's she want in Boston?" Belladonna wondered absently, sitting down to file her nails and scattering the papers lazily onto the table.

"Nothing. We don't know what will trigger her heading there."

She rolled her eyes, sharpening her nails to points rather than rounding them off. "Den what stuck de idea she'll go dere in yo' head?"

"She's heading there. That's all you need know. I greatly prefer her alive… and unspoiled."

"No cutting off her fingers?"

"Preferably not."

"Must y' go an' make it difficult?"

"Would you at least make an effort to be professional?"

Belladonna, disgusted, drew back her lip at the woman's tone. With the slow, routine drag of practice, she said flatly, "How recent's de photograph? It reliable?"

"Yes, it's rec- " the voice abruptly stopped. "Ah, there is something. The front of her hair has turned white." Like she cared about something like that. Made her yet an easier target.

"Any powers y' should be warning me about?" Belladonna asked in a voice tinged with deep annoyance and dissatisfaction.

The voice on the other end went on guard. "I am not confirming or denying anything regarding the girl's status of humanity," the woman responded cagily. "Though I would advise you not to touch any part of her skin. Or allow her to touch you." Not giving time for the other woman to absorb that, she carried on, "I suggest you leave at once. My sources tell me she's in Jackson. Heading for the train station within the next two hours. You'd better be there to head her off. Or your father will hear not only that you know where the rather lovely Mr. LeBeau is… but that in six months, you've failed to act on it in anyway he would approve of."

Belladonna scarcely heeded the threat. "I know where 'e is," she said with a dismissive toss of her hand as she blew off the dust from filing. "An' you'll soon learn dere'll be nothin' to hold over my pretty head much longer. Hmm… maybe I should let dis girl get to New England. I got interests dere anyways, now, don't I?"

"Do not make the mistake of toying with me," the woman said in dangerous tones.

"Yeah, yeah. Jackson in an hour. I got it. Any t'ing else, Raven?"

"Just remember the book," the woman growled. "And do not call me by my name again." The phone went dead, tone sounding obnoxiously in Belladonna's ear.

She cast it down, picking out a dagger to sharpen while she determined a quick flight. Killing someone and taking their ticket might be easiest, she debated, heading off.

In a vague corner of her mind, a slightest twinge of curiosity wondered about this girl, and this book, and why a woman like Mystique would care. But Belladonna was not a curious woman, and the impulse faded briefly.

Not everyone, though, is so indifferent, and the girl's fate would be greatly determined by the events of the past night.

As she sprinted, she realized she knew everything there was to know about running properly. She recalled a father telling her she was nothing without discipline, and teaching how one could discipline their mind and body. She remembered running every morning before school. She knew about CHIPS. One of the coach's favorite acronyms, which he had spent ages drilling into the minds of his players in showing them how to run properly- Chest High, Hips Straight, Push Stride. She was a bit iffy on the meaning of that, but a part of her mind knew what to do. It had been doing this for years. It was used to it.

Problem was, she didn't know a damn thing about running twenty minutes ago. She knew how to take down a fellow twice her size with a blade kick to the back of the knee, but she didn't know how to tackle him. She knew how to evade the eyes of classmates and adults, but not how to evade a huge defensive end. Or at least, she hadn't known. In a blooming section of her mind, she knew all these things now. It was how she had managed to duck the boy who'd tried to step in her way, and how she was getting home so fast.

It alarmed her it had taken her several minutes to realize that she'd been heading home in the wrong direction. That, frankly, she'd been heading for Cody's house.

It alarmed her far more that for several seconds back at that stupid jock's party, she'd thought she was Cody. That had lasted only as long as it took to realize it was Cody's body toppling to the floor at her feet.

God, she hoped he wasn't dead.

He was nice.

She'd liked him. Not the way he liked her… and it alarmed her to realize she knew exactly how much he did like her, and that he'd been thinking about her in all his classes, and couldn't get her out of his head… but he was a nice guy. He'd been a pal the past month or so. She didn't have friends. People didn't like her.

She was Rogue, she reminded herself. Not Cody. Her name was Rogue. A voice in the back of her head, sounding suspiciously unlike her own, was shouting and railing. Screaming, over and over, as if on a repetitive loop. She could only ignore it. It wasn't real. It couldn't be.

She urged her legs to keep moving forward, because despite the memory telling her she could run a good three miles at a decent speed before getting out of breath, she was exhausted. She hadn't trained to push herself this distance, at this breakneck pace. What made it worse was that she doubted home was safe. Someone would blame her for Cody's fall, especially if he was injured badly. But she had to tell Irene. Irene was the nearest thing she'd ever have to a mother. She'd spent years raising her. Irene would know what to do. She'd fix everything.

It was with relief, then, that the sixteen year old girl came thundering up the steps of her front porch. She grabbed at the door knob, turning it roughly, finding it locked. Rogue reached instinctively for her key, only to remember it was in her coat pocket, which was still hanging on a hook back at the house of the jock who'd thrown the party.

Annoyed, she rang the doorbell, not bothered by the lack of lights on in the house, as Irene Adler, her guardian for the past ten years, was blind.

She raised her fist to pound on the door. It creaked slightly, not properly locked. "Ahrene!" she shouted, hitting the door again. "Ahrene! Let meh in!" Rogue glared at the door, as if expecting it to slam open from the mere force of her look. When this, obviously, failed to work, she pushed herself against it, hollering at the top of her lungs. "Ahrene, open up! Ah need help! Ahrene!"

The neighbors, a bit down, were probably completely ignoring her. They had no interest in Rogue, foster child of a blind woman down the street who was often clandestinely paid for reading palms and lived in a house far too expensive for one with apparently no real source of income. No one even stuck out a head to see if she was all right. They assumed she was acting out; after all, one would expect a girl from foster care who wore such sullen colors to be a problem child.

Rogue, glowering at the door, hit it again. A memory suggested she'd broken down a door before, since her brother was continually locking himself in his room. That was impossible, as she had no brother. Still, she knew she only had to hit it in the weak spot, near the hinges.

Stepping back, she slammed against it with all her might, drilling into it with her hip. Confidently, she waited for it to give, only to step back, out of breath, with not the slightest change in the door's position.

Seriously annoyed, she raced around the back, to the large live oak tree which came almost dangerously close to the house. It was actually something of a lightning hazard.

Yah can't honestly be thinking of climbing that monstrosity! a voice in her mind said in alarm, near hysterical.

Rogue darted over to the swing dangling from the lowest branch, wooden and rickety with thinning ropes that clearly indicated it hadn't been used in a while. It was looped a few times around the branch, putting it about even with her chin as opposed to dangling just a bit above the ground. She grabbed onto the ropes, yanking it down a bit. With effort, hobbling about on one foot and stretching with her other leg, Rogue managed to get one boot firmly placed on the swing. Slinging the other up as well, she huffed slightly as she pulled herself to her feet. She closed her eyes for a brief instant as the swing swayed, enjoying the thrilling, rushing sensation of a second of weightlessness as it dropped slightly with her weight. She'd spent hours on this as a kid, daydreaming about reaching the clouds and jumping off when she'd gotten as high as it could go.

Cautiously, as the swing slowed, Rouge reached up and grasped the low branch. The blood on her left hand made her grip slippery, but it was drying and did not hinder her considerably. Looping both arms around it, she lifted her feet from the swing and slowly "walked" up the tree, the Spanish moss on the tree making the treads on her boots ineffective in gripping. When she was completely dangling from the branch, practically upside down and paying not the slightest attention to the hair falling into her face, Rogue, with one quick motion, slid herself around until she was straddling the branch, right side up. She paused for breath as she pulled her feet up, narrowly catching her balance. Normally a stunt like that only exhilarated her, but a part of her mind was terrified right now. She wobbled, her distracted state alarming her, and she put both her arms out at once, balancing herself with their wavering.

She eased herself forward, taking steps practically on top of one another until she was just under the first branch. She'd been doing this since she was eight, not even tall enough to get properly onto the swing without a boost. Long before she'd hit the growth spurt which had put her at an exactly average, graceless height. It had been years since even a twinge of a thought had led her to pause before attempting to climb it. Of course, it had only been a year and a half ago that she'd discovered she could climb high enough to reach the awning just below her window. She hadn't ever had anywhere to sneak out to, of course, except to sit on the roof and stare at the moon. She doubted she ever would have anywhere to sneak out to, now.

It was a simple matter of reaching one hand up and then following with another, stretching one leg up and then gripping with her arms so as to easily stand. Arm over arm, moving hesitantly from one group of branches to another, she sidled up the tree. It was difficult to maneuver her dark, heavy brown hiking boots, which didn't grip the rolling, slipping branches the way her sneakers or bare feet did.

Oh, my Gawd, Ah'm gonna fall, a thought rang painfully loudly as her boot skidded on the branch, her balance caught as she wrapped her arms snugly around the branch just to the side of it. Her breath was coming fast, and she had a memory of being dangled over the side of a balcony by a teasing cousin determined to cure her of a fear of heights. She didn't have a cousin.

Rogue bit her lip, nearly drawing blood, as she edged forward, and the memory vanished. She was not scared of heights. Nor snakes. Nor sharks. And so definitely not spiders. She stared defiantly at the ground, keeping her heartbeat steady despite the sudden, nervous sense of vertigo building in her mind. She was Rogue. This didn't scare her. She knew perfectly well she wasn't going to fall

On one of the weaker branches now, which gave slightly beneath her weight, she edged forward, till she knew going any farther would be risky, as the branch would no longer be able to support her. It was one good step from here to the slanted awning, but it had to be made with confidence. She knew she wouldn't slide down the small piece of roof. It wasn't as slanted as it looked. Rogue summoned the assurance of having done this before.

Ah have absolutely no confidence in mah- yah jumping abilities, so don't expect it, the familiar tone came again from within her mind.

She paused, catching her breath, again almost losing her balance on the rounded, rough and bark covered branch, except now she was dangerously high. She bent and placed her hands against the branch rather than risking staying firmly on her feet. The branch creaked ominously.

"Are… are… please tell meh yah're not mah conscience, 'cause this is a real lousy time ta be kickin' in full volume, an' ah'd really prefer it immensely if yah'd just go away an' come back some other day," she gasped out, pressing her hands tightly against the branch as she fought a wave of dizziness. "An' ah'm acutely aware it's a sign of insanity ta be talkin' ta myself, but ah'd prefer if yah didn't respond with a biting retort, if yah don't mind."

Mah Gawd, yah're able to make small talk with yourself while up in a tree but you can't even manage to figure out who I am! The almost voice was familiar, like the nagging voice in the back of her head when she did something she shouldn't have sounded like Irene. It was a young voice, male, medium tone as it was long past the youthful, higher sound of boyhood and on its way to the gravelly tones of his father. Though how she knew what the voice of his father was like was beyond her. There was something slightly off about it, not being the exact way she'd heard him speak, or the way he'd shouted things to his friends. It was Cody's voice, though.

It took her a moment to realize it was the voice she had heard shouting out plays when she'd seen the flashes of a scrimmage and backyard games with a brother right after he'd grabbed her hand. The slight differentiation in the voice she was familiar with and the voice speaking in her head, she realized, was the difference between the way Cody heard his own voice and the way the rest of the world heard it.

"Cody?" she whispered, clutching the branch as if it were a life preserver.

Ah think so. Get meh outta yah head, Rogue! he shouted, his "voice" tinged with fright.

"Look, ah don't even know why yah're in there… well, ah'm getting' an idea, but, believe meh, ah'm already tryin'," she protested, her own heart pounding, horrified by the thought that more than his memories were invading her head. "But ah gotta get in the house to do it, hear? Yah're only hurtin' yahself. Back off a bit, will yah? Ah know what ah'm doin'."

Ah… ah don't know how to back off. Rogue marveled that his voice seemed to have altered slightly, adjusting to the way she was accustomed to hearing it. It's dark and cold and Ah'm seein' vague images out o' some girl's… yah eyes, and at first ah could feel everything like ah was in mah own skin, but it's all fadin' now and ah don't want to go, Rogue! Is this death? What are yah? How'd you do this to me! Why'd yah do this! Get me back, please, just-

"Ah'm realleh sorry about this!" she yelled, sitting herself down on the branch cautiously and rubbing her head. "But could yah just shuddup fah a bit? Yah're makin' mah head spin and ah'm realleh thinkin' ah might fall off the tree 'cause ah'm gettin' so dizzy. Ah don't know, all right? Ah just don't know. Go away, all right? Jus'…jus' go away."

Ah cannot express how sincerely ah would like to do yah bidding, his voice answered, not quite as poundingly loud. Ah jus' want to go home… Can yah do that? Send me home? He meant as much to his own body as he did to his house.

"Ah'm tryin'," she responded testily, slowly raising herself to her feet. Rogue's mind raced, but she didn't want Cody to read her thoughts. He'd touched her, and something had happened. There could be no question whatsoever it was her fault. She'd done this. A feeling of guilt swam over her, and she brushed it aside. Cody's presence, or whatever it was, seemed to recede slightly as she recovered her former sense of balance, graceless though it might be. Easily, knowing the jump was a slight one, she flexed her knees slightly and jumped the incredibly short distance, landing easily on the roof.

Cody's voice returned to her ears, yelling about how they were going to slide right off, screaming prayers to God, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, anyone who would listen.

Rogue, toning him out as best she could, which was really not at all, stepped up the barest incline, putting her hands down against the rough, dark red shingles as she carefully edged up to her window. It was no more difficult to lift it from the outside than it was from within, but as it slid up with a creak, she groaned. She'd forgotten the screen. She could take it off from the inside, but doubted she could get it off here.

Reluctantly, she pushed hard against it, a voice in the back of her mind worrying over the equal and opposite force from the effort would send her off the roof. She firmly ignored it and shoved, her gloved hand and her ungloved one pushing through the screen with little difficulty. The ripped, somewhat jagged edges of the screen scraped against her bleeding hand.

Putting one leg through, then the next, Rogue cautiously eased herself into her room, some of the longer strands of her auburn hair, which tumbled to the base of her neck in the obviously divided sections she'd straightened it in, falling across her face into her dark green eyes as she looked into the darkened room, seeming somehow unfamiliar. She shook her head, closing the window behind her and crossing her arms over her chest. She flipped a light on.

Cody's voice, fainter now, echoed in her head with surprise. Pink? Your walls are pink?

"Don't start with meh," she warned him, the same tone Irene used when scolding her. Nervously, her feet moving almost under their own power, she moved into the hall, switching the light on with a sensation of unease. "Ahrene?" she called.

She isn't home! the thought that sounded like Cody rang in her mind with desperation.

"She's always heah," Rogue muttered, rubbing her head and ignoring the alien thoughts crying out to let them go. Picking up her pace, she headed into Irene's room, opening the usually closed door loudly as it accidentally banged against the wall. "Ahrene? Yah in here?" She waited a second, switching the light on, her own memories of where the switch was overriding that of where the light switch was in Cody's parents' bedroom. "Christ," she muttered to herself, looking at the empty room. Irene didn't seem to be in the house, which was incredibly strange. It wasn't extremely late, but usually she was in bed at this hour, to "watch" TV or read books, naturally in Braille. Prometheus, her golden Labrador guide dog, hadn't trotted in with his hound dog eyes as usual, begging for treats. And the turned over covers of the bed, complete with fluffy pillows with their outer cases removed, implied Irene had already turned in for the night.

Where is she?

Rogue honestly couldn't tell if the thought was hers, or Cody's. She reckoned it might be both. Turning, she looked for any note that would tell her where Irene had gone, but she'd probably have put it downstairs, and she definitely would have left a light on.

Rogue froze as her eyes caught sight of a book. Opened, it was caught between the blankets and the sheets, half-covered. Slowly, as if in a trance, with Cody exclaiming at her in her mind, she headed deliberately toward it, hand extended. Brushing away the blanket, she recognized the book as one of the dozens Irene continually scribbled in and doodled in, presumably in an attempt to retain the writing and drawing skills she'd had before mysteriously being struck blind at age thirteen. She called them her dream journals, which was a common thing. She just had more than most people. This cover, though was of red leather as opposed to the usual black, though it was of the same large size.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Rogue frowned as she lifted it into her lap. The only time Irene had ever, ever gotten truly angry with her was a few short months after she'd moved in, when Rogue had attempted, out of curiosity, to open one of the books. After being scolded, she'd respected Irene's privacy, assuming she was embarrassed by her attempts. The picture before her, though, was perfectly symmetric, with no lines running over another, and had been colored against the thick pages with paint Rogue had seen Irene used.

She realized the picture, which seemed to be of two figures was upside down, and went to turn it, running a hand through the front of her hair as she did so. It was not a habit of hers, but of Cody's, but she was startled to feel a sudden difference in the texture of the front of her hair. Puzzled, she looked away from the book towards the strands of hair falling into her face, feeling the difference between her straightened, glossy but slightly coarse locks and the soft, fuzzily silky strands in the front. Clutching the book to her chest and with a sudden ominous feeling, she jumped off the bed and turned to look into Irene's mirror, a useless commodity which had come attached to the dressing table, made of a smooth mahogany wood her guardian delighted in.

She nearly fell over. Rogue clutched Irene's dressing table, completely shocked Her former bangs, which she'd had for far too long and had been growing out for well over a year, as well as what had been some new, slightly more reddish hair which had grown in over the summer, which she had quite liked, had turned piercingly white. It wasn't a creamy color, or the white blond some girls had, or the silvery white of old age, but the bright white such as one might see on the fur of a cat. The white reached back several inches, but at its farthest hung less than half the length of her hair. Alarmed, Rogue pulled a strand in front of her eyes of deep green mingled with shades of brown that lightened them. She stared in shock at the purely white strands, reaching up to pull more in front of her face, letting the open book drop.

How can yah be worrying about your hair! Cody shouted loudly, angrily, from a corner in her mind. Forget about it! It's not important!

Rogue wasn't paying attention. Reeling with shock, she took a step or two back from the mirror, tearing her gaze away from the pale figure it reflected. Her eyes dropped to the fallen book, from which a small, perfumed card had dropped.

Bending, she picked up the long, thin card, perhaps a bookmark, with a dried flower, a magnolia, pressed against it. There was an inscription in an unfamiliar script written above it. She read it, confused.

Omnia mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis. She didn't know what it meant, but the center of one of the words leaped out at her. Mutant.

"No," she breathed, not truly denying it but in a mild state of shock. She stared at her scraped, ungloved hand. Mutant. Freak. Witchbreed. Monster.

Her mind jumped from one step to the next, ignoring Cody's sudden cries, perhaps of horror or fear. Rogue stared at the card. If she was a mutant, if Irene had this card, she had to be one too. And if she was one, that meant Ms. Darkholme, the woman who had brought her to Irene after her first few foster homes ended in disaster caused directly by Rogue, who'd been more than once referred to as an impudent brat in her early childhood, was as well. She'd always been strange, of course, since one time she'd call herself a social worker, another time she'd be a lawyer, once even a doctor. She'd looked subtly different, too, though always dark-haired with horn-rimmed glasses, so Rogue had put the alterations down to touch-ups, nips and tucks here and there, though Ms. Darkholme, who always seemed imposingly confident on her regular monthly visits to check on Rogue's well-being, often teaching her something or another she felt would be useful to a "growing young woman" or taking her on "education trips", hardly seemed the sort of woman to want plastic surgery or feel she needed it.

"Mah Gawd," she whispered, clutching the card.

"Not exactly, dear," a voice said in her ear. Jerking, Rogue looked up in shock.

Behind her in the mirror, a woman wearing dark sunglasses, with graying brown hair, stood patiently.

"Ahrene," she said, startled, as she whirled about. She cleared her throat, eyes darting at the book. "Where were yah? Ah was callin' fah yah, an'-"

Irene looked at her patiently, though it was hard to tell her true expression with the glasses. "I was on the phone."

"Didn't yah hear meh calling?" Rogue asked, suddenly, strangely uncomfortable with the woman who had raised her.

"Were you? I was in the basement," she said calmly.

They did have a phone down there, along with their main television. It'd been made as a playroom for Rogue as a child, as many of Irene's rooms were used as studies, filled with Braille books on one subject or another. For a long call, the phone there was the clearest. Rogue paused, considering this information, then noticed Irene's bathroom door was open a crack where it hadn't been before, though the light wasn't on. Liar, she thought fiercely, sending Cody into a positive fit of alarm, shouting at her desperately. "But yah hate the stairs," was all she said, though.

"I was speaking with Ms. Darkholme. I thought I'd make myself comfortable, since we were having quite a long conversation. Regarding… your future."

The pause was very slight, but Rogue picked up on it. She berated herself silently. She trusted this woman. She loved her as if she were her own mother. It had to be Cody's influence, his panic, causing her to doubt. Still… all those years, she'd been lying to her. Rogue glanced at her glove. She'd never believed she'd had a skin condition, but she'd trusted Irene when the woman suggested it. It had been difficult, getting used to them, writing with gloves on and listening to the other kids gossip about it. And now it seemed that was all a lie, that Irene had failed to warn her the real reason she needed to cover her skin up was because… well, because of whatever she had done to Cody. Stealing his soul with her touch, maybe. Capturing his mind within her own. She hoped he wasn't dead.

That's all! You hope I'm not dead? You hope?

She turned her head, bothered by the sudden, returned force of his voice. His memories, though, were fading from her grasp, no longer interlocking with her own.

"Rogue? What is it?" Irene asked with concern, placing her hand on the girl's shoulder. Which was of course covered by her green shirt.

Rogue, feeling her eyes sting, rubbed her hands roughly over them. "Something horrible's happened, Ahrene. Ah… ah might have killed someone," she whispered, thinking of Cody's blue, blue eyes and his earnest smile. His pleas to let him go increase. She shrank back against the dresser, sliding towards the wall.

"No, no, you haven't killed him, Rogue," Irene told her gently, stepping forward and folding her into a motherly embrace, though, as always, a slightly awkward, stiffened one. "Everything'll be all right. I promise. It's good you've come home to me. I'll fix everything. Don't you worry. It isn't horrible, I promise you."

"Ahrene… when he touched meh, he just fell over," Rogue said slowly, mind racing. Her eyes were on the book on the floor. In a panicked voice, picturing what she would say if she hadn't just read that card, and, privately, believing Irene must have a good reason for keeping secrets and be about to reveal them all, she said, "Is it mah skin condition? Ah… didn't think ah had one, but is that what happened?"

Irene paused, her lips pursing ever so slightly. Had Rogue not known her so long, she never would have picked up on it. "I'm afraid something of the kind may have happened. Who did you touch, Rogue? Did it happen at that party?"

"Mah hand got cut when ah fell, and this boy ah know was trying to help, but when he touched mah skin… Something weird took place," she said hestitantly in a pained tone.

Ask her! Get her to fix it! What's the matter with yah? Ask her how to get meh outta your head!

Impassively, Irene nodded, not showing any of her normal concern when Rogue informed her she'd been hurt. "Did anyone see it?"

Rogue frowned, pulling back. She edged the book toward her with her foot, not wanting Irene to bump against it and find that she'd been into it. She moved it as silently as possible, talking at once because she didn't want Irene's acute hearing to pick up on the sound of the leather cover brushing slowly against the rug. "Well, one of his friends came after meh. Tried to stop meh from leavin' 'cause ah guess he thought ah'd done something to Cody. Ah… ah guess ah did," she said with a heave of breath. The book was now directly under her foot, away from Irene.

Irene extended a hand to Rogue, running it through her hair lightly, cautiously, and purposefully. "My poor girl," she said quietly. Rogue, feeling traitorous, noticed her foster mother didn't ask what had happened to the boy. She wondered, also, if Irene could tell the faint difference in the texture of her hair, but the woman betrayed no surprise.

"What do ah do now?" she asked Irene, biting her lip.

"Ms. Darkholme's on her way, Rogue. She'll be here Monday. She knows how to handle conditions like yours."

Rogue, suddenly alarmed, looked up sharply. "How'd she know to be back now?"

Irene looked somehow surprised. "She doesn't. She's coming for her ordinary visit, but she'll know exactly what to do," she said smoothly.

"But.. there'll be police here, asking about what happened to Cody," Rogue protested, her hurt hand, scraped further by bark and leaves, beginning to sharply sting.

"They aren't a concern," Irene said softly, causing a sudden outburst from the part of Rogue's mind which thought like Cody. "Everything will be taken care of. It was an accident, Rogue. We can't even be sure this has anything to do with your condition… perhaps the boy had too much to drink…"

"He doesn't drink, he drives," Rogue said angrily, pulling away. "And what exactly is my condition, anyway? What is it that could make someone fall down?"

Irene's head tilted, as if she were weighing the effects of anything she said. Distractedly, she said, "Your skin contains a slightly increased percentage of acid, which upon contact with the pores of someone else's skin, could cause temporary-" She cut off, gasping at the blank air.

Rogue's mind was screaming the word liar, over and over again, both her own self and the voice that sounded like Cody. He took chemistry, she somehow knew, and she was pretty sure all of that was just bullshit to reassure her.

"No," Irene suddenly gasped, glasses tumbling off as she swayed, revealing her milky white eyes. "No. Rogue…"

The girl, instinctively, steadied her, concern in her eyes, particularly since Irene sounded as she always did, motherly and full of anxiety for her wellbeing.

Irene grabbed her arm, too tightly. "Did you see it?" she hissed in a dangerous tone of voice. "The book… you haven't seen it, have you? Have you?"

"What book?" Rogue said, struggling to sound confused instead of nervous. She knew she failed the moment she heard the words come out of her mouth. She was good at pretending, but a rotten liar when it came down to it.

Get out of here! Cody's voice screamed, his admonition that something was wrong filling her with apprehension, despite her trust in Irene, which seemed to be rapidly getting harder and harder to hold onto.

Irene's hand grabbed her arm surprisingly tight. "Did you look at it yet? What did you see?" she demanded, horror in her tone. "Rogue! Answer me! Tell me the truth- you have no idea what you may have done!"

"I didn't look at it!" she insisted, backing away with widened eyes but not truly trying to shake the woman's grip. "Gawd, yah're hurting meh, Ahrene!"

"You're going to take it," the woman murmured with increasing horror. "You can't, you'll ruin everything- but events have already been set into motion! What did you do!"
"You're the one who left it on the bed!" Rogue cried furiously, throwing the woman's grip off and snatching the book off the floor. "Here's the damned thing, I never saw a thing."

Irene stilled for a brief moment, pulling herself back to her full height and stroking the cover lightly. She looked up, purely white eyes eerily seeming to exactly meet Rogue's own. "The bookmark…" she said softly. "It was meant to stay on that page."

"What page?" the girl challenged, hands on hips. "What are you going on about? Why's it matter, anyhow?"

Irene closed her eyes, looking pained. "I am truly sorry. The fault was perhaps mine for leaving it there. Events happened slightly earlier than anticipated, but occurred all the same. The future may be in motion, but it cannot be changed. We should not have sought to prevent your fate. I didn't think you would be home for a bit longer."

Rogue had a sinking feeling. "Because yah figured ah'd stay at the party till it was done?"

"No. I thought your fall would take place several minutes later than it did. And I did not know your hand would be cut. Which alarms me, as it suggests the future prepared for under those conditions no longer applies."

Rogue stared.

The thoughts that sounded like Cody were moaning. Aw, man, this has gone way too sci-fi!. Let this just be a dream, and ah'll move onto a western next. Please, Christ, help a fellah out here. Please!

"Ah'm sorry, what?" she demanded at last, staring at Irene.

"Come here," said Irene, extending her arm to her- the one not holding the book. "I'll explain."

Rogue edged toward her, glancing skeptically. "What's with the touchy-feely stuff?" she demanded. "You're actin' really weird, Ahrene."

Irene rubbed her forehead. "My apologies if I'm alarming you," she said wearily. "It's just one of my migraines."

Rogue, years of concern kicking in, looked up. "You want meh ta make some of that tea?" she wondered. "Ahrene, you've realleh got to have those checked ou-….yah jus' changed the subject."

"Not intentionally, I assure you," Irene said calmly, still rubbing her forehead and clutching the book tightly. She looked fragile and very, suddenly old. "Why don't we head down and we'll discuss this all over a cup of tea?"

The question at the end of her voice, the slightly unsure quality that had always accompanied Irene's attempts to be motherly, halted the vehement protest already rising to Rogue's lips. "Sure," she said flatly, confusion enveloping. "Yah'll explain?"

"You can go first," Irene said, smiling slightly. "Did you say you'd hurt your hand?"

Cody's voice was fading slightly from the back of her head as her emotions slid back towards normal. "It's fine," she lied, resolving to rinse it and clean it out later.

They walked down the stairs in uncomfortable silence. Rarely did the two know how to properly relate to one another. It was an extra bit of speed, then, that Rogue began to heat up water, cleansing her rather deep cut as she did so. She splashed water on her face, clearing up the traces of the makeup she'd dared to wear, including the somewhat heavy, now smeared mascara. She'd been experimenting with it a lot lately, Irene not really having noticed since it wasn't like she was wearing any perfume. Girls at school wore a lot of hard makeup, and she hated to stand out. But she hated even more to be like them, so she'd probably gone a bit overboard tonight.

Yah still looked nice, a voice said somewhat mournfully in the back of her mind.

There went any last chance to be hallucinating, since there was no way she would have described her appearance as 'nice'. She'd just worn a lousy pair of dark slacks and a dark green shirt to go to a party she'd had no place at where everyone was far too underdressed for the middle of winter, even in Mississippi.

"Here," said Irene, handing her tea leaves to stir in. Irene insisted on the real stuff, no tea bags for her.

Pouring the scalding water into porcelain cups, she sat at their small table, Irene settling across from her, looking apprehensive, even with her glasses back on. Irene put her own leaves in the cup, beginning to stir it.

"What happened?"

Hesitantly, Rogue, staring at her unhappy looking cup of tea, muttered, "Y'know that fight I got into about a week or so back?"

Irene rubbed her forehead. "The one with the football player or the girl interviewing for the school newspaper?"

"The one with that boy was a long time back," Rogue said defensively. "And I never hit first. I may have made some choice comments about her editorial-"

"And?"

"This boy… broke it up."

'Much as mah teammates are gonna hate meh for this, y'ladies have gotta to stop fighting-'

'Ah'm not a lady- and get yah filthy hands offa meh-'

"The one who asked you to the party?" Irene prompted.

"It wasn't a date," Rogue said hurriedly, horrified at the thought.

Oh, said a voice in the corner of her mind sadly.

"It wasn't!" she said, further horrified. "Ah- just- ah… he came an' talked with meh at lunch. Ah haven't sat with anyone in lunch for a long time… y'know that," she said with a nod the woman couldn't see to Irene. "He was real nice… and everyone else was goin' to his friend the quarterback's house, so… ah kinda got talked into it."

'Stop grinning like a fool. Ah'm not goin'.'

'Pretty pretty please with a cherry on top? I'll buy yah an ice cream if yah say yah'll go. And nobody'd ever expect yah to go, y'know. Don't yah like givin' people a start now and then? Makin' 'em look at yah different?'

She sighed. '…. What kind of ice cream?' she demanded grudgingly.

"And then you got all excited," she told Irene miserably. "So I went. An' it was lousy and loud to boot- which is realleh exactly what he'd said it would be, so ah spent the night mostly edging outside while he kept trying to get meh drinks. Pop, that is. Not even punch. He's realleh… good."

Gee, thanks.

"So, some drunk idiot fell on top of meh, knocked meh back, and there were some broken beer bottles outside, an' one o' them cut my hand a bit. Nothin' terrible, Ahrene, don't look so distressed," Rogue said with a tone somewhere between reassurance and annoyance. All her senses were screaming something was wrong, and she didn't know what, so her mouth just kept moving, and she didn't seem to be able to make it stop. That, she knew, was a characteristic of Cody. Not her. "And… he helped meh up, though ah didn't want it, and started tryin' ta get meh to go inside, so we could get bandages."

'Don't be such a wuss. It's a little bit of blood, that's all.'

'There's a gash on your hand. Ruined yah glove, too. Ah'm not good at seein' blood on such a pretty hand.'

'Aww…. That's so sweeeet. Don't be an ass, Cody.'

'Ah mean it. Ah never seen a girl as white as you.'

'Yeah? Well, ah don't get out as much as ah'd like. And frankly, ah've never seen a boy turn quite that shade of green over nothin' before. So we're just about even.'

"He, er, just grabbed mah hand."

'Yah know, ah think yah're just about the prettiest girl ah've ever met.'

She burst out in immediate laughter.

'Don't laugh,' he said, scandalized, ducking his head. 'Ah mean it. An'…yah interesting. Y'think… would yah want to dance with me?'

'Ah'm bleeding, Cody,' she said somewhat flatly, stepping back a bit with unsure eyes. 'Ah… another time."

His blue eyes, intent, looked up in sudden remembered concern for her hand. 'Here, lemme see that-'

'Don't!' she said harshly, pulling away. But his hand had brushed against hers, her sleeve snagging on his watch in a sudden instant, and he stared at her, not bothering to try to disentangle himself. For a brief second, Rogue couldn't help but be both rather scared and exhilarated by a hand against hers, particularly a boy's, even if she didn't really have any fuzzy feelings (she believed the expression was evil and that not a single one of her feelings could be described as fuzzy) towards this particular one. It was something new for her.

He seemed to be having trouble getting air into his throat, and his eyes were rolling wildly, but try as she might, her hand would not move away from his, despite all her will to do so. Suddenly lights of black and white were flashing in her mind, and Cody was tumbling at her feet.

"An' then…." Rogue shook herself, pushing aside Cody's verbose nature. She chose not to say anything about the thoughts in her mind. "Then he just passed out and one of his friends started chasin' meh…. And I ran home."

Irene took a deep breath, then sipped her tea.

"Yah better not go sayin' it was from the blood," Rogue said warningly. "Ah want answers. Real ones."

Irene sighed. "You've barely touched your tea," she said innocently. Irene was a good enough observer with her other senses to pick up on such things, blind or not.

OH MY GAWD! This is the part where there's something in your drink! Ah've read enough Hardy Boys books to know! Don't touch it! Don't, don't, don't-

Rogue felt relatively sure whatever piece of Cody was in her mind was very quickly beginning to lose it. Though his sanity in the first place was questionable, since he's apparently liked her.

"You've been through quite a trauma," Irene added, rubbing her thin hands together. "It might be best to calm yourself slightly before you hear what I have to say."

Rogue, unsteadily, reached for the green cup, the warm liquid filling her ungloved hand and even reaching through the covered one with a tempting, inviting heat which filled every inch of the smooth mug. It was mere luck which caused her to look up, for no particular reason, and notice the twitch in Irene's forehead.

It was with reluctance that her hands shot immediately away from the cup.

Good girl!

"What's in the tea, Ahrene?" she demanded hoarsely, jerking back. The chair skidded with a horrible screech against the cold linoleum floor as she stood.

Irene's face was suddenly, studiously blank. "I'm not sure you're quite all right, Rogue," she said, blinking. "I- ohhh!" Clutching her head, she tumbled to the floor.

Instinctively, Rogue jumped forward, at once at Irene's side, shaking her. "Ahrene?" she questioned, somewhat panicked. "Ahrene!"

Weakly, the woman's hand reached up, waveringly. She beckoned towards her. Rogue, auburn brows furrowed, leaned forward.

It was the merest fringe of distance that the glinting, bright kitchen knife Irene swung towards her in a sharp arc missed her neck. Had she been able to see, it would have sliced right into her neck.

Eyes wide, Rogue dove for the floor, ducking under the table.

"I'm truly sorry, Rogue," Irene said sorrowfully. "I'm not trying to hurt you. But you must still be here when Ms.-"

Rogue's leg shot out and swept Irene's feet out from under her. The blind woman's head hit the floor with a resounding crack, while Rogue scrambled out from under the table on the other side, in a state of shock.

It was amazing how quickly the older woman got between the back door and Rogue. As if she'd known where she was going. "You don't know what you're doing," she told Rogue, then hurled the knife at the girl's leg.

Her aim was precise, not aiming for where Rogue was, but where she'd be in a second. The knife clattered down to the floor, her black hiking boot yanked back by the merest fringe to avoid it. She scurried in the opposite direction.

Irene, white eyes gazing at her, tossed the tablecloth right on top of her, whipping it off the table with deceptive ease and gracefully hurling it in the air to come down right upon the fleeing girl.

Rogue, rather than being alarmed, simply dropped down and ducked her head out from under the white, enveloping cloth. As she pulled it off, something hit her head, hard. It turned out to be Irene's rather hefty leather volume, which she clutched at once. Ignoring the slight, dull ache at the back of her head, she whirled. "Guess what ah'm doin' right now," she told Irene in a dangerous voice, ripping pages out of the book with a loud tearing noise.

"Don't!" Irene shouted, lunging forward. Rogue, surprised, let the papers fall to the floor, as Irene wrestled desperately for the book. "You can't possibly understand," the woman nearly wept. "We had changed your fate. We had it all fixed. And you're spoiling it all. Just give me the book, Rogue, please. Just sit down. It's for your own good." Her grip was surprisingly strong and wrenching, but Rogue held back, pulling against the leather volume and trying not to let her digged-in heels slide down the linoleum towards Irene.

"Are you mad!" Rogue roared incredulously, as loud as her lungs could manage. "Y'all are tryin' ta murder me and yah're expectin' me to, what, sit back and die!"

"You're only hurting- "

Rogue's ungloved hand had been gripped powerfully by Irene. Both let go at once, but the older woman staggered back against the wall, slumping into unconsciousness, the wound on the back of her head contributing to her weariness.

Rogue reeled, an explosion of many stars in her head.

A young girl sat at a table, playing with tarot cards. She likes looking at the pictures, having a vague feeling she should look at them while she can.

An old wood Ouija board, with girls gathered around it, staring at her though she can't see them, then stumbling back as the pointer began to wildly spin. Their futures were all laid before the thirteen-year old blind girl. She knew that one would die at twenty, one would never marry, one would have a grandson who would be a senator. She knew everything but her own doom, but she knew she would learn it in a vision on February 16, forty years from now, and would have to fulfill it.

A young man, kneeling before her, nervous. She knows he'll be dead this time next year. She knows he'll never make it to the wedding. She says yes anyways, because she is meant to.

She waits for Raven to come with the child that must come, though she doesn't know the girl's past, only her many futures.

'o-only meant to pet the puppy-'

'-live, you don't-'

'-orry, but he passed away at on-

'ister's child, what can y-'

'everything's going to hell-'

'-ive, Scott, li-'

'-we're meant to rule the-'

'-boys are dumb, let's-'

'-elcome, to-'

'-y'like dolls-'

Image after image hit Rogue in a swarm, and she couldn't tell whether or not they were Irene's memories or images of… something else. Another time, something yet to be.

One word was seared into her mind: Destiny.

And tied with it was another, associated with the woman who had insured she learned how to box, who brought impersonal if useful gifts, who was witty and droll and who Rogue had always had a secret, childish little hope that she was her mother, her real, birth mother, and had some very good reason for not being able to claim her: Mystique. Who had plans for her. And her powers.

"Mah Gawd, ah've killed Ahrene," she gasped, staring at the woman's body. Another memory hit her at once. Full of indignation, she responded to herself, "Mah Gawd, she tried to kill meh!"

No, I didn't. The force behind the voice nearly knocked her over. And I- the outer me- is absolutely fine.

"What the hell?" Rogue shouted, clutching her head, stumbling over to the table. Rubbing her eyes, she opened them, staring at Irene's drained cup of tea.

It's been so long since I've been able to read tea leaves, a voice in her head murmured, softer than Irene's speaking voice ever was. One forgets how beautiful the world is. Stay where you are, Mar-

Don't you dare start that with me! Rogue thought furiously, and was somewhat shocked when the voice didn't answer.

Ah'm keepin' her quiet- like... It's like a place here, now, in a way. Get out of there, Cody's voice came softly.

"Ah don't understand," Rogue muttered, eyes narrowed. "Ahrene!" she said venomously to the voice in her head, rummaging for the coffee tin where Irene kept her money in the cabinets and casting a glance over at the unconscious Destiny- Irene, she corrected herself, alarmed. "What's goin' on? Ah'm some kind of mutant, obviously, but what am ah doin? Why's mah touch killin' people? Am ah poison?"

The voice reluctantly came through, and it sounded slightly roughed up. No, Ma- Rogue. Not poison. Through touch, you absorb the thoughts and memories- in effect, the psyche, of specific individuals. Even the powers, such as mine. Stay where you are, and we can teach you control. Rogue ignored the new knowledge that told her that was an utter lie, pushing it as far away as she could, and put all attention into her task.

Triumph! Rogue pulled the coffee tin lid open and yanked out several pristine hundred dollar bills, as well as a wad of twenties and tens. They all smelled vaguely of coffee grind.

Stay, Irene's voice began to repeat, on a loop.

She's fading, Rogue. Getting paler. You didn't hold on long enough. Touch her again, Cody urged. So she can tell us what happened to me- what's gonna happen to me-

Ah know what's going to happen to you, Rogue thought, eyes welling with burning droplets of water she didn't want. Ah know a lot of things that aren't gonna go away too quick.

What-

Bluntly, her thoughts exploded, unable to keep them back in her own head as she could words. You're heading into a coma. You're gonna die in ten years. Maybe in my arms, Irene didn't know. She clutched the book tightly. Ah'm sorry. Ah didn't know. Ah-Ah don't know if I could have stopped it if ah did. And ah'll see if I can find anyone who can fix it. I swear.

There was a faint, muffled sound and then nothing.

She glanced back at Irene, a mixture of emotions on her face, then glanced at the red marks under her long sleeves from the woman's tight grip on her wrist, the knife on the floor, and the red book in her arms, leather the cover of blood. She didn't know how long until the woman woke up. She looked over to her backpack, still packed with homework she never planned to do, innocently ready for Monday like always. Rogue's emotions were mixed. She'd never planned to run away, since Irene had always needed her. And the thing was, Irene, from what she'd briefly seen of her, seemed to be exactly the person she thought she was. Except for the fatalism. And the apparent dash of murderous intent and desperation and derangement.

She didn't know where to go. Irene's memories, unlike Cody's, were fleeting, and she didn't even know where she was heading. Away. Anywhere else.

She fled out the front door, not bothering to take the time to grab a bag, nor a jacket, as her only real coat was still sitting in the house of Cody's friend.

She could hitchhike. To a train station, since Mys- Ms. Darkholme would probably anticipate an airport first. She had no idea what was a good place to hide. She had no relatives. No friends. And definitely no driver's license, having failed the test to get her permit.

I know how to drive, Cody said wistfully, voice quiet and deadened. You could just take a car.

She ran down the sidewalk, auburn hair swinging as her feet pounded in a pattern, a slow, steady rhythm against the pavement. "No," she said quietly, breathing the word out even as she breathed. She wasn't running the way Cody did, with all his football skills and practice. Her rhythm was a lighter, less practiced one, and she stretched her legs out farther in easy strides that moved her ahead. She dismissed all the thoughts about proper running form Cody'd been taught, choosing instead to remember Ms. Darkholme's remark about running being a good way to take out aggression in a productive manner.

"Ah'm… sorry, Cody. Ah don't want to be you," Rogue managed quietly, realizing running was far more difficult when you weren't breathing the precise way an athlete should. She continued in her own way anyways.

She wondered if he could understand that. For suddenly, his voice didn't answer, and neither was there a silence where he should have been. She could almost feel the parts of her mind that weren't right, that were bits of Cody and Irene, not of her, but they weren't after her at the moment. They were… there, but distant. Closed off, somehow.

She ran into the chill of her night, holding the ridiculous book and learning firsthand running was less easy when clutching an extra weight, which unbalanced you. A lesson Cody knew, but that Rogue didn't. Nor was she fully aware that an hour ago, she, too, had known it.

It was harder to dismiss the one, sure fact which had come from Irene- that she would never learn to control the power she bore. Not ever would she be able to prevent stealing a piece of a person's soul with a simple touch.

Irene awoke with dread, knowing perfectly well what was to happen. Stumbling upright, clutching her head, she knew what her duty was. She reached for the cell phone in her pocket she had been given for just such a case, dialing a number she knew by heart, each number in the exact position she knew it would be.

Answer came swiftly. There was no response, only a waiting silence.

"It's happened," Irene gasped. "And it's all gone exactly as we feared."

There was silence on the other end. "I'll send St. John after her."

Having a sudden, horrible vision- whether real or imagined was unsure- of a suburban neighborhood aflame, Irene protested at once. "No! Any mutant- particularly that one- will only create a larger disaster. Her powers are new. And the last thing we want is for her to learn further about our intentions. I can only imagine what she has learned. She absorbed me, Raven. Briefly, but…."

The smooth voice sounded ever so-slightly less suave than usual. "Whatever information she has can be revised or eliminated. She's young. She can be influenced and persuaded."

"She's stubborn," Irene countered. "And she took the book." Something brushed against her foot. Bending, she collected the pages scattered on the floor.

"No!" Raven uttered in complete horror. "If she learns of what will happen, if it guides her to the one you foresaw-"

"Fate is, as always, on our side," Irene said with relief, running her hand against the raised marks on the page, the puncture holes she'd made to allow her to identify each and every page she'd created, her hand spurred on by destiny itself. Or at least, so she had always felt. "Several pages were ripped out."

"The pages? The ones on-"

"A few of them." Had the blind woman been able to see, her artwork and writing would have been visible to her, somewhat erratic and surprisingly vibrant. The one she now clutched tightly bore on it the vaguely sketched image of a young man in a trenchcoat, eyes painted a darkly burning red even as he sagged against the ground. His head was lifted in the arms of a girl who seemed to be crying tears of blood. The only thing outstanding about the faint sketching of the girl was the bright white lines colored into her hair. "I'm holding the one you're thinking of as we speak."

There was a sigh on the other line. "What shall I do? I can tell Creed to simply kill him."

Irene paused as she weighed the possibility. "No," she said decisively. "The gambling devil may yet aid our cause. The woman of the daggers is our only hope now."

Disdainfully, the woman on the other end responded, "Are you actually suggesting that the Boudreaux girl should be used- for this?"

"She is the only reason we know of this LeBeau person as it is. He seems to be the one, from what you have told me. He fits the role."

"Alright," Mystique said sharply. "I'll send her after Rogue. But she may well kill her."

Irene, closing her milky eyes, whispered, "That may be for the best."

She could tell that hurt Raven. "Acceptable," the woman said at last. "Tell me where she'll go. Oh… Irene… her hair… did…"

"It's changed as I predicted," the woman said. Pained, she said softly, "Her pretty hair…" She delicately touched her own whitening locks in sympathy.

"It'll make her more intriguing. And easier to find," Mystique said flatly. "Irene…"

As she waited for the vision to strike her, as she knew it would, Irene ran her hand over another of the pages, which showed a school of youngsters which had once been a possibility, but now would never be. Although she could not see it, she knew what was scrawled above it. Omnia mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis.

All things change, and we change with them.

Standing alone on the fringe of the highway, staring up at the moon, Rogue waited for someone to stop and pick her up. She hugged her shoulders tightly, chin set. Guilt overwhelmed her for what had happened to Cody. And Irene's actions would confuse her forever, she suspected. But somehow… she felt a rush of exhilaration, accompanied by the exhaustion of walking and running for an hour or so, which overcame all other senses and self-doubt. She stared down the open road, realizing what she was actually doing, that she had no plan, little money, no clothes… and that she wouldn't have to go to school on Monday.

She shivered. Somehow, she felt as if her life had just actually begun. She didn't want powers. She didn't know what to do with them. She'd never fit in anywhere, though. None of that mattered. She didn't know how to be normal. She hadn't been raised that way.

Trying not to glare at the drivers heading towards her and forcing a very tight smile onto her face, Rogue held up her hand, belatedly remembering to jerk her thumb in the direction she was heading. She waited, knowing someone would eventually stop. Knowing that all those stories Ms. Darkholme had frightened her with when she'd tried running away at nine with a stuffed bunny along no longer applied to her.

Still…

It was a cold night in Mississippi.