Bone White Butterfly here, coming to you live from my bedroom. I have been banished from the basement (and the coveted Internet jack) so my brother may yet again liquefy his mind with Halo 2 online.

Since you last heard from me, I have completed my college class final, am dreading the results of said final, have visited one of the country's best art schools, done Chicago for the weekend, almost saw Wicked (damn theatergoers who buy tickets in advance!), learned that my baby brother has a hernia, mauled my beloved Volks Beetle (…they'll both be fine with some minor surgery), celebrated 2 family birthdays on the same day (ages 4 & 53), am doing bloody back flips because my Senior locker is wider than 5 inches, am doing some front flips too because I can drop my A.P. Calculus class for Commercial Art & Design (take that, higher learning!)

and there's a spider dangling right in front of my left eye…so if you'll excuse me for five seconds…

Mmn, I'm back. No, I didn't scream. Actually, Mr. Spidey was kinda cute until I smushed him. It's amazing how you're not afraid of creepy crawlies if they're too small for you to see properly. Damn, that thing was tiny…which is the way I like it. What was God thinking when he made the Tarantula? Same goes for Mother Nature. I mean, she's a girl! Shouldn't she have been sympathetic to her fellow femmes and not created an enormous multi-legged creature with hairy fangs? I am SO with Ron Weasley on this one: why couldn't it have been butterflies?

Yeah, I'm sort of blathering on here. But, hey, at least I'm being funny, right? …Um, right? Fine! Be that way!

As you can see, I've had an interesting few days. Frankly I'm frazzled. So. Therapeutic writing about graveyards, guilt, and psychosis it is. Just what the doctor ordered. Yep. Yessers. Yepperoo…uh-oh! —Runs from the Readers armed with Straightjackets!—


…Sigh, how the hell am I supposed to work this? Too many goddamned character POVs.

XXX

Cloning Evolution

Step 7: Live with the Guilt

XXX

The faint scent of the Cajun was like a slap to Logan's face. He caught it midway between the cemetery gates and the old church. And though he knew to expect the swift collapse when Magneto released his skeleton from its marionette walk, his preoccupation caused him to miss the moment. Stumbling, he all but crashed into the old building's wall. He caught himself at the last moment and breathed hard, forgetting the scent. He hated this existence of being picked up and dropped. And—he could barely admit this to himself—it terrified him.

He had been to an amusement park once. Locked in a harness only someone else could release him from, he had been raised slowly, inexorably, up into the air. The kids who had somehow tricked him into it talked and laughed around him, but he had held his eyes shut during the ascent, feeling the pit in his stomach grow to consume every taut muscle. It didn't do him any good when some cable or clamp released and the metal box he was clamped down to plummeted. There had been nothing free about the free fall. It was controlled from the sudden start to the wrenching finish when the ascent began yet again. And then the next fall, the next climb, never knowing how long each would last or when the cycle would end.

The unending helplessness of being picked up and dropped until the person who controlled it all chose to release him—if men could be assigned a personal hell, that had been his. He silently laughed and choked in the same short instant. That 'had been?' When had it not been? For eleven years now, he had been helpless, forced to live that hell in Magneto's grasp.

A strong hand clutched his shoulder. He jerked to look at Piotr, whose gaze he knew was on his fists. His claws had jumped out an inch. Only an inch, but an inch too far. He knew what the Russian wanted, but he didn't hide away the claws like they had never happened. Instead he glared up at the man who seemed to care for his well-being. 'Why're you still here,' he demanded silently, and if the man answered, he didn't hear it.

Why, indeed? The sister whose life Magneto had held over Piotr's head was dead, buried probably not a hundred yards from where they stood. Why was he still here? There was nothing left to blackmail him with, yet he stayed. Had he turned into one of Seligman's dogs, the ones forced to endure electric shock in a cage? Had Piotr been helpless for so long that when the cage door was left open, and the pain came again, he didn't realize he could escape?

Would it be the same for him? If the suffocating harness unbuckled, would he sit, not realizing until his window of opportunity shrank into nothing and he was again locked into place? Had it happened already?

The hand on his shoulder squeezed tighter. The claws had shot out another few inches. His eyes refocused, and he sent Piotr a look. 'I'm not complacent,' his unwavering eyes said. 'I won't resign myself to this hell, and whatever it dishes out for me'—his claws extended fully with a sharp, metallic scrape—'let it come.'

Piotr's serene gaze was soured with a hint of sadness before he looked away and watched Magneto disappear over a hill. He stayed that way, a cold sentinel with his head in profile, waiting for the danger to the man whom he protected to return.

XXX

Erik strolled towards a certain pair of headstones. They stood to the back of a large clump of graves that had an interesting history. Every person there had two things in common. They were the beloved dead of rich or powerful people. They had also died opposing the Brotherhood. Traitors had a hard time getting their last rites in America lately. Private graves were routinely dug up. Cremated ashes were dumped into the sewers. Attempts to ship corpses off to the burial grounds of Europe rarely succeeded. In desperation, a corpse's loved ones would turn to him. If it were worth something to him, he would arrange an exception. A favor here and there was rewarded by a quiet burial in a New Jersey cemetery.

None of the names or dates on the collection of tombstones was real, allowing for anonymity. Only a person present at the private funeral would know where to look for any one person. Rogue's marker said her name was Marie D'Acanto or some such nonsense. Hers wasn't the grave he was interested in, however, and he passed it by for the two matching headstones tucked deep into the shade, almost into the tree line. According to the carved out letters, they were a devoted husband and wife who had died within a week of each other.

He wondered if he had put them there in the shadows to hide his shame. Perhaps his business of making burial exceptions was to make him feel less hypocritical. The law—his law—refused funeral rites to any who had opposed the Brotherhood. And yet he had these two graves hidden away.

He sighed as he looked down at the matching grave markers of Scarlet and Charlie Magnus.

XXX

Remy sat near the top of the cellar steps that ran up along the crumbling brick wall. He had long since retrieved the funeral lily and was studying it as it twirled left and right in his fingers, glowing cherry red. If it were a daisy, he would be plucking exploding petals, muttering, 'she's alive, an' she's dead, but she's alive, yet she's dead…'

Instead, the contradictory truths oscillated in his head like they would in a computer, switching between the two faster and faster until the paradox fried his circuitry. In other words, his headache was killing him. He had sacrificed everything for her corpse, to see it buried and her memory honored. But now she had reappeared, alive—with a ten-year-old girl who called her 'Mom.'

The lily blew apart in an angry explosion of glowing red petals as he threw it away. Through the fingers cradling his face, he looked across at the far corner of the cellar. The girl was the right age; she could be—

But Rogue was dead. He had held her body in his arms.

The headache only got worse. Unable to take it any longer, he jumped to his feet on the stair, whirled around, and pushed up through the old storm cellar doors. He gripped the near horizontal doorframe and vaulted out, not able climb the creaking steps fast enough. He felt like he'd just exited a grave—an empty one. But whether that meant the grave was meant for him or that the original occupant had already clawed her way out, he didn't know.

He rounded the corner on the outside of the church and froze when he saw two men standing there. One of them was Piotr, who stared over the next hill. The other was Wolverine, glaring at Piotr, his nostrils flaring dangerously. Magneto was nowhere in sight.

Merd—oh, why didn't he just say it? "Fuck!" Remy mouthed vehemently as he backpedaled. He retreated around the corner, his mind racing. He shot a look at the storm cellar doors and was reminded of a coffin lid—but, hell, he'd pull a double occupancy with a corpse to avoid the bloodied confrontation that would happen if he stayed out here.

So he lifted the 'coffin lid' and scuttled back down the steps. In the cellar, he noticed he could see the Wolverine's feet through the small ground level window. He stared at them and gasped, "What the fuck're you doin' here, Logan?"

XXX

Rogue looked away when she saw Remy rush out of the church's cellar but not for long. She returned her gaze and watched him catch sight of Magneto's bodyguards just before he beat a quick retreat back through the storm cellar doors. She might have stared at those metal doors at the back of the church forever, waiting to see him again and check his face to assure herself that he was all right. She didn't know that she was the latest link in a chain of people that stared silently, waiting, none willing to move until the one they watched did.

Rogue watched for Remy, who watched Logan glare at Piotr. The Russian waited for the return of Magneto. The elderly man himself watched over the grave of an old friend. It didn't seem like he would be content to leave until the dead man crawled out of the ground and said, "Hello, Magnus."

That would never happen, though, so it seemed each person would be waiting forever.

XXX

"Can we go"—there was a dangerously long intake breath—"Now!"

The last word, a sort of exasperated scream, broke Rogue's attention away from the cellar doors in the far distance. She turned to the clone with blazing gold eyes. Apparently, Risty thought they had waited long enough.

Rogue did a quick scan of the cemetery. "In a bit, hon," she answered absentmindedly and stepped out of the car. "Stay here," she added last minute as she headed for the edge of the clearing.

She chose a tree whose enormous branches leaned in quite a ways towards the cemetery and still had most of its golden leaves. Floating into the crown—and careful not to disturb the foliage—she worked her way forward and craned to look about the rolling greens of the graveyard. The entire plot was in sight at her elevation, but Magneto was not. Frowning, she peered left and right and right along the tree line.

There.

Not fifty yards from her stood an old man. His hand rested on one of two matching tombstones. She smiled fiercely to herself, but as she wormed her way out of the tree, she found herself glancing back at the tiny dot that was the faraway church.

Back in the car, she made some notes on a handmade map of the graveyard, threw the pizza boxes into the back, handed Charlie's cake to Risty, and smiled at the clone perhaps a little too brightly.

"Now we can go."

XXX

Only later, when in the privacy of the motel room's bathroom, did she whisper the words she had been thinking since that last look at the old church.

"Oh God, Remy, why did y'have to find the body?"

XXX

Remy leaned against one wall in the cellar, looking through the small window opposite him at the Wolverine's feet. A freshly lit cigarette smoked in one hand. He was the type who needed to do something with his hands. He would be a nervous smoker, except—

"Logan," he whispered. The cigarette flew apart in a violent burst of crimson flame. Without looking, he drew out another from his third pack that day, tapped one end with a bare finger, waited a moment later for the tiny explosion, and twisted the now smoking cigarette in his fingers. He had never been able to develop a smoking habit. He only tried when he was nervous, and when he was nervous, it was a miracle if he managed a drag before the cigarette went up in flames.

Sighing, he shook his fingers free of ash and reached into his pants pocket again.

He went through cartons some days. This would be one of them, if church cellars sold them. He only had them now because he had stocked up hours before at a convenience store, thinking he might need them for Rogue.

Another death stick died before its time. He was running out fast. He stared at his little, cropped view of Logan, wishing he could get the Canadian to understand why. He hadn't wanted to. He hadn't known Magneto knew, and the man hadn't given him a choice. "Dis Cajun may no' have metal bones," he wanted to plead, "but dis heart is in a metal cage. All he need t'do is squeeze." Only, he knew the Wolverine wouldn't listen. He would be lucky to finish the first sentence without being gutted.

And so he sat in the old church cellar—the last placed he wanted to be—quaking at the sight of Logan's feet through a grimy window. As the sun sank low, the underground room became all but pitch black. His last cigarette burst into flame, then died to embers, leaving him alone in the smoky darkness.

XXX

They split the chocolate cake in typical Garfield fashion. Rogue cut herself a slice humming Happy Birthday, and Risty decided the other five sixths were for her.

At nightfall, she tucked the girl into bed. "I'll be back in a few hours," she smiled, stroking read hair. She pressed Huck Finn into blue hands when she heard protests about not being tired.

"Do I have to read it again?" the clone asked.

Silently, Rogue reminded herself to get the girl another book. "Not if you don't want to," she answered slowly as she thought. The room had a TV, but she had no way of making sure Risty didn't watch something way over her head while she was gone. She debated the pros and cons of handing the girl a Bible, but that decision was made for her when she discovered the bedside table didn't have one. She dug her hands into her jeans, heaving an exasperated breath. Then she reached into her back pocket, getting an idea. She pulled out and unfolded a piece of paper and showed it to Risty. It was a printed copy of a photograph.

"This is a picture of my old family," she said, gesturing to the crowd gathered before the mansion.

The clone's eyes were huge. "That's a lot of people."

"Oh, yes. It was."

Risty pointed to a man kneeling at the front. "That's Doc." Rogue glanced at the younger, less jaded image of McCoy and nodded. The girl's finger slid up a bit. "And this is you." Next, she went to the other blue person in the photograph. "Who's this?" she asked.

"His name's Kurt," Rogue answered, sliding an arm around Risty. "He's also related to Mystique. She was…his mom."

The clone giggled and pointed. "He doesn't have any hair."

She laughed too. "That's mah Charlie."

"Charles Xavier… And who's this?"

Rogue's smile died as she glanced at the man Risty pointed at. He had an arm wrapped about her younger self's waist, and he seemed rather smug that she hadn't thrown him halfway across the mansion grounds for it. "The names aren't really important right now," she evaded. "Why don't you practice looking like them until you get tired?"

Risty nodded and smiled, liking this game. Rogue tousled her hair and told her not to morph into the spiky guy where anything could get shredded. Then she walked to the door. Looking back, she caught sight of Remy sitting in bed, staring at a photograph. She rushed out in the night, locking the door behind her.

XXX

Logan was the last man still standing outside the car. He found himself glancing between the open door he was expected to enter and the one over on the front passenger side, which in his mind was the lesser of two evils. Only a few steps away, but he would never make it—unless Magneto allowed him to.

The word "allowed" was a lie, like the so-called "falls" in amusement park rides. It sounded like the grant of some freedom, but it was only a calculated lengthening of the leash. He might be allowed to sit next to Piotr if he asked and acted deferential to his leash holder, but that was a trap he wouldn't let himself fall into. He would never ask for permission to move his body and place it where he chose. Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness had long crumbled to dust in his mind. Instead, Choice was humanity's right. Even under the strictest regime, a man could choose which pair of socks he wanted to wear—and if he only had one pair, he could pick which sock went on which foot.

He did not wake to find his body in the middle of dressing itself because the man in the door had woken early and decided he wanted to take an early morning stroll.

Logan placed a hand on the car's roof and started a deliberately slow walk around to the front passenger side. He didn't quite manage a full step before he was thrown back and crumbled into a ball of limbs to fit through the open car door. He hit the middle of the bench seat assigned to him and straightened into a rigid, seated posture. It was a step up from being lugged around like a possession. Now he was allowed the pretense of being a human marionette.

He glared at the man sitting across from him on the other seat, briefly, and then he closed his eyes. It was one the only choice he could still make that mattered one whit. Magneto could position him to look, but he could refuse to see. If only he could refuse to hear.

"Logan, all you need to do is ask."

XXX

Super strength and a shovel could take a girl a long way; in Rogue's case 6 feet deep—twice. Now she stood before one last grave. She sighed. It had been hard enough to watch the body get buried; did she really have to dig up the grave as well?

Her shovel dug deep into the earth and wrenched out an enormous clod of grass and dirt.

XXX

Remy groaned and groggily looked around the dark cellar. In an instant, he was awake, standing, and shaking out his pant legs furiously. Insects scattered, disappearing through all sorts of cracks in the mortar of the brick walls. He rubbed his scratchy eyes, getting the feeling that the dark sclera was shot through with red veins. Instinctively, he reached for the pocket where he kept a bottle of eye drops. Then he let his hand fall, remembering that his trench had been taken from him eleven years ago. Old habits died hard, he knew, but some of them were too bitchy persistent. The leather security blanket with sleeves had been gone for longer than he'd owned it now, but he still found himself reaching for pockets.

Most people misunderstood his habit of reaching for his heart when the X-Men or Rogue were mentioned. It had less to do with soothing an emotional ache than it did unthinkingly reaching for a left breast pocket he no longer had. It had held a photograph, one he wasn't quite sure he belonged in, though it was nice to think that he did. His arm was around her, and none of her family—including her—was trying to kill him for it. Smile for the camera, no worries.

But the worries had come back when Magneto did, and it was made quite obvious that he didn't belong.

He dropped his hand from his heart and looked out the small window. He realized Logan had gone. Warily, he came up through the cellar doors. There was no sign of anyone but the dead. He found himself peering in the direction where, out of sight, over the next hill, Magneto had buried Rogue. He wondered if he should walk over and visit, if he should—

What? Was he supposed to see if she had downed the magic potion like Juliet and hadn't really been dead at all? It was impossible. People couldn't fake death for three days, let alone ten years. And even if it was possible, what did it matter? Dead, or even alive, she was gone, and he couldn't follow her. Magneto's blackmail was too strong. And either way, he was trapped and alone.

Turning away sharply, he stalked out through the cemetery gates and into the night.

XXX

Rogue placed the jar and the three labeled bags of bones and teeth on the long table in the conference room that McCoy used as an office. "Four of the strongest, two days to spare," she stated in an emotionally flat voice.

He didn't ask how or even give a congratulatory grunt. Instead, he grabbed up one of the bags, pointed at the name she had written there, and declared, "I can't use this."

Her stare was level. "An' why not?"

"You know why."

She shook her head. "No, I don't." Ticking off fingers, she said, "All your criteria is met. A "strong mutant" with a "useful ability" whose mere existence is a "psychological and emotional blow" to th' enemy. Th' perfect choice. If you don't want to do it, then it's for another reason, an' I think I know what it is." She pressed both hands onto the table. "These clones are people, Hank. You don't get to screw with their heads an' throw them away when you mess up. They're not expendable, an' it's sick, but you're their father."

"And you believe you're their mother?" he countered. "That you're Mystique's mother!"

She smiled dangerously. "Damn straight." She pressed the bag into McCoy's hand. You'll make this clone," she said. "An' you'll do nothin' else. I'm watchin' over them, Hank—all of 'em. You touch 'em, and in my mind, you're just as bad as Danvers was."

On her way out, she stopped in the doorframe and didn't look back into his wide, staring eyes. "An' Hank," she drawled, "Her name is Risty."

XXX

"What's his name?"

She bit the inside of her lip. "I dunno," she admitted. "Elf, maybe."

"There's elves in my Tolkien books."

"Do y'like them, the books?"

"A lot. …Mom, what's that?"

"That's his tail, hon."

"Oh." There was a brief pause, then: "And what's that?"

She followed the pointed blue finger, then hid her face behind her hands and groaned. Leave it to McCoy to teach a little girl weaponry, basic physics, and advanced chemistry, but leave out the anatomy lessons. "That's his"—she swallowed—"that's his…other tail, hon."

Another pause.

"Oh."


Grins— We have the Fuzzy Dude! Okay, guilt trips are over for a bit. Now I get to do some clone-style comedic relief!

The Canon character back-stories—Remy has something to do with Magneto's capture of Logan. Magneto's got some mungo blackmail hanging over Remy. Rogue faked her death but didn't mean for Remy to find her "body." …Am I missing anything? Oh, yeah. Piotr's sister is dead, and you get the feeling that he's just hanging around to watch over Logan (sympathy or something)—getting a little confusing, I know. But hey, a lot of stuff happened during the 15-ish years between the last Evo Episode and the start of my story!

Okay, okay, so I'm obsessed with that bloody photograph and I read way too much into it sometimes. If you don't know what I'm talking about, it's a group shot of the Evolution X-Men & Friends posed in front of the Mansion. They ended the show with that photograph. You can Google image search it if you're curious.


Review Responses:

First of all, thank you. Especially my loyal repeat reviewers. I don't know what I've done to deserve you guys.

giveGodtheglory: "Thanks for the note about Wolves in captivity starving themselves." —perks up at mention of Logan streaking— "Really?"
And…just a guess here, but something tells me you didn't like Piotr much in the last chapter. …Exactly how hard did you "slug" him, anyway?

——

otak the canadian: kinda figured you were a guy. I read two of your fics and laughed—in a horrified sort of way. Sorry about the Internet problems.
———

skin2skincontact: Hey, let's not get into the whole fem/masc domination thing, 'kay? It's just so Elementary School, and I still haven't forgiven or forgotten that Rosenheimer prick (sheepish—yeah, the Officer "Rose" who torments Rogue's mind in Ch. 4 is shamelessly based off a real guy I knew, name and all—but hey, what's the use being an author if you can't write your childhood nemesis into a life-threatening coma?)

And about me splitting up the story into a bunch of different ones, you overestimate my bravery and underestimate my sanity! I'm not retelling the same story from, like forty different points of view. For example, "Elf's" story deals with the original Kurt, but it leaves all this angst with Remy, Rogue, Logan, etc. the HELL alone. …Of course, I have to get un-lazy enough to split up, plot out (ick!), and type up the fanfic-shunsss before I can implement my grand master plan.
———

ishandahalf: well, I'm glad someone else likes graveyards. I'm oddly obsessed with them in my writing, you see…— And I do have something planned for a Romy reunion…sorta.

——

AND THANKS YOU OTHER REVIEWERS. I SAVE AWAY YOUR REVIEWS FOR THOSE STUPID BAD DAYS WHEN I NEED A PICK-ME-UP.


Note about Seligman's Dogs: I gave you guys an inaccurate, somewhat barbaric portrayal of the 1965 experiment. I had to get the point across quick to people who don't know psychology from biology. It wasn't that bad, really, and it did serve a purpose. The theory of Learned Helplessness developed because of this experiment. It's the one that explains why people stay in abusive relationships.
The theory of developed because of this experiment. It's the one that explains why people stay in abusive relationships.

AND NOW I SOUND LIKE A STUPID PSYCHOLOGY TEXTBOOK, SO I'LL STOP AND LET YOU GET ON WITH YOUR LIVES. BYE!