How to explain the extreme stretch of time between updates? Well several things happened actually. 1) My computer gained supreme artificial intelligence and almost took over the world. Luckily I was able to stop it with a robot sent back from the future and a glass of apple juice. 2) I was abducted by aliens and traversed the universe searching for that perfectly brewed bottle of ice tea. 3)…..so I had writer's block. Plus they canceled the show. Which sucks. But anyhoo, I'm back and am planning on finishing the story before moving on to something new I have brewing in my evil creative mind.
The sun was just starting to break over the horizon when Rogue finally stumbled back into her room. Kitty's retrieval of Dr. McCoy had led to a series of long, intensive tests; some to discover what was wrong with her and others to discover what had happened to her. The answer to those two questions seemed to be exactly the same: nothing. Nothing was wrong with her. By the time Dr. McCoy had reached the room the paralysis had already faded away. All the tests he had run had come back negative. No foreign parasites, no bacteria, no viruses, no broken bones, nothing. Rogue was perfectly and completely healthy. He had let her go back to her room because there didn't seem any reason to keep her in the Med lab. Not when there was nothing wrong with her. At least, Rogue assumed he had given her permission to leave. He hadn't actually said she could go. When she had asked, he had just sort of waved his hand absently while he muttered to himself about "compound phorno ephemerals" (or something) and paced back and forth. She had taken that for a yes and had escaped as quickly as she could in order to preserve the little blood she had remaining in her body.
As she flopped face down onto her body, she rubbed at the inside of her elbow where the needle had gone in. God she hated having blood taken. The slow, painful feeling of having a part of you drained from your insides. She could only imagine that that's how it felt when she absorbed someone.
Here I go. Trapped in the confusion of my mind. Here I go. So slowly running out of time.
Rogue flipped over so that she was on her back and rubbed a hand over her forehead. The questions that Dr. McCoy had bombarded her with were still floating around in her mind, unanswered. What happened? What do you remember from before you woke up? How did you get back to the institute?
Here I go. Searching for what I cannot find. Lost within the world of the blind. Here where seagulls go to die.
She couldn't remember. Try as she might to recall the events of the evening, there was only a solid blank wall. Logan had given her the keys and she had left. Gone . . . . somewhere. Done . . . something. Involuntarily she flexed her fingers then curled them into fists. A thin veil of red flittered through her mind, a hazy, half-remembered feeling of . . . anger? Had she been angry with someone?
Frustrated she fisted her hands into her hair and sat up. Her gaze fell on the small table near her bed, home to the few pictures she considered important enough to keep. One of her and Irene. One of the slow moving Mississippi. One of Logan holding up Kitty's broken N'Sync cd. Her eyes narrowed slightly and she reached forward, sliding the thin plastic card off the table. On the back was a plain blue pattern. She flipped it over. On the other side was the Queen of Hearts. She didn't remember it being there before.
Red mist. Red . . . anger. Red . . . eyes. Her hand closed over the card; the plastic dug painfully into her skin but she failed to notice.
Gambit.
Dr. Hank McCoy stared at the medical charts in front of him with a very unfamiliar feeling settling into him; bafflement.
"I have absolutely no idea what could be wrong with her. It doesn't make any sense! There's no sign of injury, bacteria. No build up of any kind of fluids in her spinal column, no traces of any foreign objects. There's no physical evidence that would suggest paralysis. It doesn't make any sense," he repeated, scratching the back of his head with one hand.
Professor Charles Xavier folded his hands and rested his chin on top of them. He felt a similar feeling of bafflement as he looked over the charts neatly displayed on the monitor before him. But then, Rogue had always been something of a bafflement to even him, the world's most gifted telepath. The way her mind could contain so many different memories, so many different personalities, and still function within of the realm of normalcy. The way her thoughts were constantly shielded, guarded by two piercing green eyes. Her past, her future, even her name was shrouded in mystery. To him, to the others, and to some degree, to herself.
"There are psychosomatic disorders that could be capable of bringing about paralysis. However, generally they do not occur nor disappear so quickly," he said.
Leaning against the wall in the corner of the Med-Lab, Logan chewed on a toothpick, his sharp teeth digging into the thin wood. His annoyance for the smooth-talking Cajun had yet to fade and the fact that he hadn't been allowed to vent that annoyance left him feeling itchy for a fight.
"Why don't you just go pickin' through her brain?" he drawled sarcastically, crossing his arms over his chest and scowling slightly. Professor Xavier raised a single eyebrow as he glanced in Logan's direction, noting the sour look on the man's face.
"I do not 'pick' through the brains of others. I will tolerate a great deal from you Logan, but continue to sulk over my decision to not allow you to shred Mr. Gambit's face and you'll spend the rest of your days believing you're a ballerina who enjoys bright pink dresses and curly yellow ribbons."
Logan reached up and pulled the toothpick from his mouth. "I don't trust him."
The Professor nodded. "You think he may have tried to harm Rogue." A nod. "Well I don't."
McCoy shifted his gaze between the two and felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle upwards. He was one hundred percent sure that the Professor would never harm another human, mutant or non-mutant, but the fact that the peace loving man could conceivably crush the mind of anyone into paste made confrontations with him slightly unnerving. He cleared his throat lightly.
"Might I say that while Logan's suggestion was lacking somewhat in tact, he may indeed have a point." Xavier turned his head. "Perhaps a foray into Rogue's mind could unearth a few answers to the questions we have? With her permission, of course," McCoy added hastily, not wanting to offend.
Xavier stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I am hesitant to enter into Rogue's mind. I do not understand the workings of it and do not want to jeopardize its stability. Rogue values her privacy and I respect that. From the conclusion you have drawn her Doctor, I see that you have noted that she is healthy and in no danger of further injury?"
Dr. McCoy nodded. "Yes, that is correct. Whatever caused her paralysis seems to have been temporary and is gone now."
"Then we shall leave it at that."
A thin tendril of smoke wove its way upwards and drifted out the open window into the cool night air. The stars were bright in the clear sky and the moon cast its light into the room, splashing over the dark stained wood, soft brown leather, and reflected in crimson colored eyes. Music, muffled slightly by the walls, still managed to stream its way into his ears.
As he came into the window it was the sound of a crescendo. He came into her apartment, he left bloodstains on the carpet.
He absently tapped his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray; he hadn't taken a drag from it since he had first lit it. His mind was on other things and the sour taste of tobacco did not have the same draw it once did. Plus, it was murder on the lungs.
Annie are you OK? So, Annie are you OK? Are you OK, Annie? Annie are you OK? So, Annie are you Ok, are you Ok, Annie?
The music cut out abruptly and the silence came rushing back in. It was shattered again by the sound of breaking glass. Remy leaned forward over the balcony and watched the radio as it plummeted to the ground, shattering into two dozen jagged, shiny pieces. They caught the moonlight and sparkled in the sand like diamonds waiting to be plucked from the earth. Glancing to the right, Remy was just in time to see St. John's head stick out the window. The Aussie's mouth dropped open for a second, and then he abruptly turned back into the room.
"Holy BLEEDIN' Jesus, mate! What the hell didja do that for? I just got that bloody thing! I swear, ya throw one more of me things out the window and I'll torch the fur right offya bloody body!"
There was a low, snarl followed by a string of curses from St. John.
"Hey! Keep ya claws offa me ya big dumb—AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Remy tapped his cigarette again as he watched St. John, clad only in a pair of flame colored boxers, flew out of the window to join the shattered remains of the stereo Remy had "purchased" in the city for him. The Aussie landed with a loud "thump" and a "flying chicken fuck!" Chuckling, Remy turned his eyes back to the moon.
And thought of her.
He was worried that he had miscalculated. And he never worried. What if her powers weren't as strong as he had thought? What if she couldn't heal from the blow he had delivered? What if he had left her paralysised, unable to move, because he hadn't been able to subdue her? Wincing, he rolled his shoulder. He could still feel the strength of her punches. It had been like being hit with a sledgehammer. He wished he had more information; which he would have, if the overgrown guard dog hadn't sniffed him out. Ruefully he rubbed at his throat where Wolverine's claws had nicked his skin. Chien muet, Remy thought to himself darkly, crushing the cigarette out on the ledge of his window. (Dumb dog.) He flicked it into the darkness and turned back into his room.
You've been hit by, you've been struck by, a smooth criminal.
Where Seagulls Go To Die by Me
Smooth Criminal by Michael Jackson