Moving On – Chapter 18
By Gimpy
She wasn't real, not in the most primal of ways. Her conception had been unnatural; the very foundation of her make-up, the binomials of her very genome were fabricated. There was no mother who had birthed her, no father to have watched over in fear and elation and it scared her to think her beloved and cherished surrogate daughter was… well, quite frankly Mystique wasn't sure what to call her. What was the technical name for a child not born through natural cause or effect? Was there even one that did not involve obscenities or cruelties such as abomination? She couldn't call her a clone, at least not decisively, and if she wasn't one, what did that make her? In the eyes of the world she was already an anomaly, labeled a mutant, a freak. What would they label her now? What was to come of all this?
She didn't have those answers. All Mystique knew was she loved Rogue, she had been and would always be her daughter. Daughter not by blood but through heart and heart alone and that was all that mattered, that is what drove her through the scarlet flickering halls towards the complex's massive command center. No matter what the outcome, her love would not change. She only hoped she could reach the fiery little girl she had helped raise into the feisty young woman before she lost herself completely to the harsh and new reality.
All Mystique wanted was to protect Rogue, a notion and ideal she had negated far too many times for reasons that should never have taken precedence over the young woman. How could she have known that the frail and dying soldier's words had been wrong? They were instructions he had fully believed in and he would have been right had he done it ten minutes before. Kemelman was no longer in the command epicenter but the faint captain hadn't known that. Rogue hadn't chased him there but the frantic, desperate woman, devouring hall after hall, had no way of discovering that until it was already too late to turn back.
When Mystique reached the hub, all she found was emptiness. No malicious master mind, no fractured and vengeful heroine, no grand and prolific battle raging between ultimate foes of good and evil, all she found was shattered glass, scorched paper and a crumbling sense of faith. Her cerulean form swirled within the threshold of the broken room, frenzied eyes searching wildly for what she knew wasn't there and when it finally settled on her that she had failed again, all she could manage was a tortured sob as fresh, damning tears overwhelmed her.
What did she do now? Where did she go? This complex was a mystery to her, a giant maze wherein she was the foolish rat. Salvation for Rogue was no longer in her hands, it was up to Logan, whose heightened senses, she prayed, would catch on and lead him down the right path.
White, glazed and tiring eyes, peered solemnly and determinedly through the thick glass of the impressive black jet nestled along the southern tree line. Storm sat at its pilot seat, unwilling to give in to the exhaustion as it tugged at her and too stubborn to let go of the clouds above. For nearly an hour now she had remained in this seat, staring at the same patch, pouring every last shred of her power, her heart, and her soul into angering the night sky above. Without word to the wise, without a friendly voice to tell her it was over, she would continue until physically and mentally it became impossible. The strain, however, was taking its toll, wearing her thin, stretching her beyond her scope. A pressure had begun to build in the overcast midway into the near hour long excursion, one she struggled to fight. She could sense the fat, engorged droplets of rain gather at the base of the electrically charged clouds she had forged. Slowly it was amassing and slowly her ability to keep them at bay waned. Still she fought it, berating herself as sly drops slipped past her resolve.
She didn't know how much longer she could hold out, how much longer she could go without knowing what was becoming of her teammates, her friends, her family. The stress was threatening to take her under and she was starting to appease the idea. Two solid and heavy drops of rain bounced on the windshield before the weather goddess, diminishing the resolve, making victory a murky idea. Stealing herself, she tried to intensify her power, a crease knitting menacingly along her forehead when the force of it only weakened her further. Mother Nature wanted to release her bounty, the foreboding entity pushing for the downpour.
In the end, Storm was no match for the ancient being. In the end, sounds of light footfalls racing up the metal ramp behind her and a brash feminine voice startled her enough to give Mother Nature the upper hand. In the end the sky opened up and a torrent of rain rushed downward as gusts of wind became violent and forceful. In the end, when the weight lifted from the lithe woman, she slumped forward just barely catching herself against the control panel.
"Ms. Monroe?" Jubilee questioned timidly, the once viral and overzealous girl no longer so. Coming to her elders side, she knelt down, concern wafting for the compromised Storm.
Gazing down at the distressed Jubilee, Storm offered a pursed but assuring smile. Through labored breath she spoke, "I am fine, the others?"
At the mention of the troupe behind her, Jubilee's face reddened and her eyes watered, instilling fear in the tired woman. "They're coming," Jubilee murmured softly, "Boss Man's hurt, we had to come back."
"How badly?" Storm asked, becoming alarmed and attempting to erect herself, to which she failed.
Swiftly the younger of the two ushered her back down, hurriedly rushing to explain, "No, no, no… Don't get up. It's just a shoulder wound, Hank says he'll be fine."
"You're sure?" she queried despite the visible mellow washing over her.
Jubilee shrugged halfheartedly. "Apparently it looks worse than it is."
As the younger woman spoke the words, more footfalls graced the ramp and both turned eagerly. The crown of Scott's head and Bobby's stress-marked face appeared first through the thickness of night's hold. A mass of blue clung to the two men's heals, the grave-faced doctor toeing behind. The sight of their hallowed leader nearly folded over, just barely clinging to the boy, forced Storm to silently pray that Jubilee's words were true and it was simply worse in appearance.
"Over there," Hank directed the men, pointing to the row of seats lining the wall in the back.
Hoisting the slightly moaning man up to get a better grip, Bobby followed the command. The leader gasped sharply as he was eased onto the seat, trying to help with the movements, but unable. Propping him up against the wall, Bobby quickly darted out of Hank's way. Storm watched grimly as the complete upper half of Scott's uniform was peeled off, revealing more blood than she had seen come from one man. A gruesome raspberry red had drenched the once white cloth and had drizzled down his chest and side. Sternly, Beast barked orders to the ashen faced boy and the women watched him dance around the back heeding each one with conviction.
Suddenly a shadow dawned on Storm's dark put paled complexion. "Wait, where's Wolverine and Rogue?"
No one answered. The three men at the back ignoring the question and the teen crouched at her side bowing away.
"Jubilation Lee, tell me," she hotly whispered.
Abashed and flushed the girl forced her head to tilt towards Storm as she obeyed. "We had to come back… so Logan went ahead. He'll find her, I know he will." The latter was added as an after thought but bared every last tendril of belief the girl still harbored.
Storm found herself believing it too. The Wolverine would bridge heaven and hell f or Rogue. So it wasn't a question of him bringing her home, it was more of what state she would be in. Gazing tiredly out the vast windshield at the pitch-blackness, broken solidly by crashes of thunder, she nervously watched as the rain fell harder, heavy pelts sounding along the entirety of the large bird.
On the opposite end of the enormous facility, three huddled men raced from its southern entrance. Kemelman, welded between the two, held an arm above his head to keep the strikingly cold drops from stinging his face. The earth beneath their feet loosened under the battering becoming slick and threatening to swallow each step the men took. As one they forged uphill, slipping and fighting the muddy slope. Once at the top, the man to Kemelman's right strayed ahead, racing towards a gleaming, unmarked, black helicopter. The other two remained at the edge of the landing pad, the soldier turning to his commanding officer.
"What about the others?" the short, soaking man cried out to Kemelman trying to overcome the sound of rain, the wind, and the helicopter's motor starting.
Arm still raised above his head, Kemelman blinked passed the rivers of rainwater as they trickled down his face and threatened his eyes. "What about them?"
The helicopter struggled against the third man's tinkering, interrupting the leader's words. Both officer and commander watched as the long blades shifted but refused to do more. The engine sputtered gratefully to life and then mercilessly died again.
Growing frustrated by the continuing barrage of piercing rain, the failure to start the helicopter and the soldier's insubordinate question, Kemelman turned once more to the officer and spat venomously. "If anyone else were coming they'd be here by now!"
The young officer moved to rebut but did not, knowing that if he so choose, Kemelman would leave him behind as well. "Yes, sir," he forced out in a sort of curse.
Once again the massive machine's engine refused to turn over, the man inside becoming indignant to its disobedience. A flurry of hands raced along its cramped control panel, flicking switches and tapping gauges, desperate for the drenched contraction to burst to life. Freeing his now frozen hands from weighed down leather gloves he attacked the panel more viciously, attempting to the start once more before halting to glare venomously at the fuel gauge. Tauntingly the needle spiked along the circle as power was forced though the machine. Damagingly the thin red stick dropped to its beginning point, mockingly indicating to a vibrantly colored and bold E that rested on the bottom. The fuel tank was mercilessly empty, had been suckled dry and never replenished.
"Shit!" he spat, slamming a balled up, glove-less and tinting hand on the meter scale. Teasingly it bounced, hiking upward before cascading down and coming to rest at a mark lower than it had before. "Fucking hell!"
Snatching his gloves up from the passenger seat and forcing them into his back pocket, he grabbed the upper rim on the left side and pulled himself out. Ignoring the searing glare from Kemelman, he pointed at the younger officer.
"Go back inside and get me the damned replacement fuel!" he shouted over the wind's rushing force.
Peering at Kemelman for permission and receiving it, the ensign darted towards the reckless hill, taking to it as fast as he could. Each foothold nearly caved under his mass of weight until the loose earth gave out under him. Ruthlessly he fought the tumble as his heels sunk into the muddy terrain, forcing his bodyweight back. Overcompensating by leaning forward too steeply, his entire form spitefully tipped forward, careening him the rest of the way down the hill. Coming to a sloppy, soaking, and dirty heap at the base of the treacherous slope, he stilled, sprawled and heaving. Giving himself a second to check himself for injury, he tactlessly and gracelessly trotted to his feet. He started for the entrance, never picking up the faint and perverse chuckle that flowed from the darkened corner; the sound so soft, it was engulfed instantly by the weather's own powerful tone.
"You idiot! How could you let it run out of gas?" Kemelman bellowed at the other solider. Having retained his stance along the concrete platform, he had to squint passed the downpour simply to glare condescendingly.
"I didn't, sir!" the officer yelled as he reached into the back of the helicopter and pulled out a toolbox. Rounding the machine, he came face to face with its nose and its engine. "I was the last one to fly it and I distinctly remember filling it!"
"Then why the hell is it empty, Sergeant?" Kemelman retorted maliciously.
"I don't know, sir!" he disrespectfully blurted back as he opened the engine's casing. Hoisting the flap above his head just barely protected him from the pour. The gales managed to angle the shower just enough to pursue its violation on his shivering frame. Placing the toolbox on the ground under the nose, he unclasped it and pulled out a thin pen sized flashlight. With butt end in his mouth, he switched it on and delved into the immense and bare engine before him.
On the sideline Kemelman's anger was exponentially growing with each new added pound of waterlogged cloth. The black trench coat lay plastered to his thick and long frame, the moonlight reflecting along the creases and planes of the expensive covering. His gray woolen suit was now damaged beyond repair, the liquid bypassing the coat ruined the frail fabric. Seeking shelter from the storm was pointless now, so he folded his arms menacingly and leered through half-slit eyes. As he shifted, an uncomfortable and eerie wave cascaded along his spine. The nervous and paranoid feeling of someone watching and stalking disturbingly pressed upon him, making him inclined to graze the tree line around the fifty by fifty-foot takeoff platform. The suffocating cloud cover, that just barely allowed a sliver of the moon to pierce it, hindered the surveillance. Nothing beyond the looming and towering shadow of trees was visible, the undergrowth imprisoned in darkness.
As paranoia descended on the graying Kemelman, the soldier, elbow deep in the helicopter, started to feel his own pang of nervousness. The circumstances felt wrong and the engine before him felt off, somehow not normal. It wasn't until he delved deeper that the haunting sensation solidified with blaring force. Holding the impressive machine's fuel line in hand and inspecting it, he didn't have to look far to find the brutal and jagged hole that had bled the gas. For a moment the ramifications didn't settle, an inquisitive brown furrowing, but when it did he sharply gasped, dropping the offensive tubing.
Quitting his fruitless endeavor, Kemelman veered back towards the helicopter. The eerie and ominous feeling grew twofold when the sergeant seemed to fumble. The soldier tuned to Kemelman with a look of anger and hatred. They connected eyes for barely a second before the sergeant's gaze shifted to glare behind Kemelman. The loathing on the soldier's face evaporated, fear replacing it as the flashlight fell from his lips and rolled under the helicopter. The reaction settled on Kemelman five seconds too late. The mussel of a handgun dipped into his peripheral vision, the soldier strayed for his own and a shot rang out.
The sheer sonic boom resounding in Kemelman's ears shattered his left eardrum, the flash sending his eyes into shock, temporarily blinding him. Crying out, he stumbled, grabbing at his ear as the painful pop burrowed. Vertigo set in, heightened by his visionless state and causing him to falter. Falling to his knees, chest heaving as adrenaline scoured his veins and endangered his heart, a fear overwhelmed him. Essentially blinded and one ear scrupulously destroyed, he was the epitome of an open target. With only one working ear he couldn't hear past his own haggard breaths or the wailing storm still surging around him. The frightened pace of his heart refused to quell, refused to grant him the ability to calm.
Uncaring, indifferent and haunted eyes watched as the once boasting and pride filled man scampered along the rain-soaked ground like a dog desperately trying to discern his surroundings. The pathetic, pitiful sight of this man, who had put it all in motion, who had manipulated and destroyed the lives of dozens, who had instilled so much fear; it satisfied a portion of the redemption all his victims deserved.
Finally managing to suppress the stupor as well as the panic, Kemelman came to a leery and pensive rest sitting on bent legs. The bright flash that scoured his sight had finally dissipated but his range was diminished. Shapes no longer took form and a hollow void of obscurity took over. The storm combined with the hour of night had already drowned most light but now bare glimmers appeared along his iris. Each was indiscernible without context, but he refused to succumb to it, his face persistently shifting to gain a better view, like he believed that in doing so he could rid himself of the murkiness.
Moderating his breaths to mere shallow inhales and honing his ears, the splashes of rain became crystal clear in his mind. Filtering through it he succeeded in catching a faint and hitching sound of breathing along with barren, naked feet softly hitting the slick concrete.
"The Rogue," he murmured, his voice wafting from his purpling lips, fog lacing his warm breath, the searing wind almost sweeping the sound away.
The watered-down stride stopped, the breaths unwavering.
"I should have known," he said wistfully. "One man could never have destroyed you."
He was idolizing and praising yet taunting at the same time, covertly reminding her that she was his creation so of course he should have known. Another splashing step echoed amongst the pelting raindrops.
"Answer me this," he seethed hauntingly, "Did you even shed a tear when you killed her?"
A deafening silence followed the demeaning and heart-wrenching question. Lightening streaked the gloom above, thunder crashing soundly seconds after. Still the woman he knew had hunted him said nothing.
"Did it even affect you, did you even bat an eye when she took her last breath? Or did it matter to you whether she lived or died?" She was supposed to have crumbled and withered away, it was supposed to have made her pliable and easy to manipulate or kill as it had come to. That it had failed, gave him diverse emotions. Anger was the obvious, but the lesser expected and most definitely more prominent, was glee.
"You're heartless," he mused, triumph and delight pressing upon his tone. "You're perfect," he breathed, becoming almost elated, a look of bliss washing over him. "I never should have placed you in that family. That program was the government's not mine. They refused to sanction killing kids who didn't have the mutant gene but they weren't kids they were experiments. If I'd known that all my work could have produced a weapon like you… I would have ignored it. Can you imagine how majestic and powerful you would be right now? The perfect tool, endowed with every power I could get my hands on. You'd be indestructible and mine to wield.
"These past few days of mind games have been a waste of time. I should have just barged in there and taken you, instead of leaving a paper trail for your little friends to follow. The damn pussyfooted politicians refused, of course. They didn't want another raiding of that school to be on the six o'clock news, didn't want the scandal. I had no choice. If I had just been left to do it on my own-"
"Enough!" The sudden bellow of a voice not his own shattered his escalating and morbid justification. "Yah have no one else ta blame but yah own arrogance, Richard. Yah thought yah had it all figured out, all yahr bases covered but yah forgot one wholly important thang. Yah are messin' with human beings!"
"You aren't a human-" Kemelman spewed with disgust. A splatter of violent steps rushed at him, water spraying against his face as an arm was pulled back.
"Shut up!" Rogue spat, bringing the arm down and ramming the butt end of the gun into his temple. Ceremoniously he toppled over, soundly colliding with the water-laden platform.
"Yahr problem, Richard," Rogue said corrosively, "is yah neva stopped ta think that maybe one o' yahr own agents could possibly come ta love meh like her own child. You neva allowed yahrself to presume that one o' yahr creations could possibly hate yah for what yah made of him, that he might not want ta follow yah. Yah even refused ta entertain tha thought that tha people who love meh would do anythang ta save meh. Yah weren't prepared for somethin' that should have been obvious."
The man's vision started to clear and a vague perception of Rogue's frail form graced him. With trepidation he watched as the thin lining lowered to his side, coming to hover over him. Frantically, he tried to sit up.
"But most o' all… yah forgot that sometimes," she snarled, climbing onto his chest, bent knees pressing his arms into the rock beneath him. The mussel of what he could only suspect was the handgun, rammed into his chest as he surged upward, the force shoving him back down.
"When yah push an yah push." Again the metal was shoved into his chest, stealing his breath. "On someone, they don't always fall ova, some just get pissed off!" This time the southern woman spat the words like a seething, demeaning and damning curse, her shadow pressing forward to linger over him. She was close enough now for Kemelman to make out the cut on her lip from her fall in the bathroom of her first cell. The bruise that tainted her cheek from when his men attempted to subdue her after Kale had died and a line of bruises around her neck from where her mother had tried to strangle her. It all glared down at him, foretold of his own fate.
"Yahr ego did this, not tha government, not tha bureaucrats, yah. Yah have failed, take responsibility, die with some honor like a man," she condescendingly cooed, taking a page from his own book.
For a tangible moment neither one moved. The monster was effectively pinned beneath the victim, her form blocking the rain, allowing him to gaze up unwaveringly, allowing a disturbing but ultimate truth to settle within the condemned man. A grin formed along with the idea.
"Have you seen yourself?" he questioned suddenly, throwing her off. "Have you even taken a moment to realize what you've done? Not just today but everyday since you escaped all those years ago? How many lives have you destroyed just by being what you are? I poured over your precious box like a proud father and I lost count. All those men and women and their families, both your mothers, Kale Peters, the soldiers you killed today and their families, those people who have come for you!"
"That box was filled with accidents…" It was the only one she could refute, the only one she could defend and he knew it.
"What about the rest? The sergeant over there, the captain, the young ensign… your mother? I even heard that one of your friends, your loved ones, was shot… What about them?"
The rain searing her back, soaking through the thin hospital shirt, the rocks digging into her knees though the thin pants, the stinging of bruises and cuts, it all faded away, a torture wrapping its bone thin claws around her, stifling her. It amused him, made him chuckle.
"I may have lost but I haven't failed. Your Pandora's box and your very nature are testaments to that. You can't help but ruin everything you touch," he teased and taunted, becoming completely pleased with himself. "It may not be exactly what I had wanted to create, but it gives me solace and I can't think of a better way to die than by your corrupted and poisonous hands."
Instead of crumbling further, the woman atop him turned blank before a self-serving smile rendered itself. "Yah're right… 'bout one thang anyway. Ah did destroy everythin' that Ah have eva came inta contact with… But not anymore." At his confusion her Cheshire grin grew. "Yahr ego really, truly is yahr downfall, Richard."
Arching forward until her face hovered next to his ear, she breathed, "Yah collared meh, remember?" Violently she pressed her cheek to his and spat, "Put an inhibitor in mah neck ta force meh ta kill mah own motha an Ah have no reason ta eva take it out." Rogue drawling the last few words in a slow and cocky manner as she reared back from him.
She wallowed in the realization as it tore through him, displaying visibly and tantalizingly along his ashen, angular and age-marked face. What finally settled was refusal and determination. Sharply, the man bucked under her. She tried to hold him down, making her first mistake in forgetting about his legs. The two powerful limbs jutted into the air, tucked under her arms and wrapped around her torso in a tight squeeze before violently shoving. The momentum drove Rogue's back into the puddle-ridden concrete and the intensity of it forced the air from her lungs. Her arms flung back, hitting the ground and loosing their hold on the gun, her second mistake. The position they landed in gave either the upper hand. Kemelman had her arms pinned beneath his legs but hers were wrapped around his waste. The deciding factor was Rogue's still gasping lungs, giving Kemelman the time to disentangle himself.
Struggling to a stance and tearing off the long, hindering and soaked trench coat, he cast it aside. Advancing off the still startled Rogue, he maliciously kicked her, the point of his shoe colliding with the bruise the captain had made in her first cell in the same manner. A gargled scream tore through her, the little air she had regained dwarfing as she curled in on herself. Kemelman had the advantage in that she was wounded, battered and bruised and he was not.
"It is not, going to end, like that," he barked as he leaned down to grab her drenched and tangled hair, the sheer act of winding the strands around his fingers sending waves of searing pain though her scalp. With the grip he'd forged, he pulled, forcing her off the ground and onto shaky feet. He didn't let her stand fully, keeping his hold an inch or two below her natural height and forcing her to lean painfully into it. He twisted his grip and thrust her until she was bent over, rain once again pounding into her back, her neck exposed to him.
"Stop it!" she begged through clenched teeth, moving to fight the hold and letting out a piercing whine when it caused only pain.
"Shut up," he mocked, repeating her own words before his grubby finger's grabbed at the black knob nestled deeply into the woman's neck.
When he pulled the scream that followed was shattering, echoed in a malevolent strike of thunder and lightning. Fire raged through the woman, her body going weak and numb, adding weight to his grip and forcing him to let her drop to her knees. It became obvious that the technology was irreparably attached to the nerves in the woman's spine. That Kemelman didn't know this, did not go unnoticed to Rogue who was desperately trying to keep pitiful sobs within her quaking chest.
Holding her in that position, it dawned on Kemelman that he would not be able to remove it without killing her and going back into the complex was too dangerous, the other mutants surely had to be roaming it still. The solution was clear. He wasn't about to let her go on leashed like a dog and if she couldn't upkeep his intentions, couldn't continue her destruction, then she was useless. Watching her struggle to surpass the pain, he mercilessly jerked the hand holding her hair. When she bellowed and the tears burst forth he tossed her to the ground where she lay sprawled and sobbing.
Warily, he walked over to the sergeant's body, never taking his eyes off her until he bent down to grab the deceased man's weapon. That was his final mistake. As his thick fingered hand clasped the gun a looming shadow appeared at the top of the boggy hill. Righting himself, he sauntered arrogantly back to Rogue's trembling form. Gasping and moaning, she labored to turn over, to look him in the eye so that when he pulled that trigger she would know she died with conviction.
"It's a pity," Kemelman said seriously with a hint of regret. "But a necessity."
When the gun cocked, Rogue became righteous, welcoming what was to come with dignity and courage, her gaze never wavering. A single shot blazed the hilltop along with a gargled wheeze flowing from the paralyzed woman as she waited for a pain that would never come. Kemelman's eyes widened beyond their scope, the gun slipping from his loosened grip and clanking on the ground. The gaze between enemies never faltered as the crumbling leader of a broken regime tilted, his torso twisting as he toppled, chest and cheek hitting the ground, eyes permanently blind to the world.
"Like hell it is," a voice suddenly rasped.
The confused but relieved woman let her vision drift until through squinted eyes she saw her lost pistol resting in the hands of the Wolverine. The breath imprisoned in her lungs released itself in a wispy sigh, morphing into a tempered moan. Through the debilitating pain and guilt a prick of bliss managed to surpass the others. Seeing his warm, familiar face, slicked in rain and pensively drawn into an indiscernible but fully welcomed expression, it broke her. Watery sobs heaved within her lithe chest as she strayed to peer up at the gloom ridden sky. The cleansing drops caressed her face, her eyes fluttering against the onslaught as it mingled and masked her tears, making them obsolete.
"It's over, darlin'," the ever-constant hero proclaimed as he knelt by her side, a massive palm reaching out and forming around her bruised and trembling cheek. "It's over."
The words created to soothe, wreaked the opposite as the wounded woman curled in on his warm touch, the quakes swelling. A tempered, strained moan shuddered through her and her face contorted as fear, guilt and sorrow raged. Mercifully, the boorish man bridged the space between them and effortlessly though tenderly brought her to his chest. Timid hands gratefully clung to sopping leather, a tormented weep bursting from the frail woman. Logan's hold tightened as his own impassive features rippled with relief and empathy. Fiercely Rogue's beaten arms entombed him; as she clutched, her torn hands clawing to make the hold deeper, knocked the heavy man off his feet. Instinctually the desperation was returned, a rhythmic rocking burgeoning between them.
She sobbed openmouthed and unabashedly, sobbed for every last shred of pity, hatred, shame, mental scarring, and physical abuse she had endured not just in the past few days but in her entire life. The dam had not just broken, but it had shattered into millions of pieces, leaving her unable to control the hysterics. The force of her hold made her want to scream as it pressed and pulled on bruise and cut alike, but she relished it, took it onto herself as penance for having survived where so many others hadn't. Frantic hands refused to find a singular position, frenzying along the man's back and neck with hopeless abandon. Curling one hand into her hair, the other melding to her lower back, Logan let her tears fall, ignoring the prickle that nestled along the edges of his own hazel eyes.
"It's okay, baby," he senselessly murmured in a panicked but hushed tone, repeating it over and over with each sway. Logan tried to quell her, tried to ease the crushing guilt as it swarmed, but it was no use. Wave after wave kept coming, making him feel useless and desperate.
Tear ducts drying, she muttered weakly, "Ah'm sorry," in between gut wrenching, dry sobs.
"No," Logan cursed, strengthening the smooth circles playing out on her back. "No one blames ya darlin', no one."
"No… yah don't, yah don't under-" she tried to speak but couldn't breach the trembles coursing and hindering.
"Shh, darlin'," he whispered into her ear, pressing a chaste kiss. "Ya ain't got nothin' ta be ashamed off, nothin'. We ain't mad, not a one, you hear me?"
Hiccuping and convulsing, she swallowed as much of the tears as she could and peeled herself from him, seeking the comfort of his eyes. The darkened forest in her stare glimmered and jumped with unshakable sorrow and humiliation. They pierced him, delving to search for the foundation of his words. It was so bold and glaring, the complete love, utter empathy, and full, total understanding. She didn't deserve it and it only served in intensifying the guttural remorse.
"There's," she stammered through gargled breaths. "So much yah'll don't know."
Palm firmly grasping her non-bruised cheek, thumb brushing warmth into the pale flesh, he hushed, "You are not the only one with a past, darlin', or a dark one at that."
Slowly she realized how strikingly similar she and the Wolverine truly were. The connotation in his words spoke his own personal awareness and the woman's nerves lessened because he knew. How could he not with the past he had?
"Tha others?" she whispered, unsure of the answer and if she even wanted it.
"They're waitin' for us on the other side. One-Eye got himself into a little scrap but he's gonna be fine," he reasoned.
Rogue nodded jerkily, swallowing stiffly as a shiver of cold ran up her spine. Exhaustion settled over the pair, the woman dipping to rest against Logan's chest. As much as she deserved a moment of rest, as much as she wanted it, both knew now was not the time. Determination settled, masking how utterly broken she was. The lithe woman before him became eerily calm and collected, doing so with the understanding that for now she had to be strong. He could only feel pride.
Logan stood slowly, taking her with him. "Think you can stand on your own?"
"A-a-ah don't know," she wheezed, the physical realm resurfacing without abandon. Letting her naked feet touch the cool ground, he loosened his hold and she faltered, falling back against him with a hiss.
"Guess not," he chided, lightly gaining a faint and bitter smile from Rogue. Pulling her arm around his waist, pressing her to his side, he half carried her towards the muddy slope. Eyeing the rockier terrain, he moved to pick her up but a hand on his arm stalled the action.
"There's a… there's somethin' Ah gotta do," she gave in answer to his mute question.
"Alright," he agreed, somber and accepting of this brave creature before him.
When the couple reached their destination, they found an anxious Mystique pacing along the threshold that housed Rogue's biggest shame and love. The blue woman would have started searching for a way out earlier, but something had kept pulling her back. There had been neither rhyme nor reason for it and the words to describe it were fleeting. All she had was a vague notion to stay and wait.
When her harvest eyes met deadened green, her chest felt like it had caved in. Without hesitation she stepped forward and pulled the young woman from the towering man. Silently Mystique kissed Rogue's cheek then took her disheveled appearance in.
"You're soaking wet," she surmised pathetically. It wasn't what she'd wanted to say but it's what came out. "Which you obviously know," she added in embarrassment.
"Yeah," Rogue murmured with a slight chuckle.
Darkness descended as Mystique gave voice to her fear. "Did you?" She didn't need to expand, all three mutants knew.
"No," Rogue regretfully returned. "Ah, Ah tried."
"Well you look like hell," Mystique returned, ignoring the callousness in her daughter's tone as relief took over, the grip on Rogue's arms decidedly caressing along her tired muscles.
"An' Ah feel like it too," Rogue murmured, having to physically impede the ripe tears as they welled.
"For good reason," Mystique said compellingly with an underlining meaning, one that spoke of knowledge and let Rogue know she was one less person that would need a full explanation.
Refuting the need to embrace her surrogate mother, Rogue composed herself, swallowing stiffly and turning to the open room. She meant to say goodbye, to drink in the woman once known as mother and to make a solemn promise to not let her death be in vain. The vow atop that hill was more than a proclamation to end the destruction; it was to be the end of her constant running from hardship, the end of the lies and deceit, the end of her self-loathing and pity. Those were the things Kemelman had wanted when he'd spoken of solace. They were what this angelic woman, draped in tainted white cloth, had sacrificed herself to prevent. Rogue was going to be strong, for her mother, for her friends, for her loves, and for herself. Anything less would dishonor all that had been lost so she could live.
The intended goodbye, however, became a vigil as Rogue knelt alongside the mother, a trembling hand pressing against her covered face, silence taking over. The thought of leaving her in this place that broke her made her sick. She couldn't abandon her, so Logan once again became her saving grace, somehow knowing without knowing.
He appeared at her side, knelt in kind and softly spoke, "We'll take her with us."
Turning to look at him somberly, she leaned in, touching her cheek to his simply because she could and whispered, "Thank yah."
Logan returned the gesture in kind adding a faint brush of lips along the angry bruise that marred her porcelain flesh. When he moved to take the body onto himself Rogue stopped him.
"She's mah burden," she reasoned softly but sternly.
"Which makes her mine," Logan returned as tenderly as his gruff voice would allow.
It took every fiber of her to accept that, the act of sharing her weight was unfamiliar and frightening. She did though, not because of the look on his face, but because it was time to finally concede and let someone else bare her cross for a while.
The thunderstorm was finally mellowing, the rain still poured, but the darkness of the clouds had nearly evaporated. The jet was revved, courtesy of Storm who had done so to distract herself from the emergency surgery that had been performed behind her. With the bullet removed, Hank had moved the unconscious Scott to the front, strapping him into one of the chairs to keep him from being jarred too much. The doctor himself now stood near the ramp, waiting on bated breath for what he hoped wouldn't be another medial crisis. The weathered boy was sitting across from his resting leader with Jubilee draped across his lap, her head relaxed on his shoulder. Silently they both watched the sleeping man, echoing Hank in his impatient but silent wait for whatever was going to grace them.
The couple leaned forward and peered around the chair; the weather goddess swiveled in her own when Hank let out a started gasp. All four eyes watched hesitantly as the blue nemesis solemnly took to the ramp, moved to stand beside Hank and watched sadly as Rogue followed struggling in silence with her pain. Mystique's feminine arms curled around the young woman from behind giving strength as Logan soon emulated the women, carrying the body gently in his arms. Once Logan was inside, the ramp was closed and the bird settled into silence.
Rogue forgot about the others as Logan walked to the back, her feet moving to follow but Mystique's hold preventing it.
"He'll take care of her," the older woman said lightly into her ear, bare and naked fingers making circles on Rogue's equally bare forearm.
Of the three anomalies, the dead body, the closeness between friend and foe, and the skin on skin contact, it was the latter that took them all back. It caused Jubilee to slide from the boy's lap and advance on the encumbered woman. She tried to ignore the medley of abrasions and the gleam on her friend's face as she listlessly turned her head to gaze back. Neither spoke as Jubilee reached out, her fingertips pressing into soft silky skin, her eyes widening in awe when the pull never came.
"How?" Jubilee stuttered, lining more of her palm along the safe and warm flesh.
Rogue didn't respond, enthralled by her friend's hand on her arm and stifled by the true and cruel reason for why. From behind, Mystique tightened her hold, resting her head atop Rogue's in an intimate show of empathy.
"It's a long story," the cerulean woman commented by proxy.
"And one that I hope can wait," Hank amended as he wordlessly asked Mystique to relinquish her hold. "At the moment, I'd like to take a look at you."
The mute woman nodded with a shaky sigh, letting him lead her away. Not knowing any better Jubilee leered at the mutant left behind, mistrust burning hotly. Mystique let it slide, shaking her head at the gesture before quietly following the doctor and her daughter. Recognizing there truly was a long story to all of this, Storm beckoned the girl back to her seat before setting the jet into motion all the while knowing the mission was complete, but the chaos was not.
Author's Notes: Well that one is a long one isn't it? Okay not that long but in comparison to the other chapters it is. Now first off I need to give a big thank you to my good friend and newly appointed Beta, Paca, for doing the impossible and fixing my mistakes. In other words if you find one you can take his head off not mine ! Secondly I would like you all to know that I have loved each and ever last review, from the lifers (Rogue Chere) to the one-timers, from the long ones(Rogue Chere) to the short but sweet ones. I could not have gone on with out them. Thirdly THIS IS NOT THE END... There is at least one more chapter, an epilogue/tie up of loose ends. Fourthly (I am not a windbag, I swear!) for those of you who have taken the time to read my author's note throughout the chapters and possibly my other stories you then know about my pesky little knee problem, you know the one I've whined and complained about... Yes, that one. Well in about four days(The 19th of January) I am going in for my second surgery to try and fix it. That having been said the nineteenth chapter may not get posted for awhile... And you're thinking to yourself 'What else is knew?' I know, I know, but I have been trying to rid myself of that pesky little problem (taking forever to get another chapter done). I still have four days and I will try my damndest to get it done - if I don't however it may be more then three weeks before I can get back onto a computer at which point I will be begging and pleading for forgiveness... Okay fine! I am a windbag! Oi! ... lol>
I do hope you enjoy this chapter... if you don't blame Paca cause that's what I like to do. Love you guys and if I don't get to post before hand then I wish you all fun times and good reading.
-Gimpy-
