To recap what was posted so long ago -- Rogue has been captured by Essex, and (of course) he's planning to use her to build a better mutant by exposing her to humans and mutants and charting what happens to her DNA.

At the mansion, the X-Men are trying to track Rogue down, and Remy and Logan have bonded over Remy's explanation of what happened in Paris.Several years ago, he seduced another thief, Genevieve Darceneaux, in order to steal a priceless necklace. Unfortunately, Sabretooth held Remy's brother and Genevieve hostage to get the jewel back, and Remy had to choose which hostage to save. He chose Henri, and Gennie was dropped to her death. It was all quite tragic, really, and poor Remy has felt guilty ever since.

And here you go.

"You're recovering nicely," Essex said, examining her bare hands carefully.

Rogue stayed silent, glaring at Essex and fighting the urge to strain at the now-familiar metal restraints that held her in place. It was useless to rise to his bait, she knew, and while she still put up a fight every time the guards came to her cell, it was only to convince herself that she hadn't given up completely.

Essex made a notation on the chart he carried, then moved to her feet. "Victor's healing factor does prove useful, doesn't it?"

She craned her head, attempting to get a better look at her hands. The periodic skin samples he took from them were becoming routine, as was the post-harvest absorption of Sabretooth. Even after her skin regrew, her hands and feet still tingled with a searing pain at odd moments. Rogue couldn't tell if it was a phantom pain or if the regeneration was somehow incomplete. Her hands, though, looked fine. Slim, white, long-fingered, with nails bitten down to the quick. Even healing factors couldn't fix that.

"I'm very pleased with the latest test results," he said as he reviewed a nearby computer screen. "You're exhibiting traces of the foreign DNA for longer and longer periods."

She nearly snarled at him. "You're making me hold on for longer," she snapped. "That's how it works, dumbass."

He smiled, cool and patronizing. "Perhaps. But it's also possible that your body is learning how to preserve the changes. It's quite encouraging."

She tried to shrug. She had lost count of how many mutants she had absorbed since arriving in the lab, but the personalities collecting in her head were taking a greater effort to control each time, despite her attempts to integrate them, despite the carefully constructed walls she had grown so skilled at putting up. The idea that her body was collecting mutations the way her head was collecting residents was hardly what she would call encouraging.

Essex moved closer, affixed the leads to her chest. "You know, Rogue, I think we're close to a breakthrough. One that should appeal even to you."

"Ah kinda doubt that."

"Come, now. Every time you experience another absorption, I map another change to your haplotypes. Once we've completed this phase, I will possess a thorough understanding of which genes control which mutations. And that is the key to controlling them," he added meaningfully.

"Control them," she said slowly. "You could turn it off?"

"Eventually, yes. Just think," he continued, eyes gleaming, smile wide and unsettling, "the ability to induce mutations in any strand of DNA. To combine them. To cancel them. All based on your genetic template, Rogue. It's beautiful, really. Elegant."

"You're lying."

He sobered. "I never lie about science."

She shook her head. "It can't be controlled. The professor said -- "

He cut her off smoothly, amusement coloring his voice. "You're made of molecules, my dear, not magic. Certainly, it's a complex bit of science, but controlling mutations is by no means impossible. Of course, if your professor admitted that, he'd lose his hold over you. You're a powerful young woman, Rogue. Xavier has held out the possibility of control like a carrot, and you've followed along dutifully, just as he had hoped for. You fight for his side, you allow him to harness your abilities to further his agendas, and you give him tacit control of your skills. What incentive does he have to encourage your independence?"

He just does. He's the Professor! she wanted to insist. But defending him to Essex seemed childish somehow, seemed to mark her belief in the Professor as gullible and naïve. Especially, she thought grimly, when he hadn't sent the rest of the team to rescue her yet. She knew from her time in Area 51 that an extraction took time to plan, even once the target was located. But at night, curled in her cell with the echoes of her latest victims fresh in her mind, she couldn't help but wonder what was taking the X-Men so long.

Then again, she reminded herself, she had no idea how long she'd been here with Essex. At the very least, a few weeks – at most, a couple of months. The absorptions and experiments occurred at random intervals. She had days where she absorbed four mutants, and days where she did nothing but sit in her cell and wait. She used the time to meditate, to keep up her training, to recall every bit of her time at the Institute as a defense against the memories of the other personalities.

Now, though, she flinched as Essex double-checked the restraints and tried to marshal her energy for the next absorption.

A technician entered, pushing an orange-skinned mutant on a gurney. Rogue couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, knew the question would be answered for her in a few minutes anyway.

The other mutant looked at her, eyes slitted like a cat's and wide with fear.

"Ah'm sorry," she whispered, and returned her gaze to the ceiling as the motorized arm of her gurney whirred and her hand reached out.

Remy ducked into the diner, jerked his chin in recognition at the figure in the back booth. He unbuttoned his trench and slid in across from the other man.

"Coffee?" asked the waitress, an apple-cheeked blonde in a pink uniform dress. She looked, Remy thought, like she had just stepped off the bus from Iowa.

"You an' angel, petite," he drawled, rewarding her with a warm, slow smile. He turned the cup over. "De pecan pie as sweet as you?"

She blushed. "Yes. I mean, no. I'm not…it's good."

"Okay, den. I'll take a piece. Merci."

She blushed and poured the coffee, then scampered back behind the counter. The other man rolled his eyes. "You gotta do that with every waitress you meet?"

He shrugged. "Always good t'keep y'hand in. Besides, it don' cost nothin'." He took a sip of the coffee, bitter and burned from sitting too long, and grimaced. "An' mebbe she decide t'brew a fresh pot for de handsome Cajun, non?"

Anton Vesaly scoffed. "Every time I meet up with you, Gambit, it's the same thing. You schmooze the waitress, and order pecan pie."

"I like pecan pie. Ain' a crime."

"Nope. But you never eat it. Two, three bites, and you leave the rest. What's up with that?"

"Never tastes right. Too Yankee."

Anton stared at him. "No offense, man, but you are one weird sonofabitch."

"Been called worse, mon ami." They fell silent as the waitress the pie and a fresh pot of coffee. Remy took another, cautious sip and sighed in relief. Then his gaze sharpened. "You asked around, den?"

Anton Vesaly nodded regretfully. "Nobody tried to hire any of my people to take her, Gambit. Truth is, we probably would've passed on the job."

"Non?" His voice was only slightly suspicious, but he kept his eyes on Anton as he took a bite of pie.

"She was an X-Man, wasn't she?"

"Still is," Remy said stiffly, the pie suddenly tasting chalky at the implication.

"Yeah, well, it wouldn't exactly be good for business, you know? We don't like that kind of attention."

Remy nodded. Of all his contacts in the New York guild, Anton was the one he trusted most – experienced enough to have proven his talent and trustworthiness, young enough that he didn't automatically cast his vote with the older generation of thieves. And most importantly, he was discreet.

"What 'bout Dane?" Mechanically, he took another bite, chewed thoughtfully.

Anton's recitation was professional and brisk. "Low-key. We'd heard of him, but never crossed paths before. No guild affiliations. Worked New York and Boston, mostly. Hired muscle, but smart."

"Dead," Remy said dryly.

Anton chuckled, took out a cigarette, and offered one to Remy. "That too."

Remy shook his head, but lit Anton's with a touch. "Anything else I should know 'bout?"

Anton paused, taking a deep drag, and weighed exactly how much he could tell Remy without betraying Jean-Luc LeBeau's confidence. Gambit's appearance in New York had seemed like a boon, to begin with. As Harvest Master, Anton knew exactly how much the mutant's escapades had contributed to the New York Guild's coffers. What he hadn't planned on was balancing his appreciation of Gambit's value with the honor and loyalty due the senior LeBeau.

A middle road, he decided, would be the smartest bet. "Your family's been asking about you."

Remy's shoulders slumped for a moment, weighed down by pressures than Anton could only guess at. "Figures." He set his fork down and pushed the plate away.

Anton was struck with a sudden pang of sympathy for the younger man. Jean-Luc's frequent calls to check on Remy and his renewed optimism in his son's return didn't bode well for Remy's future in New York. "You ask me, Gambit, your old man's not buyin' the whole, 'you can't go home again' line. I'm just sayin'."

"Yeah," he said wearily, scrubbing his hand over his face. Then he straightened. "Merci, Anton. I 'preciate y'help. I owe you one, hein?"

Anton finished his cigarette, stood to leave. "Good luck, man. Cherchez la femme, huh?" Sure-shay, it sounded like, and Remy winced slightly at the mangled pronunciation.

"Somethin' like dat." He nodded goodbye and stared at the plate in front of him.

"Was something wrong with the pie, sir?" asked the waitress.

He gave her a tired smile. "Pie ain' de problem," he said, and pressed a twenty into her hand as he left.

Scott watched the scene in the Danger Room, his mouth set in a grim line.

Standing next to him, Jamie whispered, "He's been coming here every day. For weeks. Ever since Rogue…"

"Thanks for letting me know, Jamie. I'll take it from here." His eyes didn't leave the observation windows.

Jamie started to say something else, then sighed and trudged out.

Scott stared at the simulation taking place below him. After Rogue's abduction, they had reconstructed the scene at the school, hoping that they might find clues to her whereabouts. It hadn't worked, though, and the team had moved on to other tactics.

Kurt, it seemed, wasn't done with the simulation. As Scott watched, Kurt replayed the attack over and over, each time trying to save all three girls.

Each time, he failed.

Kitty, Scott noticed, usually made it out okay – even a simulated Kitty had the presence of mind to phase through trouble. But no matter how quickly Kurt moved, he couldn't get Amanda clear of danger before Dane put the collar on Rogue. Time and time again, Sabretooth and Dane either took Rogue or killed Amanda. Sometimes they did both.

Finally, Scott slapped the override switch and the scene froze, the projections of Dane, Sabretooth, and the girls vanishing instantly. Without waiting to see Kurt's reaction, he strode to the Danger Room.

Kurt paced in front of the door, a frenetic blur. "Turn it back on!" he demanded.

"Why? So you can keep beating yourself up?"

He stopped his back-and-forth and fixed Scott with an angry glare. "Turn it back on," he said, turning sullen. "I'm not hurting anything."

Scott ignored him, looked around the locker room. "Jamie says you've been running this sim for a while."

Kurt shrugged. "I guess."

"Is it helping?" He leaned against the wall nonchalantly.

"What do you think?" Kurt asked bitterly.

He tried a different tack. "Have you heard from Amanda?"

"No. She's somewhere in Europe. Her parents won't tell me any more than that."

"I'm sorry," Scott said, frowning. "I know you care about her."

Kurt's tail whipped back and forth in anger. "She almost died because of me!"

"She's alive because of you," Scott countered. "Rogue could have called Sabretooth's bluff. She didn't because she knew you couldn't stand to see Amanda hurt."

"That's why he targeted her!" Kurt shouted. "Amanda was in danger because of me. Rogue made the switch because of me. It's my fault they're gone!" Enraged, he pummeled a nearby locker.

Scott watched until he was finished beating on the metal, then said quietly, "You know, when my parents died, I thought Alex was dead, too. I thought my whole family was gone. And I blamed myself."

"That was a plane crash," Kurt said. "It's not the same."

"My mom and dad gave us their parachutes. Did you know that? The plane didn't have enough, and so they strapped me and Alex in. My mom told me to take care of Alex, but I lost sight of him when I landed, and when I woke up, he was gone."

"You couldn't…"

Scott cut him off with a shake of his head. "The way I saw it, if it wasn't for me, my mom would still be alive. Alex, too, if I had taken better care of him. I felt like I had failed all of them."

The younger boy was silent.

"It took me a long time to stop hating myself. Eventually, I figured out that my mom gave me a gift that day. She gave me a chance. Sitting around wishing I was dead seemed like a crappy way to repay her."

"Rogue…" Kurt began.

"…was giving you a gift," Scott said firmly, and pushed away from the wall. "Amanda would have died, Kurt, and you know it. If you really want to repay her, ask yourself if sitting around and torturing yourself is the best way to do that. If it's not, ask the Professor how you can help find Rogue. There's no shortage of stuff to do."

With that, he strode out, leaving Kurt alone in the echoing locker room. He sank to the floor, head in his hands, and stayed that way for a long time. Finally, he stood and walked slowly the control panel. Shutting down the sequence, he stared at the smooth steel walls of the danger room, and then headed to Xavier's office.

The bar was located in a neighborhood not known for its neighborliness – the sort of place where minding your own business was less a philosophy and more a survival technique. It was, Logan thought as he slammed Vinnie DeLorenzo's head against the grimy table, Sabretooth's kind of place. He bounced Vinnie's head against the scarred wood again, a reflexive anger pushing at his control. Deliberately, the bartender turned away and took a renewed interest in polishing shot glasses.

"Last chance, bub. Where's Creed?" Vinnie might be a thuggish little weasel, Logan thought, but he wasn't stupid.

"I don't know, Wolverine, I swear!" As Logan's fingers moved to his throat, the stocky man gasped, "I've heard things!"

Logan loosened his grip fractionally. "Things like what? Talk fast, Vinnie. I've got three more appointments tonight."

The smaller man struggled to stand upright, wiped ineffectually at the blood pouring from his nose. "He hasn't been around much. He's workin'."

"No shit. Tell me who."

"I don't know, honest!"

"You ain't tellin' me anything I don't already know." And Vinnie knew something – of that, Logan was certain. It probably wasn't much. The balding, sniveling cretin in front of him wasn't a big enough player to have any significant information, but every rumor, every hint, brought Rogue's captor into clearer focus. Frustration had him slamming his fist into Vinnie's stomach.

"Wait! The guy that hired him…" Vinnie wheezed, doubled over.

"Yeah?"

"It's exclusive. Creed's off the market – he ain't takin' any jobs."

Logan stopped himself from reaching for the little man's windpipe again and considered this. "None?" Creed always worked multiple jobs – more money, more bloodshed. An exclusive contract was too pricey for all but the dirtiest black-market buyers. Even Magneto had allowed Creed to moonlight, though reluctantly. If Vinnie was right, Rogue's captor had deeper pockets than they had guessed.

"None," Vinnie confirmed eagerly. "He's all over the place, too."

Logan nodded. He'd had reports of Sabretooth across the country – big cities and small towns, never long enough for Logan to give chase or to figure out his plan. "That's not real helpful," he growled. "What's he doin'?"

Vinnie stared at him. "You haven't heard?"

"What?"

"He's taking mutants, Wolverine. Just snatches 'em up and vanishes, and that's all she wrote."

Piotr listened silently as Remy brought him up to date. "And there is no luck yet finding the Rogue? After a month?"

"Nyet."

Even over the phone, he could sense Colossus' wry smile. "You should leave the Russian to me, my friend."

"Prob'ly." Remy stretched out on the couch, propping his legs on the arm of the couch. Midnight in New York translated to breakfast in Moscow, and he could hear the hiss of the tea kettle in the background.

"You are wondering where to find Victor, then. You think he will lead you to the girl," Piotr stated.

"If he wants t'keep his fur, yeah." So far, every lead they had tracked back to Sabretooth. If they wanted to find Rogue, it was clear they'd need to find Creed first.

Piotr's voice was solemn and regretful. "I am sorry. I have not seen him since I returned home. She is important to you, yes?"

Remy ignored the question, reaching for the bourbon he had set on a nearby end table. "How's things on your end?"

The Russian blew out a short huff of frustration. "Illyana is still missing as well. I have spoken to people – government people – but there are many forms to fill out. Many questions to ask, and everyone wants more money to…"

Remy swallowed the alcohol, savored the sweet burn down his throat. "Grease de wheel."

"Da."

The two men were silent. Over the faint hiss of the connection, Remy could hear the Russian tapping on the crown of a hard-boiled egg – the first of six Piotr ate each day, he remembered.

"Xavier could help you find her," Remy said eventually. "He would."

"He would aid a foe?" The deep voice was skeptical. "What would he gain from such a thing?"

"Don' know. But it's worth a shot."

"It is difficult," Colossus said quietly, "The not-knowing."

He took another sip and stared unseeing at the glass in front of him. "Tell me 'bout it."

Piotr chuckled despite himself. "I think you will find your Rogue," he said. "And when you do, then your not-knowing will truly begin. That, I would like to see."

"Glad you're lookin' forward to it," Remy said dryly. "Think 'bout getting' in touch with Xavier, homme."

"Thank you," the other man responded. "I shall consider it. Good luck on your search, my friend."

She surveys the boathouse. All the kids use it for…assignations isn't the right word, exactly. Privacy, perhaps. God knows she's spotted Jean and Scott heading off here often enough. But this is the first time she's been in the clapboard cabin next to the water.

It doesn't look like she expected. It is weathered and rustic, utilitarian. She had assumed the boathouse would be as beautifully appointed as the mansion itself, but there are benches along one wall, a stove and firewood along another, and a battered formica table has been pushed to the back, along with three wooden chairs. It smells like the sea and the forest together, a combination that is oddly soothing.

Remy closes the door and draws the latch, turns to her and smiles. The sun is setting, rosy light filtering through the high, square windows on one side, deepening periwinkle on the other. Everything is shadowed, and the oil lanterns scattered around the room give off pockets of light that flicker only slightly .The cast-iron stove throws off just enough warmth to ease the sharpness in the air. Remy's eyes seem to glow like coals, and she could swear they're warming her as well.

When he slides his arms around her waist and pulls her in, it seems only natural to curl her hands in his sweater, and she realizes she doesn't need the stove at all.

"You clean up okay," she says softly. Her voice is oddly hoarse; nerves, she realizes, and a touch of self-consciousness.

He takes a step back, brushes his thumb over the small silk rose at her waist. She shifts her weight, presses her hip against his hand.

"Not too shabby either, chere. Didn't t'ink you had anything 'cept black in y'closet."

She raises one brow, pretends to examine the dark green satin. "There's some grey," she says with mock irritation.

He chuckles and nods. "Kitty 'n 'Manda did good."

She smiles and steps toward him again. "Yeah."

He gestures to a white cloth on the floor, an overflowing picnic basket on top. "Brought food," he says, "Can't say I'm real hungry, though."

"No?"

"Non. Brought music, too." He leans over and turns on a CD player, and a woman's voice pours out, sweet and wistful, full of promise and regret all at once.

"Dinner and dancing?" she asks, slightly giddy at the idea.

"Promised you a date, non?" He pulls her close again and they begin to sway.

"Ah don't know how to dance," she points out.

"Easy as fallin' off a log, chere. Y'just follow."

"Ah don't know how to do that, either."

One hand curves firmly around her waist, the other takes hers and holds it out the way she's seen in the movies. Her free hand drifts to his shoulder and he smiles down at her. "Y'just keep things tense enough t' feel where I'm goin'," he says.

"Ah've got a pretty good idea of where you're goin'," she says dryly, but lets him move her around the room, relishing the feel of his body so close to hers.

"Remy?" she says tentatively, a few minutes later.

"Yeah."

She hesitates, doesn't meet his eyes. "Thank you."

"F'what?" They've stopped really dancing now, and she rests her head on his chest while they move in a slow circle. His mouth brushes lightly against her hair.

"All of this. Tonight. Rescuin' me. Bein' here." She almost stops, but something about the way his arms have tightened around her and the steady beat of his heart under her cheek give her courage, and she knows, dimly, in the recesses of her mind, that they're running out of time. "Bein' with you…it's like a dream, sometimes."

The flickering in his eyes dims slighty and he tips her face up to his. "It is," he agrees sadly, and gently touches his lips to hers. "I'm sorry, chere."

"Why?" She stands on tiptoe and kisses him again, startled by how soft his lips are. She traces the high, sharp line of his cheekbone, feeling the slightest hint of stubble, and stares at her bare hand. "Remy?" she asks, confusion setting in.

"I'm sorry, chere," he repeats. "Jus' hang on."

She woke up in the empty cell, startled to find her cheeks wet.

"Bad dream?" Sabretooth's voice echoed in the darkness.

She bolted upright, scrambled off the bed as the door slid open.

"Get out!" she snapped, brushing at the tears. Maybe he could smell them, maybe it was what had drawn him to her cell to begin with – Sabretooth preferred his prey weakened – but she wasn't going to let him see the evidence. "Get out!"

"Poor Mouse," he said mockingly, leaning against the edge of the door. "All alone in your little hole. Don't you want some company?"

"Not if it's yours," she retorted as he stepped inside, the door sliding shut behind him.

"Feeling homesick? Missing your little friends?" He moved closer to her, and she backed away, trying to keep the aluminum chair between them. "They're not coming, you know. No rescue for the Rogue this time."

In one easy move, he vaulted over the chair, landing only inches away from her. She could feel her muscles tightening, her heart rate spiking with adrenaline. Even the personalities in her head seemed to tense instinctively. When she answered, though, she made certain he heard only irritation, not fear.

"They're lookin' for me. And they'll find me." She dropped into a fighting stance, the edge of the cot just brushing the backs of her legs. She had fought him before, she reminded herself. She had won before, and she was still that girl – powers or no powers, she was still Rogue. She could still fight.

"How long have you been here?"

She looked away, unwilling to admit she didn't know, and he used her hesitation to pounce, slamming her back on the bed.

Reflex had her kneeing him in the groin, and he roared, grasped her by the throat. He squeezed, and black dotted her vision. With an effort, she kicked out with both legs, caught him in the stomach with enough force to knock him back, and gasped when he released his hold on her windpipe. She scrambled away, but he recovered quickly and threw her down again, jammed his knee in the small of her back to keep her immobile. She turned her head to keep from suffocating in the thin mattress.

"They aren't coming," he repeated, digging his knee into her spine for emphasis. "They don't want you. They don't need you, you stupid little bitch. Don't you think Wolverine is tired of saving your sorry ass? You're supposed to be a fighter. He should see you now."

She wrenched her body to the side, dug into her integrated memories for the only weapon she had. "Must piss you off, knowin' you can't beat Logan. Knowin' he's always better," she spat. "Sticks in your craw, don't it? No wonder you have to go after somebody smaller. Somebody without powers. It's the only way you get to be the big man."

"Big enough to shut you up," he snarled, twisting her arm up behind her back. Then he leaned in closer, as if confiding a secret. "It doesn't matter. He gave up on you. And you can forget about LeBeau, Mouse. He forgot about you the minute you were gone."

She swung wildly with the other arm, struggled to push off the cot enough to topple the other mutant. "You don't know a damn thing about Remy an' me!"

"You bought it," he jeered. "You bought that idiot Cajun's act. Did he call you chere? Did he tell you how special you were? He always does."

She screamed with frustration, bucked underneath him in a frantic attempt to free herself, but he just laughed unpleasantly.

"Truth hurts, doesn't it? Gambit wasn't gonna waste his time on a girl he couldn't touch." He cocked his head, considered her for a moment. "But I can."

She froze at the nape of her neck began to sting, then burn. He was cutting open the surgical scrubs she was wearing, she realized, leaving a needle-fine scratch along her spine. "Swear to God," she rasped, the mattress rough against her cheek, "Ah will fucking kill you. Ah will take you apart. There won't be enough left for Logan to cut."

"If you're not going to beg, Mouse, then shut the fuck up."

She swallowed, battled the wave of panic that was cresting as the fabric of her shirt slid away, leaving her back completely exposed. He ducked his head and bit her shoulder before straightening and beginning to cut through the waistband on her pants. "You're pathetic," she hissed, fear pitching her voice higher as she struggled against him. "Is this the only way you can get a girl? Let go of me, you freak show!"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him raise a meaty hand as if to strike, then halt as a voice called from the corridor, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to agree, Victor. You're overstepping your bounds. Let her go."

Creed growled as the door slid open. Rogue sagged with relief, closing her eyes briefly.

"We have an agreement, Victor," Essex chided, entering the cell. With a low rumble of frustration, Creed's knee left her back and Rogue scrambled up, shrinking into the corner.

"I wasn't going to hurt her."

Essex merely raised an eyebrow.

"Much," Creed amended.

"I haven't finished with her," Essex said coolly. "Our agreement stipulates you take possession after my work is complete, which it certainly is not."

Rogue pulled the thin blanket around her shoulders, gaze flickering wildly between the two men.

"We're not done, Mouse," Creed snarled, eyes glittering. "Wait for me."

She ignored him as he stalked out, focusing instead on breathing normally.

Essex studied her dispassionately, then shook his head. "I'm sorry Victor frightened you. It won't happen again." He paused, adding, "It's not really about you, of course."

Her laugh of disbelief turned into a sob before she could stop it. "Coulda fooled me."

"As alluring as you may be, Rogue, Victor's actions don't spring from any desire for you, specifically. I'm afraid he sees you as a means to an end."

"What end is that? Gettin' his rocks off?" Her fists clenched, the ragged edges of her nails digging into her palms as she resisted the impulse to curl into a ball and weep. It seemed vital, somehow, to keep from breaking down in front of Essex.

"I'm sure that's part of it. He's a man of very…primal…urges. But you also serve as a way to extract revenge."

"On me?" Essex shook his head slightly, and she thought hard for a moment. "Logan."

"I'm sure he would find it quite satisfying to inform his enemy that he had violated you. Telling Mr. Lebeau would be icing on the proverbial cake."

Gripped by a wave of nausea, she sprang out of bed and barely managed to reach the toilet before vomited. Ignoring Essex, she turned to the sink, rinsing her mouth out and splashing her face with cool water.

"Would you like some fresh clothing?"

She hitched up the torn cotton pants with one hand, clutched the blanket around her shoulders with the other, and nodded mutely.

"I'll just be a moment." He stepped out of the room, sealing the door after him, and Rogue sagged against the wall, a mixture of fear, shame, and fury making her light-headed.

Essex returned a moment later and handed her a fresh pile of clothing. "You must know that I don't advocate Victor's actions here tonight, but they do serve to illustrate a valuable point."

"Oh, yeah? What's that?" She slipped the fresh top on without removing the old one and carried the pants to the bed, still holding up the ruined scrubs with one hand.

"I am the closest thing you have to an ally. No one else, Rogue – not even your beloved X-Men – truly values you for yourself. Each of them, friend and enemy alike, is using you in some way."

"What do you mean?" She was starting to shake now, her teeth chattering with spent adrenaline. With an effort, she willed herself to stay calm.

"Victor, as we've just ascertained, sees you merely as a instrument with which to cause his enemies pain. Professor Xavier views you as a force to be appropriately channeled. Mystique used you to curry favor with those more powerful than herself. Wolverine sees you as his charge -- the poor lost lamb he feels honor-bound to protect, and Mr. Lebeau believes you to be his last, best, chance at redemption."

Her head snapped up at that, eyes narrowed.

He continued, his tone nonchalant, ignoring her reaction. "They all want something from you, Rogue. They all need you to fulfill some sort of role."

She mustered a sneer. "And you don't?"

"I appreciate you, Rogue. I understand you." He spread his arms out, palms upturned magnanimously. "All I want is to help you realize your full potential."

"Bullshit," she said roughly. "You just need me to play guinea pig. You don't know me at all."

"I know every cell in your body," he countered.

She choked back more bile. "Ah'm more than just my cells," she said more insistently than she felt. "Maybe what you said about the others is true, but you're a million times worse."

"My motives are pure, Rogue. Everything I've done has been in service to an ideal higher than power or politics or personal salvation. Can you say the same about your friends? About Xavier?"

"My friends," she said, low and angry, "want me to be happy. You just want to play God."

He stood. "This is tiresome, my dear. In time, you'll see how right I am. You'll understand the tremendous gift I am giving you. Meanwhile, you might consider Victor's point: your 'friends' haven't come for you, even after all this time. Perhaps they've tired of looking." With that, he left.

She lay down on the cot, curling into a ball. "Tired, my ass," she whispered to the darkness. Even as she spoke, though, a dark worm of doubt wound its way through her.

She had always questioned Xavier's invitation to join the team. She wasn't polished and powerful, like Jean, or as enthusiastic as Kitty. She had none of Storm's resolve or Scott's integrity, or Kurt's good-heartedness. Even borrowing their powers didn't grant her those attributes, and so the Professor's welcome made her leery even as she accepted, even after she had – literally – burned her bridges with Mystique and the Brotherhood. She liked the Professor, even respected him. But she never forgot that he had offered her sanctuary for no reason except that she needed it, and that was enough to make her wonder. It was possible Essex was right – Xavier was nothing if not shrewd, and even she realized that a lifeforce-draining mutant probably made a better friend than enemy.

As much as she wanted to believe that Kurt wouldn't give up on her, it wasn't impossible. She had cost him his mother, had put the girl he loved in jeopardy. Unbidden, the memory of Amanda's throat, dotted with blood from Sabretooth's claw, rose in her mind. Kurt might like his life better with her out of it.

Kitty had promised the team would find her, she remembered. But Kitty was only one voice. She wasn't in charge. If the senior staff had decided to give up on her, there wasn't much chance that Kit alone could track her down.

She shifted restlessly on the bed and considered Remy. Missing Remy was like pressing on a bruise – it ached all the time, really, but it was almost natural at this point. Thinking about him, though, made the hurt fresh all over again. In the two months she had spent with Remy at the mansion, there were things she was certain of:

He made good coffee.

He liked to watch the sun rise and then sleep until the afternoon.

He never backed down.

He wanted her.

But for every certainty, she had ten doubts – and chief among them was why he wanted her. Was it the challenge? Or the fact things could never be truly serious? Essex had suggested that Remy wanted redemption and saw her as a way to get it, and something about the idea stuck with her. The problem with Remy, she decided, was that there were too many questions, and she wasn't sure she wanted the answers.

But Logan? She had never questioned Logan, never wondered if he had some ulterior motive for being her friend. They were complicated, she had once told Remy, but they had never been a lie. She and Logan were friends because they were too much alike not to be. Because they understood each other. Because there had never been a need for pretense or niceties, or so she had thought. The idea that he had seen her as only a stray that needed rescuing, a source of pity and obligation, left her reeling.

His voice, simultaneously gruff and gentle, echoed through her head. You can't rely on other people to make you happy. To make you whole. You gotta do that yourself, he had said.

She turned the idea over and over in her head, examining it from every angle. She had known all along that Logan was pushing her towards independence, autonomy, a self-sufficiency that would keep her whole even as she took on more responsibility on the team. But she had always assumed he had done so because he recognized something of himself in her – a kinship that made him want to help her find a better path than his own. She had never considered the idea that he was trying to get rid of her and her baggage, easing his conscience at the same time. Even now, it didn't ring true. Logan had never sugarcoated anything for her. He had never gone easy on her, she realized, because he respected her.

She sat up as the epiphany warmed her. Logan wasn't using her. He hadn't forgotten her, or given up, and if Essex was wrong about Logan, he could be wrong about the rest of the team as well.

Stiffly, she finished changing into the fresh scrubs, ignoring the pain lancing down her back and across her shoulder. If the team wasn't here, it was because they couldn't find her, and that meant only one thing: she'd need to find them.

Centering herself, she considered. She'd absorbed Sabretooth at least five times since she had arrived at the lab. There should be enough information there, if she integrated him again, to learn the layout of the lab. Of course, she thought wryly, plotting a way out, defeating all of Essex's security, and fighting an army of guards would require more information. More skills. More experience.

For the first time since she had arrived at the lab, she smiled. She had everything she needed to escape squirreled away in the recesses of her mind. All she needed to do was draw it out and make it her own.

A frillion thanks to Katt for the multiple betas, and all my reviewers, who make me go gooey inside.

Next up: Hank does research. Kitty makes a discovery. Remy phones home, and home phones him. Rogue gets a roommate, in a manner of speaking.