Thanks to Katt, again for the multiple and effusive betas, and to Ishandahalf, because she writes lovely, thoughtful reviews that also make me laugh out loud.
To recap the previous chapter – Essex told Rogue he could give her control over her mutation. Remy used Guild and Acolyte contacts to help search for Rogue. Scott and Kurt had a bonding moment. Logan beat up people for information. Rogue dreamed of Remy, fought off Sabretooth, and was rescued by Essex, who then told her that everyone in the world – including Remy – was using her. She realized that she'd have to escape, rather than wait for a rescue.
Xavier glanced up and guided his wheelchair around the desk as Hank entered his private office.
"I take it you've found something, then."
The Beast nodded, his face somber. "It's not as much as one would have hoped for, Charles, especially considering how long it's taken."
"At this point, any progress is positive." Frustration had etched new lines around his mouth and eyes, and he gestured to the nearby coffee table. "Please, sit and have some tea."
"Thank you." Hank arranged his sizeable bulk on the settee. "I've been able to determine, as accurately as I can, the scientist responsible for the technology behind the collar."
"There's a problem?"
"It's a man named Dr. Michael Milbury – I've been reading through the work he's published in various journals, and he seems the most likely candidate. One of his articles discussed the effect of localized electro-magnetic fields on mutated DNA strands. If that is how the collar works -- and both Forge and I suspect that's the case -- it stands to reason that he may be involved somehow."
"It seems the logical progression, yes. Milbury," he mused. "That name seems familiar."
Hank poured tea for both of them, added milk and sugar to his own. "Perhaps, but I would be astonished to find you've met the man."
Xavier shot McCoy a quizzical look. "Really? Why is that?"
"Dr. Milbury, it seems, does not exist."
He paused in the act of adding lemon to his teacup. "How is that possible?"
"He's published a number of papers, but never presents them at conferences. He has no affiliation in medical, educational, or scientific circles. I cannot determine where, if at all, he received his doctoral degree. No one I've spoken with recalls ever having seen him in person, and the last article attributed to him was written several years ago."
Xavier frowned. "I see. That's disconcerting, to say the least. What else do we know about him?"
Hank looked down at the paper in front of him. "Despite his elusiveness, Dr. Milbury has made quite an impression in the scientific world. Nearly everyone I interviewed held the same interpretation – the man is unquestionably brilliant, and utterly obsessed with harnessing mutations for genetic engineering. His more recent papers on the topic have not been published because they disregard all ethical standards for experimentation." Unconsciously, his lips curled in disgust.
"Ah. A troubling combination."
"Indeed."
The two men sat in silence. "Do you believe she's still alive?" Hank asked carefully, setting down his cup.
Charles answered without hesitation. "I do. Your findings confirm that – Rogue's mutation would certainly appeal to Milbury, and to harm her would be like killing the golden goose, to put it crudely."
"So you believe Milbury is behind her abduction?"
"Dr. Michael Milbury doesn't exist," Xavier reminded him. "But I'm virtually certain that his creator is responsible for taking Rogue."
Hank shook his head doubtfully. "That seems like precious little to go on, Charles."
"It's more than we had before. The students – especially Kurt and Kitty – are struggling. The lack of progress is difficult for them to bear. They've been losing hope. You've opened up a few more avenues for us to explore, and perhaps that will buoy them until we find her." He sipped at his tea, his features carefully schooled to mask his own doubt. "I'm grateful to you for unearthing all of this, Hank. Please let me know if anything else turns up."
"Of course." He stood and handed Xavier the file. "This copy is for you. I'll let you know what else I discover."
"There's got to be something I can do to help," Kurt said, bamfing around the briefing room and peering over Kitty's shoulder.
Kitty didn't look up from the computer screen. "You can get me another Diet Coke," she said absently. "That would be really great."
He returned in a matter of moments. "You should really get some rest," he said, setting down the drink. She looked exhausted, he thought, her hair carelessly scraped back in a ponytail, her eyes smudged with fatigue. In the blue glow of the monitor, her skin seemed nearly as pale as Rogue's, the smattering of freckles across her nose standing out in sharp relief.
"I'm fine," she said automatically. She reached for the can and cracked it open in a practiced gesture, barely interrupting her typing. "But you can keep me company," she added, throwing him a quick smile.
He returned it gratefully and settled into a nearby chair. "What are you working on?"
She didn't answer right away, intent on the information scrolling across the screen. "Looking for Sabretooth's bank accounts."
He nearly shot out of the seat. "Are you kidding me? That's insanely dangerous! And illegal!"
She rolled her eyes, and he decided to take a different tack. "Kitty, have you seen the way that dude dresses? What makes you think he has money?"
"Well, he's not working for free. And there's no way he's spending it on clothes, so I bet he's got zillions stashed away somewhere."
"And we're doing this why?"
"Because Remy said to follow the money." She stopped and turned to Kurt, explaining patiently, "I've been tracing the account for almost two months – he's moved the money between banks, so it's been a little harder to track." She dimpled then, flashed him a smile. "But I'm not the only one looking for him. That helps."
"This is a bad idea, Katzchen. You'll get in trouble."
She shrugged. "Only if I get caught. Besides, it's for a good cause."
He couldn't argue with that, and settled back in the chair to watch her work.
An hour went by, then another. Occasionally, she sent Kurt to fetch more snacks, and he bamfed to his room for magazines to look at. Still, his forehead was resting against the table when Kitty whispered, "Gotcha."
He startled awake. "What? What did you find?"
"Breadcrumbs," she said softly, eyes wide.
"I don't understand." He propped his chin in his hand and tried to shake off the remnants of sleep.
She pushed the chair away from the terminal, rolling her shoulders to ease the stiffness there. "Go get Scott and Jean," she ordered.
"Kitty, it's three in the morning," he pointed out, yawning widely.
She shot him a withering glance. "I know. That's why you're not getting the Professor."
Kurt grumbled and bamfed away.
Ten minutes later, all four were gathered around the monitor. Scott rubbed his forehead ruefully. "I don't want to know how you found this, do I?"
She shook her head and pulled up a second window. "This is Dane's bank account," she said, pointing, "and this is Sabretooth's."
"Wait," Scott said. "Kitty, these are numbered accounts."
She nodded, pleased with herself. "Yep. Both of them are from banks in the Cayman Islands."
Kurt frowned. "Rogue's in the Bahamas?"
Jean spoke. "I doubt it. People open offshore accounts to hide money or evade taxes, but they don't have to live there. Corporations do it all the time to avoid paying federal tax."
Kurt sighed, eyes bleary. "Man, I'd want to live there. Sunny all the time. Coconuts. Sounds like heaven."
Kitty elbowed him. "Focus, fuzzball. All of the deposits to those accounts come from the same five companies." She gestured to another screen. "These five."
Scott cut in. "Kitty, the names of the account holders are kept secret."
She shrugged. "It's not my fault their encryption software sucks."
Scott rolled his eyes heavenward.
Jean scanned the sheet. "All of these companies have New York branches. Can you look them up?"
Kitty obeyed, blinked at the results. "Two post office boxes, a liquor store, a vacant lot, and…the Statue of Liberty?"
"They're all fake," Scott said grimly. "Dummy corporations. Look at the board of directors for each one. They're the same names, over and over again. Arnold Bocklin. Michael Arnolds. Michael Windsor. Nathan Michaels. Nathan Milbury."
Kurt's features darkened as his shoulders slumped. "They're not real? We still don't know where she is?"
"Hold on," Kitty said. She moved back to the computer. "Look," she said triumphantly, pointing to the window displaying Sabretooth's account.
Jean traced a finger down the column of numbers. "The fake accounts are still paying him – he must still be working for whoever wanted Rogue."
"Yeah, but don't look at the deposits," Kitty insisted. "Look at the withdrawls."
"He pulls out ten thousand a few times a week. So?" Kurt asked.
"I can trace where he's withdrawing the money." Kitty said. "We can follow him…"
"Do it!" Kurt demanded.
Kitty settled back in her seat, flexing her fingers. "Scott, if I give you the coordinates, can you plot them?"
He nodded and sat at another workstation, pulled up a map on the main, wall-mounted display.
A short while later, North America was dotted with red lights blinking in angry unison, and Jean gasped softly. "More than half the withdrawls were made in New York!"
"Or close enough to drive," Scott added.
Kurt stared at the pulsating image, the implication sinking in. "He's still here. Rogue's still here."
Kitty turned to Jean, eyes shining with hope. "That has to help, right? I mean, if we know Rogue's still in the area, doesn't that help Cerebro find her?"
"I wish it did," Jean said regretfully. "But for whatever reason, Cerebro still can't locate Sabretooth. We think that whatever is blocking him is also blocking Rogue."
"I thought you said it was Rogue's collar that kept her hidden. Sabretooth wouldn't wear a collar. No way," Kurt insisted.
"No, but he might be using something portable, like Magneto's helmet. At this point, it seems more likely that there's some sort of blocking field over the location where they're holding Rogue," Jean said.
Kurt scowled. "Why? How do you know?"
Scott and Jean exchanged glances. "Because," she said gently, "if they're experimenting on Rogue, they'd need to take the collar off. She's no good to them if her powers are permanently inactive. But if they could create a force field that hid their neural signatures without suppressing them…"
Kitty interrupted. "Wouldn't that take a ton of electricity, though? A 24-7 force field?"
Scott nodded. "Yeah. And the bigger the facility, the more power they'd need."
Before Kitty could ask another question, Jean rested a hand on the younger girl's shoulder. "This does help, Kitty. You should be really proud of yourself. Tomorrow morning –" she looked at her watch, corrected herself. "This morning, a little later, we'll tell the professor. We'll reconfigure Cerebro and narrow down the search, I promise."
Kitty nodded absently. "Sounds great," she said.
Scott walked to the door. "You two should both try to get a little sleep," he said as he ushered Jean out.
Kurt gave him a thumbs up, but kept his eyes on Kitty, who was too lost in thought to hear Scott's words.
"Electricity," she mused, looking up at the blinking map.
It had taken Remy less than a week to map out the squeaky spots in the mansion's floors. An old, ingrained habit, like his need to know all the exits. Knowing how to move silently – and knowing how to track everyone else's noise – was both point of pride and survival skill. He and Henri had tracked each other as children, part lesson and part game. Only rarely had he beaten Jean-Luc. And strangely enough, never Mattie. She'd never told him how she did it, but he had never snuck up on her, and never managed to pilfer a treat from the kitchen without being caught.
He paced the mansion, remembering older, creakier boards under his feet, the scent of jasmine and the river fresher in his mind than the lemon oil and floor wax of the Institute. It was quieter here, which never ceased to surprise him. He always expected a house full of kids to be raucous and nerve-jangling, even at three in the morning. Instead, there was only the muffled hum of the house settling in – the furnace cycling off and on, the occasional creak of the foundation, the late November wind outside. Moonlight filtered weakly through the many-paned windows, and he trailed a finger along picture frames as he drifted silently through the downstairs halls.
The phone in his pocket vibrated, a harsh buzz in the carpeted hush of the hallway, and Remy flipped it open.
"Yeah?"
"I got nothin', mon frere." It was the same response Henri had given for weeks now, but his voice belied no impatience – only apology.
Remy sighed, began another silent circle around the house. Slow, measured steps, each foot carefully placed. "You sure it ain't Belle?" he pressed. He crossed the kitchen and dug in the refrigerator for a beer.
Henri was firm. "Told you, if Belle did it, she'd be braggin'. Girl ain' never been one t' hide her light under a bushel. An' she wouldn't bother t' make it look like a grab, hein?"
"Yeah." He pulled out the bottle, began searching through drawers for an opener.
Henri cleared his throat awkwardly. "How you doin'? I don' much care, but Mercy's naggin' all de time 'bout how her poor Remy mus' be hurtin."
He pried the cap off, began tossing it in the air. "Tell Mercy she worries too much."
"You're okay, den?"
"Fine." He charged the cap and flipped it, watching the small metal disk explode mid-air.
Henri snorted. "You think I'm gonna buy that? Hell, Remy, you better find her. I gotta meet de fille finally got under le Diable's skin."
"Noble as always, Henri," he said, mouth twisting into a wry smile.
"One of us should be. Listen, Rem." Henri paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was grave. "Somet'in's goin' on down here."
He froze in mid-swig, set the bottle down carefully. "Somet'in' like what?"
"Not sure yet. Belle ain't behind y'Rogue goin' missin – I'm sure o'dat. But she's up to somethin'. Been sweet as pie to Mercy and Mattie. Smiled at me the other day like I was the canary and she was the cat. She's makin' plans, I can tell."
"Could be a lotta things," Remy protested half-heartedly. He picked the bottle up again and continued his rounds. "Guild business. Gearin' up for a strike. Shoe sale. Who the fuck knows why Belle smiles, Henri? Mebbe she found a boyfriend." That, he figured, was too much to hope for.
"She had lunch with Jean-Luc at Brennan's two days ago. A long lunch."
He stopped short. "Merde."
Henri was silent.
"What's he say 'bout it?" he asked, letting himself noiselessly into the library.
"Didn't ask. Figured it was better to wait an' see. But the man's actin' like a damn squirrel, he's twitchin' so much, jus' like he gets before a big job. Dat leash you on? Got a feelin' it's 'bout to get a whole lot shorter."
Remy began to curse, a steady stream of profanity pouring out while Henri waited patiently. Finally, he cut in. "Ain't nothing we weren't expectin', Remy."
He sighed, taking solace in the unexpected 'we'. "Yeah. But I can't think about it right now."
"Can't put it off f'ever, neither. Ain't room enough on the planet to run from y'destiny."
He scowled. "It ain't my destiny."
"Jean-Luc thinks it is." And that, they both knew, was enough. Still, when Henri spoke again, he was placating. "Find y'girl, Rem. Do what you gotta do t'get her safe, then come home and settle dis. Ain't any other way out, far as I can tell."
"Never wanted any of this," he said morosely. "Not a damn bit. Never asked for it, either."
"I know."
He stared out at the garden. The last few blooms were gone; only the sharp silhouettes of the branches and shrubs were visible now. Rogue had stood there, the day before she was taken, and he had put her off, stopped her from trying to name what had grown between them. Regret struck him in the chest like a physical blow. "Y'think Jean-Luc would've taken me in if he'd known it'd turn out like this?"
Henri considered. "Prob'ly. Pere believes in fate, Remy. You know how he gets."
Stubborn, Remy thought. Jean-Luc got stubborn, and blind, and even more manipulative, which never really made sense, as far as Remy could see. If something was meant to be, there wasn't any need to help it along – especially not the way his father did. "Yeah. I know."
"Mighta changed his mind if he knew how ugly you were gonna grow up t'be, though."
Remy snorted, grateful for the tension-breaker. "You kiddin' me? Right now, he's prayin' your kids get Mercy's looks. Be a sad day for the LeBeaus if they favor you. He prob'ly figured I was the only way to improve the bloodline."
"Must not have looked real close," Henri returned easily.
The floor above Remy creaked, and he glanced up. Logan, he guessed from the heavy tread. Wanting to avoid a confrontation, he headed swiftly toward the back stairs. "Gotta go," he said. "Love to Mercy. Let me know if you hear anything 'bout…anything."
"Oui. A bientot."
"I take it you've recovered from last week's incident," Essex said. "You seem to be feeling better."
She tugged at the restraints, noting uneasily that the adamantium bands were thicker today, and more numerous – there were additional cuffs across her biceps, her thighs, her waist and knees. "Ah'd feel a lot better if you'd let me go."
"There is a certain pleasure to be found in gracefully acquiescing to your destiny. Perhaps you should try that," he suggested, beginning the usual preparations.
She matched his pleasant tone. "Perhaps you should try shoving that clipboard up your ass," she said. "Sideways."
He raised an eyebrow. "Such language," he tsked. "Hardly what I'd expect to hear from one of Xavier's protégés."
"You said it yourself," she shot back. "Ah was his pawn, not his protégé."
Rogue didn't miss the flash of triumph in his expression as he turned away from her and made certain to hide her own. In the week since the attack in her cell, Essex had left her alone – no tests, no absorptions. She assumed he had wanted to underscore her isolation, make her feel it more keenly. Instead, she had worked on integrating as many of the personalities as she could. Without the professor's support, it was slow, difficult going, but desperation had her pushing as hard as she could.
A few moments later, the door to the lab opened and a tech wheeled in a gurney carrying a girl who looked to be a few years older than Rogue. She was strapped down with bands similar to Rogue's – heavy adamantium cuffs immobilizing her completely. As Rogue watched, the tech fastened a final strip of metal over the girl's forehead, preventing her from looking at Rogue, and a moment later, she felt a similar piece of metal press firmly against her skull. She slanted a glance toward the other girl, whose eyes were dark with fear and anger.
It began as it always did, with a few last-minute adjustments to the wires monitoring both subjects, murmured conferences between Essex and his assistants, and then the whir of the machinery as Rogue's bare hand was stretched toward the other mutant.
Each time, Rogue used the last few minutes before contact to ground herself, to brace against the onslaught of a new personality. If she could begin to make a place in her mind for the intruder, the absorption seemed less painful, the integration more fluid.
And so when they finally touched, skin to skin, she believed she was prepared for the jumbled rush of images and memories that flashed through her like a flood.
She had entered the lobby with a faint prickling at the nape of her neck, knowing that something wasn't right, completely confident that she could handle whatever that something was. They needed a research assistant for the summer; she was top in her class at MIT. If anything, she was overqualified. Maybe that was the cause of the off feeling – she wasn't going to get the job. She kicked up the cool, professional smile a notch as the receptionist showed her an empty conference room. She might be overqualified, but she was underfunded, and the money this assistantship would bring would put a hefty dent in her graduate school bills. Doctoral degrees didn't come cheap, much to her and her parents' chagrin.
Idly, she trailed a finger over the scale model of a satellite, one of several tastefully displayed on pedestals around the room. Milbury Aeronautics, she decided, would be a nice fit, and an excellent stepping stone. A newcomer, practically unknown in the competitive field of aerospace engineering, the firm was still small enough that even as a mere graduate student, she could make a big impact.
Carol liked making an impact.
She heard the dull whine of a generator, and then the prickling vanished, replaced by an odd, hollow feeling in her bones. A door opened and a tall, broad man in a lab coat entered. "Miss Danvers," he said, extending a hand. "I'm so pleased you've arrived."
Vaguely disoriented, she took his hand and he held hers firmly, almost painfully, keeping his eyes on her face the whole time. She gripped back with a strength that would have had most men gasping, her face reflecting her surprise when he seemed unaffected. Alarm had her attempting to withdraw her hand, subtly at first, then with a jerking move that, if her powers had been functioning properly, should have thrown the stranger across the room. Instead, he kept his hand on hers, an amused glint in his eye.
"I'm Nathaniel Essex," he said smoothly. "We'll be working together for the next little while."
Rogue jerked against the restraints as the memories continued to pour into her. Faintly, she heard monitors beeping, and Essex's brusque commands to the staff.
She was chopping vegetables for a salad, enjoying her first summer home from college, when she heard the car door outside. Instantly, the base of her spine tingled, her hands began to itch, and she lost control of the chef's knife in her hand. The blade glanced painlessly off her thumb, and the corner of her mouth lifted. Sometimes, she thought invulnerability was even better for small things than big ones.
She looked at the clock – too early for her father to be home, and so she poked her head into the dining room. A black sedan sat in front of the house, two Air Force officers in dress blue uniforms next to it, looking grim. The prickling in her hands spread through her entire body.
"Mom?" she called through the back door, still watching the officers' progress up the front walk.
"I'm out back! I'll be there in a minute!" Marie Danvers called from the garden.
The doorbell rang.
"Someone's here," Carol said, too softly for her mother to hear. "I'll get it."
Mechanically, carefully, she set the knife down. Silly, she knew, not to insist her mother come in. But she needed a few more seconds – her mother deserved a few more seconds – before the world shattered.
She opened the door. "Can I help you?"
"Good afternoon. May I speak with Mr. or Mrs. Danvers?"
She gripped the doorframe, studied the men. The one who had spoken was young and obviously uncomfortable. The older man, silent, wore a shining silver cross pinned to the front of his uniform.
"I'm their daughter," she said, angling her body to block the doorway.
"I'm sorry, miss. I need to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Danvers."
"It's Steven," she said. She was surprised at how even her voice sounded, how calm. "You're here because Steven's…"
The chaplain regarded her sympathetically.
"I'm his sister," she said flatly. "Tell me."
The back door banging shut made her wince, and she turned as if she could hide the men from her mother's sight.
"Carol, sweetie, did you need something?" Marie entered the living room, nearly as blond and fresh-faced as her daughter. "I've got that flat of tomatoes in. I think that new heirloom…" she trailed off, color draining from her face.
"No," she whispered.
Carol moved to her mother, ignoring the officers. "Mom, let's sit down."
Marie jerked away, staring at the men. "No," she repeated, shaking her head and starting to sway.
Delicately, Carol steered her mother to the couch, eased her into the flowered cushions.
The officers looked at each other, then back at the doorframe that had splintered where Carol had gripped it. The younger one cleared his throat, straightened his jacket, and stepped toward Marie. "Mrs. Danvers?"
Marie closed her eyes and let out a small moan.
"Mrs. Danvers, I'm Lieutenant Murray. Ma'am, on behalf of the secretary of Defense, I regret to inform you that your son, Steven…"
Invulnerability, Carol realized, as the officer's voice droned on, was pretty useless for the big things after all.
Rogue turned pale, sweat beading across her forehead. Her breath rasped in her throat.
She skidded to a halt near the swings at Williams Park, nearly ran into Michael.
"Do you think they saw us?" Only her second high school party, she thought, and the cops came before she had even finished her beer.
"No way," he said, "We were at the back of the house. Besides, I wasn't going to let Steven's little sister get arrested."
She rolled her eyes. "Of course not." Steven, of course, was the real reason she had been invited. Everyone missed Steven, off at the Air Force Academy. Handsome, popular, the star of the basketball team, everyone loved him and by extension, Carol, even if she was only a freshman. Captain of the freshman cheerleading squad, she reminded herself, but still a freshman.
For Michael Rossi to have even remembered her name was enough to make her a little woozy – that and the beer, which she had hardly touched. She stared up at him, overwhelmed.
"Thanks," she said as the silence grew awkward. "My parents would have killed me. They think I'm at Kelsey's house."
He smiled. "No problem. I'd be kicked off the team if they caught me there."
He took a step closer to her. "Here," he said softly. "You've got a leaf caught…" he trailed off, brushed his hand along her hair, dipped his head down as he tilted her face up.
"A—a leaf?" she asked. She didn't think she could blame all of her breathlessness on their escape. Without realizing it, her eyes fluttered closed as his lips brushed hers lightly, and his arm slid around her waist.
Her first kiss, she realized in the back of her mind. It was perfect. Soft and gentle and warm, and she stood on tiptoe to make up the difference in their heights. Joy and relief and surprise bubbled up inside her, made her feel like she was floating.
Floating…
Michael's mouth was perfectly level with hers, one hand curving snugly around her waist, the other still cupping her face. She flexed her feet, felt nothing but air, and looked at the ground out of the corner of her eyes, not wanting to stop the kiss. The grass was a good six inches below her feet.
She squeaked and dropped like a stone.
Rogue started convulsing as the beeping sounds in the background came faster and faster.
"Steven," she asked, "How far away are the stars?"
"Far." He popped a s'more in his mouth, smirked at her over the campfire their father had built.
"How far?" Carol repeated, undeterred. It was a special treat, this "camping trip" in the back yard. Her mother had promised that she could stay in the tent all night, if she wanted. She wasn't scared at all, she reminded herself.
He spoke around a mouthful of chocolate and marshmallow. "Jeez, Carol. Far. Millions of miles."
"Millions?" Her mouth made a perfect O of astonishment. "That's so many! It can't be that many!"
He gave her a superior glance, his ten years to her five making him seem far older. "Look it up if you don't believe me."
She ignored the taunt – she'd tried to read the encyclopedias before, but the words were too big for her, and Steven knew it. "I wonder what they're like."
"Hot. They're like big balls of fire." When she stared at him, he shrugged. "We studied it in school."
She sighed and flopped back on her sleeping bag. "I'd like to see one someday."
Steven nodded, threaded another marshmallow on his stick. "I'm going to," he said nonchalantly.
"Really?"
"I'm gonna be an astronaut. I did a report on it. I'm gonna fly the space shuttle," he said, then gave her the lopsided grin that always got him out of trouble with their mother. "I'll bring you back a picture, short stuff."
"I want to go too, Steven. Can I come with?"
He snorted and checked his marshmallow. Carol's eyes started to fill, and he softened. "Sure. We'll go together."
She tucked her feet into the sleeping bag, stared up at the sky, and tried to imagine flying there with her brother. "You promise?" she persisted. Sometimes Steven said things just to get her off his back, she knew.
He sighed. "I promise. Go to sleep, okay? Dad's gonna be mad if he hears we're still up."
"Okeydokey." Carol snuggled down and drifted off, dreaming of what the stars looked like up close.
The monitor was shrieking. Rogue's eyes rolled back in her head as her body strainedupwards. The metal bands began to creak and bend.
Someone was crooning in the darkness, the minor melody comforting.
"Fly me to the moon, and let me play among the stars
I want to know what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.
In other words, please be true,
In other words, I love you."
She screamed as both lullaby and contact faded and the room went black.
Up next – Rogue adjusts, Kitty gets caught snooping, and Belle isn't shopping for shoes.