Disclaimer: I wave any rights to the X-Men universe, Marvel or the characters found therein.

Author's Note: Written for the LiveJournal community 100(underscore)situations; prompt 085-Hate. 1050 words.

Value of Hate

In her world of haze and drugged confusion she noticed his shadow first. It had a particular shape, a subtle pattern all his own. Harsh and dark and cold. She didn't need to look for his steps were precise, features meticulous, his eyes always so alive with harmful intent. Both sane and unstable this man. A believer. A dangerous hero in a delusional world that touched upon reality. She knew why he was here, knew it was for the frightened young girl still struggling beside her. Knew that the relief untainted by guilt couldn't be anything but wrong, knew that the girl's panic should be hers as well.

At the very least, shouldn't there be pity? This girl, it could be her.

But she had been his prisoner far too long, seen many such as this girl come and go. They were carted in and out of the cold white room like ripened fruit. So pretty in their fragility to look upon for the few fleeting moments of time before their obvious decay.

No, she had no more pity. Not for anyone. Churning deep within was cold fury, frozen and unchanging it curled around her body like a brush fire. It kept her alive when all the others fell broken to his feet in submission or death. It was this hatred that saves her life visit after visit. An unspoken challenge presented to the master of this world. She would fight; fight him, fight this situation to her last. And the last dragged on, seemingly into an eternity of pain, for it was her rebellion that pleased and amused him so. Her rebellion that challenged him. A battle of wills between the two and neither would admit defeat.

There were days she welcomed death, of course. Days she almost felt it was within her to begged for it. She wanted it, would crave it when the pain became to much and her mind became so fractured she could feel the splinters. It would be an end and she would no longer be forced to bare with this almost impossible situation.

But then she would hear him above the others' cries and would realize she wanted his death with a far greater intensity.

There was a lesion early on that taught her the value of hate. One she was exposed to in the Before, one she felt responsible for her relative safety. Depression and fear would never be the instruments she could shape for survival here. Frustration and panic could be used against her. Patience came and went but it was the cold hatred she would absorb and reflect back to her captors. A lesion she could only think would benefit the young one beside.

Yes, hate was powerful enough override the desire for an easy out. It would see her though this hell. It would see carry her onto revenge.

It consumed more than just her days, this emotion. It forced the Other's away with visions of the one in control. Of being the one on the outside and watching as the ones who did this withered in this watery cage. Of being the one to stand there with the smug look of superiority and dangle the keys to freedom before the noses. Of being the one to taunt her prey with news from outside, with something as innocent as a weather report or a dish of food so hot she would need to blow on the spoon.

It had been so long, so very long since Before. When she was alone, back in the dry cell of grey, and hate allowed another emotion to surface she would think of the things when she escaped. All the things she would enjoy once more. There was a list, one she would drag out in the darkness and rearrange when the hunger became too much.

There was the brightness of the sun, the untainted color of her surroundings as she would lay upon a grassy field as her skin heated. It would be hot, sweltering; there would be the smell of baking earth underneath her and sun lotion. She see it, there was always the old tree with Spanish Moss she used to play in from the commune before her Aunt took her, the glossy pages of a magazine flirting with the breeze at the edge of her blanket and a tall glass of sweetened ice tea an arm's reach away.

And then sometimes thoughts of comfort would give way to those materialistic in nature. It had been so very long since she was able to ware anything besides the few strategically placed bits of cloth cold and callous officers forced on her with gloved hands. She would think of her aborted trip into Candia and the excitement of seeing her first snow. There would be trunks of clothes, soft fabrics, long and short, thick and thin. Many layers to combat the cold she was already feeling.

She could never decide on her first meal, if it should be breakfast, dinner or supper. Perhaps a mixture of all three. Whatever it was, she knew there were going to be biscuits. Buttermilk. With gravy. It's what she remembered -and missed- most about Aunt Carrie's somewhat useless attempts at home cooking. A recipe given to them by their neighbor. It was the biscuits she only allowed herself to think of from time to time when grey slop was forced under a locked door in the dry-cell.

It had been ages since she was able to breath in air without the taint of artificial machines and antiseptics. Years since she was able to experience freed. She longed for escape, for control, for freedom… and he knew it. Used it. Taunted her with clever words sharpened and honed to do the most damage. She took it, survive when countless others crumbled before him. She wasn't the most interesting captive they held, wasn't the smartest or toughest. She knew she wasn't the sanest. But she was one of the few with a determination that pressed into the boundaries of obsession.

She would get what she wanted in the end and he would have nothing. That was just how it was going to end, behind the mask she smiled. It matched his own.

ETA: updated 14/12/08