: HOUSE OF CARDS :
PART THREE : CONSCIENCE
(9) - Struggle -
The Friends of Humanity Headquarters was a cold and imposing building of the most utilitarian design, utterly without beauty or charm, elegance or grandeur. It was as if the architect that had designed it had possessed not even an inkling of imagination, flair or style. It was functional, purposeful, ugly, and little else. In the darkness of night its silhouette loomed black and sinister, like a cardboard cut-out of hell. That its residents purported to be the friends of anything at all seemed somehow ludicrous.
Rogue was lying flat on her stomach atop the nearest two-storey building, a pair of binoculars pressed to her eyes, trained upon the back façade of the FoH headquarters. A night security patrol was walking the perimeter in a set pattern, and from her position unseen several hundred yards away, she able to discern the gaps in that pattern. The guards would patrol the width of the back courtyard by walking away from one another, up the each end of the perimeter fence, and backing up again, crossing one another's paths midway through the cycle. At the point when they were both coming up to the perimeter fence, their backs would be to her, and she would have enough to time to make a break for the building's back maintenance entrance - if she was fast enough.
With a grim smile, Rogue slipped the binoculars back inside her utility belt, and got to her feet. Slowly, measuring each step, she walked backwards, scuffing her feet deliberately in the loose grit and gravel that had been scattered across the rooftop. Then, when her heels touched the edge of the roof, she broke into a run.
She sprinted the full length of the building, stepped up onto the ledge, and leapt off it as if it were a mere diving springboard.
Under the cover of night, an observer would've seen nothing but an insubstantial black blob arch across the sky and over the FoH headquarters' perimeter fence.
Crunch.
One of the guards looked back momentarily in the direction of the far-away sound, but his flashlight fell on nothing, and, shrugging, he turned back to his predestined route towards the edge of the perimeter fence.
Rogue, upon landing feet-first in the gravel courtyard, had already neatly dodged the circle of light and sprinted towards the building like a cat.
She dove for the maintenance door, rolled, landed in a crouching position just in front of the thick, metallic door. She took a quick glance over her shoulder. In the distance, she could catch the faint glimmer of the guards' flashlight darting this way and that. They had nearly reached the perimeter fence.
She would have to work fast.
She scrambled at her belt for her skeleton keys and produced them in a flash. Quick yet careful, she worked at the lock and within a matter of seconds she felt it give.
Click.
Storm would've been proud of her. So would Gambit.
She bit her lip, once again feeling the odd sense that she was being watched. She jerked her head to the right, feeling eyes in the shadows, watching her… … Nothing there. She shook her head irritably.
What the fuck is the matter with me…?
Still in a crouching position, she eased the door open inch by painful inch, mindful not to make a sound. It seemed an age before there was a gap big enough for her to slide through, but at last it was there; without rising to her feet she slipped through and inched the door closed just as the guards were turning back to face her.
She was in.
The maintenance area of the building was like a huge warehouse, piled with boxes, crates and pallets. Everything was dull, drab, and dimly lit. To her left was a side room, a cloakroom of sorts. Through the window in the door, she could see a worker's suit hanging neglected on a nearby peg, convenient cover that would allow her to move through the building without being questioned if anyone else was around.
She pressed lightly on the handle; the door was unlocked. She nipped inside quickly and pulled the pale blue overalls on top of her bodysuit. Within two minutes she was striding through the building, now disguised as one of FoH's labouring staff.
Not once did she falter in her step. She'd already memorised the blueprints days in advance of this operation, and she knew exactly where she was going. Getting there was never going to be a problem. This was a cakewalk. Infiltration was something she was good at; she wouldn't even break out into a sweat. What concerned her was what she had come here for in the first place, and with every corridor she cleared, it was rushing in on her, this end purpose she so dreaded.
For the past fortnight, she'd been training for this one end purpose, with the ruthless efficiency and cold-blooded resolution of the assassin, and yet, despite every hour she'd channelled both physically and mentally into this one moment, the gun still weighed against her thigh with a heaviness that was almost unbearable.
She came to a flight of stairs, climbed it cautiously, and pressed herself against the wall when she got to the top; her hand absently caressed the hard and ponderous weight pressing at her thigh. Even the feel of it made her stomach lurch in disgust, and she swallowed the sudden bitterness in her mouth - but it would not go away. In the days when she'd originally been in the Brotherhood when she had last been a terrorist, she had never had to do anything like this; but in the intervening years between then and now, she had changed, she had fought on the side of the angels, she knew that there were consequences, that sometimes there was no turning back.
And if she carried through with this, there would be no turning back.
Clack.
At the soft, almost inaudible sound behind her, she snapped round, her heart pulsing rapidly, her body still sticking warily to the wall. The stairs she had just climbed were only dimly lit by the security lights, but there was no one there, not even the suggestion of a footprint.
Ah'm definitely gettin' paranoid…
She turned her attention back to the landing above her; it was clear. She left the stairway, coasted right, stepped lightly through a set of heavy double doors, and into a brightly lit, more expensively furnished corridor which was lined by several doors. Nevertheless, she still kept to the wall as much as she could, for the sake of avoiding hidden cameras, if possible - the less seen of her, the better. There, at the end of the corridor, was her goal. Her gut churned uncomfortably. Again she pressed a palm against the outline of the gun - of course it was still there, she was being irrational, wishing that it would somehow disappear of its own accord.
The door, her target, was an old-fashioned one, hewn of highly burnished mahogany; light was streaming out from the gap underneath it. Her mouth was thick, dry, and she swallowed, tasting bile. So he was there, just as she had known he would be. And yet how she had hoped there would have been something, anything to take him away…
She shook her head violently.
Dangerous, subversive thoughts! She was an automaton, a puppet; she did as she was told, she analysed facts and figures, not emotions; she calculated, she didn't think.
She was here to do a job; that was all.
This was business, it wasn't anything personal.
She began to walk again, towards the door, this time more purposefully, unzipping the worker's suit as she went, pulling out her arms from the sleeves, slipping it over her shoulders, her hips, her thighs, her legs… stepping out of it, leaving it in a haphazard heap on the floor behind her… Her right hand reached for the gun in its holster, pulled it out, cocked the hammer back.
She pressed herself against the door, listened for any sign of a presence. Nothing. Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip - gun still clutched tight, she reached for the doorknob with her free hand, touched it gently. Hesitancy. Her teeth dug into her lip, pain to take away the uncertainty of the moment… She swivelled the handle.
The door gave easily, so easily, it was nothing, so insignificant; and yet it was an action that sealed her fate, that would seal the fates of many…
Light beyond the door, and she edged into the room - an office, a brightly-lit and beautifully furnished office, every wall lined with books, books old and new. She could smell the books, smell the pages, smell the flavour of old, worn leather and glue. She remembered the scent well from another office she'd often visited in the past. Her gut churned again. With a slight, sideways movement, she closed the door with her back.
She raised the gun.
"Kincaid," she said.
He was standing at a desk opposite her, his back to her. His stance was calm, unruffled. He turned only slowly. His was the face of a man in his prime - though in his late fifties, and though ravaged by lines and pockmarks, his features were solid, distinguished, his mouth powerful. In every way he was built like the lion - it was the strong, stocky build that nevertheless suggested a grace of movement, the broad chest, the proud bearing. He was not a man to be gainsaid. This she knew instinctively when she saw him first glance calmly at her face, then at the gun in her hand, then into her eyes.
"Ah," was all he said.
He showed no surprise, no consternation at her impromptu appearance, and even less at the gun in her hand, the gun that was now shaking in her grasp. She should've shot him when he wasn't facing her. She should have shot him in the back, before he turned round… She couldn't shoot a man with a face, however wicked, however cruel he was. She couldn't do it…
He looked at the gun again, saw it shake.
"Have you come to kill me, mutant?" he asked of her mildly; his voice was deep and sonorous, the voice of a preacher-man. "For you are a mutant, aren't you. Who but a mutant would be sent to kill me?" He smiled, a fatherly smile, yet one that was also faintly and inexplicably menacing. "I hate to disappoint you, child, but you are not the first to have pointed a gun at me."
She said nothing, and to her surprise he stepped out from behind the desk and began to walk slowly towards her.
"If I am not mistaken," he spoke as he advanced, "and if that is the job you have been sent to do, then shoot me now. I am quite unarmed, as you can see. An easy target. You have complete control over me."
No. It was the other way round, and she knew it. She couldn't shoot him. She couldn't do it. Despite all the training Mystique had given her, despite all the preparation for this moment, there was the teaching of another that had supplanted all the careful tutoring Mystique had given her. It was the teaching of a man who had said that one does not kill his enemy, that one does not sacrifice his soul in the search for equality and freedom…
And Kincaid knew that. He could see it in her eyes.
He was right in front of her now, and she could feel the heaviness of his body as it pressed against the barrel of the gun, taunting her, daring her to pull the trigger…
She could barely breathe, her heart was thundering in her chest, her hand was wavering…
Kincaid's eyes darkened.
"Why do you hesitate?" he asked her, his voice rumbling like storm clouds. "Here - I am making this easy for you. You have mettle, girl, or you would not have come here; certainly you would not have gotten this far. Press that trigger, end the so-called miseries of your kind. Do it."
Her finger contracted against the trigger, slackened. She was panting, laboured, heavy - she couldn't do it. Whatever she was, she was no killer, she was no murderer. There was something she still possessed, something that Raven could never take away from her.
Conscience.
The darkness fell out of Kincaid's eyes. Now there was something almost kindly on his face as he perused her, a warmth, an understanding… Slowly he raised his right hand, touched the gun, removed it gently from her grasp. She let him do so, opening her palm without resistance; it was almost a relief to feel the heavy weight of it relinquished. And yet Kincaid kept his eyes on hers the entire time. With a clipped, methodical movement, he tossed the gun aside, and it clattered noisily to the floor at their feet.
Then he did a very odd thing. He offered her his hand. Afterwards, she would never know why she took it, nor why she trusted him. Perhaps something in him reminded her of Xavier, perhaps it was that she thought he could offer her a substitute for the empty, hollow hole that was her existence. It made no rational sense, but in the years after, she came to think that there was a part of him that would have taken her in and sheltered her, if they had not been such wholly different beings.
As it was, she let him take her hand, and when she did he pulled her close to him and looked her in the eye. He looked at her a long time, reading her face as if he would a book. Then, he seemed to decide something in his mind; she could pinpoint the exact moment when he decided this thing.
His lips curled.
"Filthy mutant."
He wrenched her wrist, flung her with an easy flick of the hand, sending her skimming sideways and into a bookshelf that tottered precariously at the impact; books rained around her, landing at her feet. She wobbled, shocked, breathless. Wordlessly Kincaid turned away from her, picked up the gun and faced her again. He had the barrel pointed right at her heart.
"So, you thought to kill me," he stated smoothly, disdainfully. "And yet you find you haven't the nerve. Your face, so fresh, so young… You're green, aren't you? You've never done this before. Killed." He narrowed his eyes, considering her, and she did not dare to move, didn't even dare to breathe though her lungs were burning with a painful intensity, fighting against her chest for air… He grimaced. "I am sorry to say, my dear, that I have killed before, and that dispatching you would be of little consequence to me."
She dared to open her mouth, dared to gasp for breath, dared to scan the room quickly and find an escape route, a weapon, anything… Nothing…
"Maybe I should kill you now," he sneered, suddenly gleeful, menacing. "Would you like that? Something in your eyes tells me you would. You're exactly like all the other trumped up mutant militants who come here, trying to kill me, trying to earn their glory. You all have that look in your eyes, the look that says you're ready to die, that you are willing to face death for your 'cause'. But you know nothing!" he spat, his eyes flashing with contempt. "There are some things we can rob from you just as easily as your worthless lives. Self-respect, pride, humanity." He smiled, expansive and mirthless, baring white, even teeth. "They say there are some things worse than death, and let me tell you, mutant - there are."
She said nothing. Her arm and her temples were aching dully, but her mind, her senses were fully alert. She dared not speak; she dared not move. Her eyes were on his, challenging, questioning, willing him to come closer…
He cocked an eyebrow at her; something about her surprised him.
"And yet you do not speak," he mused in a more curious tone of voice. "How very interesting. Usually your kind has a lot to say for itself - hyperbole and useless tripe for the most part, but still…" He moved the gun slightly, as if to caress her. "Why do you not speak, mutant? What is it that you are really here for?"
She shifted a little, feigning nervousness, indecision; she slipped a hand quietly behind her back, her fingers closing around something round and hard and solid…
A paperweight…
General Kincaid lowered the gun a little, though it was still undeniably trained upon her heart.
"Do you feel a little frightened now, mutant? Have I unnerved you?" He chuckled softly, sinister. "And yet, when I first looked into your eyes I had thought you so brave… braver even than the others. But you're just the same, aren't you. Deep down, you filthy mutant rats - you're all the same."
She watched him, watched the disgust flood his face again, and her fingers closed about the paperweight, and she was ready to do it, she was ready this time…
"Ah'm not afraid," she spoke, trying to sound confident, self-assured, and yet still her voice wavered. "You said there were worse things than death… Ah know. Ah've seen them, experienced them… There isn't a thing you can do t' me that'd break me."
"Ah." The smile was back again, this time broad and ugly. "But do you really think so? Do you think you are brave enough to face tortures never imagined or dreamed of, when you haven't the stomach to kill me?"
Ah. So that's what he thought…
"There are different kinds of bravery," she half-muttered. Her fingers were now clutching the paperweight so tightly the joints were prickling and her knuckles ached. "Bravery in the face of torture is entirely different to the bravery it takes t' kill a man."
His smile had faded, his eyes were hooded with the faintly ominous expression of a cobra.
"And one, I assume, is noble, whilst the other is not?" he questioned silkily.
Involuntarily she thought of Xavier; she thought of her foster-brother, Kurt. She shook her head.
"For mutants, there is no dignity in death," she murmured. That at least was true.
General Kincaid was regarding her now in oblique appraisal, with the look of a snake considering its prey, calm, calculating, clinical.
"Yes," he said at last. "That is true." His tone held a dreadful finality, as if someone had finally pointed out something that had been self-evident to him from the very moment of its inception. The gun was still firmly in his hand, but there was no longer any of the previous murderous intent in his eyes. "What is your name?" he asked her at last.
"Ah don't have a name," she answered quietly. Her fingers twitched on the paperweight.
A trace of a smile pricked his lips.
"No, I don't suppose you would, would you." He caressed the trigger thoughtfully. "I have never supposed mutants to have any need for names either. They have a curious penchant for taking appellations, crude epithets that merely reflect the mutant ability that defines them. Cyclops, Storm, Shadowcat." His lip curled once more with disdain. "All these names have a common thread - they are names that glorify the destructive power of the bearer, their abnormality, or their inherent ugliness. Better to have no name, than to have that. But you," and he regarded her again with that oddly appraising look, "you look human. You could easily pass for one of us. There is nothing strange in your looks, no outward or obvious manifestation of your deformity." He took a step towards her, paused and considered something, then asked: "And what is your power, mutant?"
He had walked towards her; that was good. She could bring herself to focus only on that small sliver of hope.
"Ah'm a vampire," she answered with more honesty than she'd ever expressed to anyone, even herself. "Ah absorb the memories and psyches of anyone Ah touch."
He took another step; there was a look of enlightenment, of wonder on the harsh contours of his face.
"Aaaaah," he murmured. "Now I see why you remain nameless… Because you are not one, but many. Because, in essence, you possess no identity." He grinned, malevolent. "How intriguing. It is a pity, then, that your powers can have no effect on me."
She gritted her teeth; her hand was throbbing painfully now, her head was swimming and his words had angered her.
"A pity? It ain't no pity," she breathed, hardly able to contain the emotion streaming into her voice. "You think Ah like mah power? You think Ah'd like to absorb you? You think Ah'd want you screamin' in mah head along with all the other ghosts that haunt me?"
He was very near her now, the gun still poised somewhere close to her heart; his eyes glittered at her words.
"And now I see why you show no pride, why you come here and fight your cause without zeal, without passion, unlike all the other filth who've tried to kill me before this moment. Because you hate yourself, just as much as the humans hate you. Because you understand their contempt of you, their disgust of you - it is the selfsame disgust and contempt you feel for yourself." There was an odd expression of triumph on his face. "Yes, I see… How fascinating. In a way, I find I understand you, mutant."
He was standing mere inches away from her now, and now that he was this near she was shaking, unable to go through with it, unable to fight him and he knew it…
"Ah don't want t' be understood by you," she seethed, unable to hide the revulsion in her voice, but he merely sneered at her, his eyes perusing her face as if he were now reading an open book.
"Yes, I see it now - I can see in your eyes that courage of a different kind has been tempered, the courage of the faceless, of the soulless…" He shifted the gun, and this time she felt it press against her breastbone, digging through the material of her bodysuit and into her flesh… already she could feel the bullet in her heart… "Maybe I should do you a service after all, mutant," he murmured intimately, as if he were offering her the chance of a lifetime, a one-off favour never to be repeated. "Maybe I should just kill you now. For you know the truth already - that your death will be completely and utterly worthless; meaningless - and I do believe it is a waste of time to push an already well-established point."
She heard him cock the gun; it seemed a painfully long moment, and a part of her wanted it… But then she thought of Xavier, the only person she'd ever trusted, the only teacher that had ever taught her anything worth learning… …
And suddenly she was moving, her hand was swinging with all the force left in her throbbing, aching hand and she was smashing the paperweight into the side of his skull… …
Crack.
All her rage, all her revulsion, all the sickness inside her expressed itself in that one gruesome sound and as she watched Kincaid fall there was nothing left inside her but horror, a deep and sickening horror, a yawning, gaping hole that encompassed her as he crumpled to the floor with a sepulchral thud.
She dropped the paperweight, unable to work her muscles anymore; she was hyperventilating, she couldn't breathe, she was going to be sick. She fell to her knees, whimpering, clawing her way across the general's body, grabbing onto his coat, rolling him over.
Breathing.
He was still breathing.
She let go of him, half relieved and half aghast. He wasn't dead. He was alive. She hadn't killed him. She'd still kept that one last piece of her humanity, the one last glimmer of hope stored and sealed tight inside her. She was still human.
She was still human.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, God…
"You have t' kill him, chere."
The voice was cool, calm, collected, utter lunacy in the face of all that had just happened. Unable to stand, she swivelled on her knees, and there he was, standing behind her - whether demon or angel she didn't know, except that he was there, looking down on her when she'd thought he was lost and never to be found again… …
The eyes that had been watching her, the sounds… She had been followed… …
"Remy?" she whispered.
He said nothing, made no greeting, but walked up beside Kincaid's prone body, bent down, and picked up the gun lying on the floor next to him.
"You have to kill him," he told her matter-of-factly. "It's what you came here to do, isn't it? Besides, he knows too much about you now. Lettin' him live would be dangerous." He held a hand out to her. "Come on now," he said, softly, encouragingly.
She stared at his outstretched hand a long moment, still trembling, unable to understand how he was here and why he was here, but his voice, his logic was so reasonable, so seductive… And she knew he was right, undeniably, unequivocally right… Wordless, she reached out, took his hand. He pulled her up, handed her the gun.
She took it.
She closed her eyes, inhaled, calm and even, slowly regulating her breathing. Then she opened her eyes again and aimed the gun; it wobbled only very slightly when she lined it up against Kincaid's already bruised and bloody forehead. She stared at him, the coarse, lined and insidious face, the mouth locked in a perpetual sneer of contempt, even now, even here, a mouth that had said so many things to her, so many monstrous home-truths, and suddenly it hit her - he was the only one who understood her. The only one who knew who she was and where she was coming from.
She lowered the gun.
"Ah can't do it," she murmured, not looking at Remy still standing beside her.
"Rogue -"
"Ah can't do it!" she bellowed above him, before he could say anything she didn't want to hear. Wordlessly she slammed the gun into his chest, making him take it back.
"Rogue, dis is crazy -"
"Didn't you listen t' a word he said t' me!" she screamed at him, finally turning to face him, his beautiful, quiet face, his dark, watchful eyes. "'Cos you were listenin', weren't you!" He stared at her blankly and she shouted at him, infuriated all the more by his silence. "He called me nameless, faceless, soulless! He said Ah have no identity! D'you think if Ah kill him, that'll make me any better! D'you think it'd give me back mah name!"
It was the first time she'd ever asked these questions of anybody, and this time she wanted an answer; the look of challenge was in her eyes, but his own countenance was hard, cold, emotionless.
"You're a fool, Rogue," he replied quietly. "Dis ain't about you, it ain't about stayin' sane and it ain't about honour. It's about survival. You let him live, he'll come back and kill you. I'm tellin' you girl, killin' him now would be de lesser of two evils."
She was hyperventilating again, her chest heaving maniacally, grief and rage spilling out of her in a volcano of pure white heat so intense that black spots were dancing before her eyes… She hated him. She hated him and his fucked up logic. Without thinking she slammed her palms into his chest and tried to shove him away from her, but it wasn't even enough to make him step back.
"You don't get it, do you!" she shrieked at him, her voice deafening her own ears. "An evil is still an evil - d'you think Ah still want any part of it!" She shoved him again, but he didn't move, just watched her. "D'yah ever think that maybe my soul is the only thing Ah've got left!" Shove. "D'yah think if Ah killed him, Ah'd still get t' keep it!" Shove. "D'yah think it'd absolve all these sins Ah carry on my back, these horrible, wretched, disgustin' sins!" She pushed him again, with all her might, but he still didn't move and she felt moisture welling in her eyes. "Ah won't do it, Remy, Ah won't ever do it, not for you, not for anyone, not ever, Ah'd rather be killed, Ah'd rather die!"
She slammed her hands into his chest again, but as she did so something went out of her, and she choked on a dry, broken sob, clutching the lapels of his trench coat with white fingers, utterly exhausted, utterly drained. He was motionless, making no move to comfort her, his hands slack by his side, the gun still hanging limply in his right hand. She didn't want his comfort anyway. She stared at the ground between them, unable even to cry anymore.
"Ah can't do it," she finally said quietly, wearily. "Ah won't do it. It's just one of those things, Remy. It's one sin Ah can't add t' the list of many. Ah think if Ah did do it… Ah wouldn't be me anymore. Ah wouldn't be Rogue. Ah'd be dead, Remy. Ah'd be dead."
There was a long silence, frigid, still, thick with cold, and she stared at the ground, still holding onto him, knowing he wouldn't understand, that he could never understand, and that however long she stood there and held onto him and willed him to understand, he wouldn't.
Presently, he stirred, turning back towards Kincaid's inert body lying on the floor, and she let go of him, looked up into his face. He was looking down at the general, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set with sudden determination. It was only then that she saw a side of him she'd never seen before, a side that sent chills down her spine and a thrill coursing through her body, one that settled right in the core of her and stayed there.
He moved forward, he raised the gun, he aimed it at Kincaid.
She stepped after him, one simple step as she suddenly realised the awful thing he was going to do.
"Remy -" she breathed, wanting to reach out for him, wanting to draw him back, knowing it was too late.
Wordlessly, he pulled the trigger.
-oOo-