Disclaimer: Not Mine

Author's Note: Hope you like, let me know how I'm doing.

Chapter 2

Logan sped forward on his bike, his mind going over again and again the dream that he knew was a memory: he memorized every detail, from the woman lying dead before him, to the smell of the man who had called himself a friend. Seventeen years had passed since that day on that island. Was he even alive? Would he remember Logan? Would he try to kill him? The answer, Logan knew in his guts was the same for all three questions: probably.

Smiling, he sped on, hoping to finally find the fight and the answers that he had spent years looking for.

---

"Report; what's going on in there?"

Emma swallowed hard, her hand on her temple, her focus on the mutant in pain as the man beside her, the one without the gun pointed at her, worked away at his monitor.

"It worked," she breathed, "Her mutation has been jump started."

Stryker smiled before looking to the man, "What of the device?"

"The last of Jason's 'acid', as you call it, was released with the gas. She should be susceptible to Miss Frost's mental commands for a full twelve hours."

"Will they be able to trace the casing?"

"Only to SHIELD."

Stryker snickered under his breath, "Good." He looked over his shoulder to where another man in uniform sat, "How are we doing here Mr. Cornwall?"

"Creed is bringing in the subject now. Vitals are strong, he has survived the move, stasis and remarkably, even having his head sawed off and re-attached. There is only one experiment left to bring in sir."

"And?"

The man cleared his throat, "And we are having problems Sir. Despite difficulties on that front we are tracking him, but whenever we try to capture him, he—well he keeps killing the agents Sir."

Stryker scowled, "Gambit… try a new tactic then Cornwall. We know him, what is in his head, his memories… for fucks sake! We're the ones that put them there! Use it against him!"

"Yes Sir. Belladonna then?"

"Of course Belladonna."

---

A cold sweat had formed on Warren's face—No! Not Warren, she was Rogue… Marie, someone. Warren was lying close by. She couldn't lie down, she had wings now, but they didn't work like she knew they should. Not yet. Now, there was only pain.

Next to the monitors displaying the X-Rays that had been taken of her, Hank stood his glasses off, and a look of astonishment clearly seen on his features. Beside him was Peter, Bobby and Storm, all looking on in curious apprehension.

"Considering how long she was here," Hank told them, finally tearing his eyes off the screen, "Remarkably little is known about her mutation: capabilities, limitations, extremes. Jean had little medical information aside from what she gathered from Rogue's experiences with Logan's healing factor. Professor Xavier's resources didn't prove to have much more. All that was known was that she could borrow powers while touching, and that she imprinted personalities and memories that seemed to last past physical contact. Now I see is that there is far much more to it than was observed. By her own reports Rogue absorbs powers, her body takes them on like they were her own, but I don't think even she knew it was like this." He now turned to where she sat, clutching to her knees, rocking back and forth, her wings twitching in time to her movements, "Her bones have hollowed, her wing structure exactly matches Warrens."

"Will it last?" Bobby asked, anxious to know what was going on. He had tried to talk to her, tried to get through to Marie, but it was like she couldn't hear…like Marie wasn't there. He even tried calling her Rogue, only to hear her laugh.

Here Hank flipped through some papers, "According to Jean's reports, duration of transfer depends on the length of skin to skin contact. The Professor had extrapolated a transfer rate of 60:1."

"Meaning what exactly?" Storm asked, shaking her head. She was worried. Someone was attacking mutants on her very doorstep. That, she didn't like. And right then, their only clue as to who did it didn't even know who she was.

"Meaning that for every second Rogue is in contact with someone's skin, she absorbs the amount of information that it would take a telepath to gather in a minute. Which, knowing as many telepaths as I have, is remarkable. If power and energy transfer occurs at the same rate… one can only imagine the damage if she held on for too long."

"She almost killed Logan," Bobby whispered, for the first time realizing just how close to death he had come time and time again. He had thought that her powers would hurt him, certainly, but kill him? He only thought that she was afraid of rendering him unconscious. Guilt overcame him as he realized how selfish he had been for pushing her so far when she had been trying to save his life; how much she did, for his life. Just how much she had to suffer, because of him.

"Remarkable."

"Warren is coming around," Peter told them, moving to help the winged mutant to a sitting position.

"How do you feel?" Hank asked, his scientific curiosity getting the best of him.

"Like I was struck by lightning."

"Not lightning, just Rogue. You'll be alright." Peter told him with a laugh.

"Rogue? Is she…?" Warren's gaze moved wildly until he saw her: Rogue had his wings. "Oh God!" Unsteady as he was Warren would not stay on the bed, not while Rogue was there, not while she was going through what he had, not while she didn't have to go through it alone. "Rogue?"

She laughed, her eyes catching him. She stilled, her eyes seeking his, "He won't like it. I'm a monster. I have to cut them off! Pain, so much pain! They have to go. He wouldn't understand."

"What is she talking about?" Storm asked, looking between Hank and Warren who took a dazed step back.

"My memories. She's remembering my memories. I sawed off my wings but they came back."

"He hated me," Rogue whispered. She blinked, her shoulders slumping. "Warren?" Behind her the feathers that had just grown started to fall out and the once thick bone of her wings shriveled until they were useless stumps attached to her shoulder blades, "They're back."

Bobby took a step forward, "its okay Marie…"

His hand, his bare hand, came near her. Reacting before thinking, only knowing that she was again what she was born to be, cursed like she was meant to be, she jumped and put the table between her and them, holding onto it dearly when she discovered just how weak she really was, "Don't."

Hank pushed Bobby's hand back down by his side, "its okay Rogue."

She shook her head, "No." She brought a hand to her temple, hoping that it would help her clear her thoughts, "Wait. Ah... mah memories."

"I know that it's disorientating."

"There was a bomb."

"Yes. It produced a gas that triggered the re-manifestation of your mutation. Alex and Kitty are analyzing it now."

Balance was slowing returning until she finally trusted herself to stand on her own, knowing, finally just who she truly was, what she truly was. "They're back."

Hank nodded, "Yes. Marie…"

She shook her head, coming to terms faster than she ever thought she would. She had a feeling that the cure wouldn't last, "No. Rogue. Ah'm Rogue. Who did it?"

"We're figuring it out now. Until we know more, I'm going to remove the remainder of the wing stumps, and then I want you to get some sleep. Your genes have had a hard day."

Nodding, Rogue followed where Hank gestured, knowing, deep down, that things were going to get worse, and that having had wings, was only going to be the beginning.

---

His name was Remy LeBeau, but more and more he was coming to call himself Gambit. The name, although given to him by the monsters that imprisoned him, suited him. And more and more, he was living up to it. And right then, he was doing it in style.

"Aces over Jacks; read 'em an pay up!"

The man sitting across the table slumped back in his chair, his flush falling to the floor, "But she's my daughter!"

"Then you shouldn't have bet her." A red tint shown in his eyes as they looked over the crying adolescence sitting in the corner. "Leave her and walk away." He smiled, "And don't think about getting your son to shoot me," his staff was suddenly in his hand, the end, glowing a purple that matched his favourite shirt, pushed in the throat of his son, who's hand was in his jacket, about to pull the pistol he carried from its holster. "I would hate for him to go boom."

"Patrick, leave her. Let's go."

"Au revoir, mon amie," Gambit waved, setting his hat down low on his head, listening to them go more than watching, a deck of cards idly shuffling in nimble fingers because not only did he like having something to keep them busy, but also in case any of the retreating men had a second thought about leaving peacefully.

Once secure that they had really left he eyed the girl, his feet coming to rest on the surface of the poker table, "Sit with me, Petite, and please stop crying. I don't like it when pretty girls cry. With a face like yours you should always be smiling. What is your name?"

"Claire," she told him, nervously doing as he asked, afraid of this new man as she had her father.

He split the deck with one hand, pulling the Ace of Spades from the middle, "And what kind of father bets his only daughter in a poker game with a cheat?"

"You were cheating?"

He put his feet down and leaned forward, his hat tipping up enough for her to see the red ripple through his otherwise dark eyes. "You deserve better than him." Smiling again he stood up. He easily swung his long jacket over his silk shirt and eyed her once more, "Come with me."

She did as she was told, "Where are we going?"

"We? I am going to another, livelier card house. You, however, are going far away from here." He faced her when they got outside. He pulled a card from the deck and wrote on it an address and gave it to her along with his winnings of the evening. "Go to this address and tell her that I sent you. She will take care of you. Claire, you will have a home and be schooled, you will never worry about being bought or sold again and of course, you will fall madly in love with me, as all girls should their hero. Now go, before I ask for a kiss."

Smiling up at the man who offered her freedom, Claire stood on her tip toes and kissed him anyway, on the cheek. With a blush and new tears forming she turned to go.

"And you better go to her," Remy called after her, "I will be checking up on you."

"Another good deed for the reformed, for the boy scout," a cool voice called from behind him.

Gambit inhaled his back straightening. He turned, and his throat caught. It always did when she was near: his own poison, his Belladonna.

"What brings you here Chere?"

An eyebrow rose, "When did you start adding in French words?"

"Since you started to wear underwear," he countered looking at her closely, "I can see your panty line."

She laughed stepping towards him, "You always were the charmer LeBeau."

He met her, his arms snaking around her, drawing her closer to him, her body feeling so right against his, the way it always did, the way, he feared, it always would. "Except with you Belle. You know me so well; I can't insult you by feeding you all the lines."

She smiled at him, her blue eyes looking into his dark ones, seeing into his very soul. She kissed him, falling into the softness of his lips, before he fell at her feet, unconscious.

Behind her there was a growl as Victor Creed stepped out of the shadows, "Be easy with him," she told him, kneeling down and removing the staff and cards from her former lover's possession, "He gets mad when he gets bruised." Her eyes met Creed's when he hoisted the prone figure into his arms, "Stryker should have sent for me sooner; always send the beauty when the beast is incompetent."

Her smile grew when he growled again, "You know Creed, I like you a lot better this way. Stryker was right to cut your voice box out." She laughed as she turned and took out her cell phone and dialed.

"Yes?" Stryker's cold voice asked at the other end of the line.

"Mission accomplished. Gambit is in the arms of your own personal lap dog."

"Good work."

Full of herself Belladonna flipped her phone shut, not hearing what Victor clearly could as she did so: Stryker's voice telling him to "finish the job".

With a smile and growl his claws extended and with one slice Belladonna fell to the ground, her blood pooling around her. Victor almost laughed, kicking her as he stepped over her—he never did like flowers, no matter how pretty they smelled.