Curiosity

Chapter 4: Hope

Disclaimer: Why not, let's have another disclaimer. I do not own, nor am I affiliated or associated with the designers, creators or producers of ANY of the following: Uncanny X-Men, X-Men: The Animated Series, X-Men: Evolution, the as-yet-unaired Wolverine and the X-Men animated series (which looks really good, despite any convincing evidence so far for a Gambit being involved), Ultimate X-Men, X-Factor, X-Force, New X-Men, Young X-Men, Asterix and the X-Men, X and the City, or any of the X-Men movies. (If I was, you'd note the red-and-white MARVEL tag atop my work. And the conspicuous lack of this feeble disclaimer.) So please, save yourself some time and energy – don't sue me. I'm not making any money off of this.

Author's Note: Just so we're clear, Rogue has taken the Cure, as in the 3rd movie. Obviously, Jean and the Professor are not dead. I'm not writing as though the entire 3rd movie happened, I'm just sort of borrowing some plot details (in normal writing, I think this is called plagiarizing, but since it's such a diverse canon, I thought it'd be a shame not to pick and choose the plot points I liked, and what fit the story I wanted to tell). For clarification, in my little bizarre-world the Professor was never ripped apart by Jean. Also, while something happened between Jean and Logan, he obviously didn't kill her, so I'll leave that for later.

Xavier steepled his fingers, lost in thought. It seemed he had blundered. The animosity between his protégé and Ororo's enigmatic thief was clear. The mission – a first overture of peace, and offer of protection and of cooperation – had been a complete failure. That was the only thing the two men seemed to agree on. He took in Storm's furrowed brow, the tension between the two men. Yes, teaming those two up had indeed been a critical blunder . . . he was not used to making such mistakes, and it galled him more than he cared to admit.

He let out a deep breath, trying to focus his thoughts, trying to ignore Scott as he ostentatiously fiddled with his visor.

Remy lounged casually in his chair, a portrait of indolence and confidence. Xavier could feel the energy this mutant commanded, even as he appeared relaxed; he may not be able to penetrate the thief's formidable shields, but he could feel the pull of the other man's power. There was something else there as well, a different kind of pull entirely. It was almost . . . seductive. Not sexual, not entirely, but a charisma bordering on hypnotic.

There was much more to Remy LeBeau than met the eye. That the man had accepted working with a team had surprised Xavier. That the team he'd assembled for this delicate mission had managed to fail so completely . . .

"De mission don' have to be a complete failure."

Xavier blinked. The thief hadn't spoken a word since he'd assembled the three of them for the impromptu debriefing. He wondered if the man had read him somehow; could he have missed a powerful telepath behind those shields of his? He might have, on his own, but with Cerebro . . . still, his words so closely echoed Xavier's thoughts.

Remy took his silence for the invitation it was. "Sure, it's a trap, dis meetin' dey arranged. But it's still de best lead y'got. If y'want their attention, spring dis trap o'theirs."

The idea had merit. The tactics were certainly sound: meet the enemy on unexpected ground, or if you could not manage that, meet the enemy on expected ground with unexpected force. But the X-Men were not soldiers – not in the standard sense. He'd assembled the team to help him in his fight, but they were not soldiers. Soldiers were expendable.

Xavier had a tough decision to make. He knew the importance of de-escalating the conflict, of keeping tabs on both sides to ensure no further blood was shed. He also knew full well the personal cost of failure on his part – Storm's nephew Evan, a former student of his, had chosen a life with the Morlocks. He owed it to Storm, to Evan, to keep them safe from the increasingly violent Purifiers.

He wondered how far the Cajun's strange allegiance to Storm would hold. She had been oddly hesitant when questioned about the nature of their relationship, and she flat-out refused to tell him how she'd gotten knowledge of his more . . . colorful exploits. An unusual move for the normally candid, unapologetic Goddess. He toyed with the idea that they'd enjoyed a romantic liaison, discarding it after careful observation of the two. They seemed more like brother and sister than lovers; the unrepentant thief seemed to think of her as a little sister – someone to tease, to comfort, to protect. Oddly enough, Storm seemed to accept, even welcome, the man's brotherly attentions. There was definitely more to the two of them than met the eye; he made a note to do some digging in New Orleans; surely a man as distinctive as Remy LeBeau would have left a trail. Even if the man did manage to blend seamlessly into the background, moving through shadow like stealth was a secondary mutation.

He sighed, clearing his mind as he heard the slight tap at his study door.

"Come in, Rogue."

Xavier comforted himself with the fact that his voice was just as calm and reassuring as it always was. His twice-weekly sessions with the Southern teen weighed on him. His guilt warred with anger, his fear with faint hope. The sight of her settling herself in one of the overstuffed chairs, arranging herself nervously – gloved hands smoothing her clothing carefully, reflexively – that sight, and the knowledge that she no longer really needed those gloves, that carefully maintained layer of clothing she wore like armor, stirred up the guilt. And the anger. He knew she would no sooner consider going without the gloves than she would consider going without a shirt. For an all-too-brief interlude after she'd taken the Cure, she'd been . . . not happy, but open to give happiness a chance. The gloves never disappeared completely, but for a time she had seemed not to need them. There had been a glow about her, as though she was finally – after so long – at peace. Even after Hank had broken the news to her that the Cure might not be permanent, she had held onto that peace, that faint ray of hope.

Xavier had seen that peace shattered. Her walls were back up, and he feared that she was once again trapped in her own self-fulfilling prophecy. With her mutation weakened, kicking in intermittently, he was confident that if she focused her efforts she could gain at least some measure of control over her power, but she saw only failure. His failures, and her own. Even the Cure had failed to provide her with any semblance of a normal life; its effects were slowly beginning to wear off, leaving her to deal with the reality of giving up once again that which she held most dear.

This time, though, it would be different. Because he had faith in her strength, and in Hank's science, and because it just had to be different. He couldn't fail her twice.

She was fidgeting slightly, watching him curiously as her fingers tugging idly at the hem of her gloves. Waiting for him to begin with the usual meditation exercise. A rough knock at the door caught his attention, dispelling his morose thoughts.

Wolverine entered without waiting for an invitation, as usual, with Beast trailing behind apologetically. Xavier smiled as Logan made himself comfortable, lounging carelessly in the big leather chair. His hand strayed briefly to the unlit cigar tucked over his ear, the slight gesture revealing his confident act to be just that – an act. Logan was nervous, and understandably so.

"Logan, Hank – thank you for joining us."

Rogue twitched nervously at the realization that they were here for her session. She didn't have long to wonder why.

"Rogue, Logan has volunteered for an experiment. Now hear me out," he admonished her gently, quieting her before she could protest. "You are at a crossroads, Rogue. We have no reason to believe that your powers won't make a full recovery, based on reports of other mutants who have regained their abilities after having been exposed to the Cure. At this point in time, though, it seems that your powers are in partial remission."

Xavier turned to Hank, who had remained standing, hovering attentively behind Logan.

"Yes, yes – I've done extensive sequencing on the samples from you and from several other mutants who had been affected by the Cure. I used myself and Logan as a control, and by examining the baseline mRNA EST's and taking from that your cDNA, and comparing the expressed fragments to –"

Hank stopped his explanation when he saw Rogue's eyes glaze over. Logan was staring fixedly at him as though he were analyzing his weaknesses, considering how to take him down. But then, Logan stared at just about everyone that way. Still, it never failed to make him a bit . . . edgy.

"Er, suffice it to say that Xavier and I believe that the Cure has fundamentally disrupted the activation mechanism of your mutation. When I ran sequences on you before, you would show no difference in gene expression after you had used your powers, indicating that whatever it is that drives your power was always on. My recent sequences indicate that this is no longer the case."

Rogue bit her lip, her brown furrowing as she considered what he'd just told her. "Ain't that cause this Cure is inhibiting whatever it is that makes me tick?"

Hank and Xavier exchanged a significant look. At Xavier's slight nod, Hank cleared his throat nervously. "We think that the Cure has already cleared your system. As of several weeks ago, I've been unable to locate the virus' genetic signature in any of your expressed genes."

Rogue stared at him in shock. Her mind was buzzing with questions at the revelation. When were you going to tell me? Why aren't my powers back? Her frazzled brain seized upon the most immediate of her concerns. "What's Logan here for?"

"I'm your guinea pig, Stripes," he said gruffly, shifting slightly in his chair.

"That's funny, you look more like a badger," she said, her eyes widening slightly as she realized what she just said. Out loud.

Hank stifled a laugh with a large, furry hand, moving out of range of the Wolverine's claws. You could never be too careful, after all.

Logan smiled, a grim twinkle in his hard eyes. "Keep laughing, Stripes. I'll see you in the Danger Room tomorrow."

Rogue swallowed nervously. "What am Ah supposed ta do?"

"I want you to focus on turning your power on," Xavier said gently, tasting the bitter irony. How many times had he asked her to do just the opposite, in that same quiet, soothing tone?

"But Ah don't want mah powers on!"

"That is precisely my point."

Xavier waited while she worked out his meaning, the confusion in her eyes slowly overtaken by a desperate realization.

"You think – you think Ah already have control?"

"It is a possibility that I'd like to test," he admitted, trying to keep his voice even. "That is why I've asked Logan to volunteer his services."

"But what about –"

"You were understandably perturbed when Colossus fell through the ceiling of the women's locker room, and it is my belief that your powers switched on to compensate. After all, it's not every day a nude metal man comes crashing down on you in the shower – even around here."

Rogue blushed at the memory. She knew firsthand that it wasn't Piotr's fault. Pyro had been instigating a towel fight, and he'd gotten Piotr good, raising a nasty welt on his backside. When Colossus had powered up, his weight had proved too much for the shower floor, and he'd ended up in Rogue's lap. And in her head.

At least I know I'm not just a powerless schizo. She wondered if Xavier had heard that thought. Rogue had been worried when the Cure hadn't taken the voices, leaving her trapped in her own head with the dozens of personalities she'd absorbed. After all, she wasn't a mutant any longer, and they had padded rooms for people with more than one personality in their heads.

What if I don't want this?

"Whether you want it or not, your powers will not stay dormant forever – Piotr is proof enough of that. If you can overcome your fear, your doubt . . ."

Xavier knew he was pushing her, but it was the one thing he'd never tried. He'd always left her in her comfort zone, taking care the make sure that she wasn't scared, that she wouldn't hurt herself – or anyone else. He could see now that it had been the wrong approach; everything he'd done, every day that went by had simply compounded the problem, etching the fear and doubt further and further into Rogue's psyche. It was that crippling fear that had kept control from her grasp. She knew that her skin was dangerous, and it was that very knowledge – deeper than fact or faith or even instinct, carved into her bones and imprinted on her soul – that made it so.

Against his better judgment, Xavier gave her a push. More of a nudge, really, hardly anything to speak of. Just enough to get her out of her chair and headed in the right direction.

Rogue found herself on her feet, slowly advancing on Logan. She didn't remember having taken her gloves off, but a quick glance back at her chair revealed them arranged neatly over the padded arm. What if she absorbed him? What if she didn't? That last thought sent a giddy wash of nerves jolting through her. She wanted control . . . right? No, there was no question. There could be no question, no doubt in her mind. She needed control. The Cure was only temporary, but it had given her a chance. Like pressing a reset button.

I can do this.

She wasn't sure what she was psyching herself up for. It was such a grotesque juxtaposition, being instructed to turn her mutation on. She was terrified that it wouldn't work, and even more terrified that it would. She trusted Xavier with her life – Logan, too, for that matter, but she still felt her stomach twist as she tried to focus on turning her gift, her cursed skin, on.

Logan could hear her heart pounding in her chest, her breaths short and labored. She was inching closer as though terrified he'd attack; she smelled of fear and a welter of other emotions, but the fear was overwhelming.

"Easy, Stripes, I'm not gonna bite you," he said soothingly. At least, it was meant to be soothing. She started convulsively when he spoke, his low, raspy voice grating across her nerves.

"Not worried about you hurting me," she whispered, so quietly he was barely able to pick out her words, even with his enhanced senses.

She froze, her hand a few inches from his, her eyes wide. Logan watched her carefully, gauging her mental state; with a mental shrug, he leaned over and took her hand in his.

His eyes widened to match hers as he held her small hand, still watching her carefully. He could hear the ancient clock on the mantel ticking off the seconds, each swing of the pendulum thunderously loud. It seemed he could actually hear time slow down, and he felt her hand tremble in his.

And then he felt it. That unforgettable sensation of being ripped from oneself, of freezing and tearing and spinning.

Rogue squeaked when she felt it, that pull that she both feared and desperately needed. She tried to pull back, to apologize – they always seemed so feeble, her apologies, when she had always known full well the havoc even the faintest brush of her skin could wreak – but Logan was having none of it, his hand closing over hers even as his knees weakened.

"Logan, let me go!"

His eyes glinted stubbornly as he stared her down, willing her to turn it off. She wondered if this was his idea, or Xavier's. Only one way out. She clamped her eyes shut, trying to block out the sensation of absorption, the feel of his hand over hers – he was hurting her a little, but not nearly as much as she was hurting him. She blanked her mind out, ignoring all distractions, and focused on turning it off. But he was there, in her head, and he would not be ignored. Logan was fire and untamed fury, his psyche crowding into hers, dominating by its very presence.

Her eyes snapped open. This wasn't working, she'd been crazy to agree to this. Logan was slumped over in his chair, gasping for breath, his eyes still focused on her, his hand still wrapped around her wrist. She bit her lip as she jerked free of his grip, stumbling back and sprawling on the floor with the force of her movement; it was an indication of how much of him she'd already managed to take, that she was able to do that.

"You gotta stop running sometime, Stripes."

Rogue couldn't tell if the voice was in her head or if Logan was actually speaking to her. She could feel her world tilt crazily, his thoughts rampaging through her head. It always seemed to strange to her, that the other person never got any small portion of her in return. She took so much – though the shade in her head was devoid of the spark that defined a person, it was in all other respects a complete copy of the soul she'd absorbed, in some instances even capable of independent thought. She took so much, and never gave in return. Her desires, her hopes and her dreams, her past – Wolverine had no more access to her that he had any of the other X-Men, and yet with a mere thought, she could sift through the morass of memories and impulses, instincts and emotions that was the Wolverine.

She knew him better than any lover could, better than he knew himself. But she could never share that in return, would never let anyone into her head they way she could get into theirs.

Rogue took a deep breath, forcing herself to concentrate, to regain control of her senses. Of instincts that screamed at her to run, to fight, to lash out at her tormentors. A sharp pain at her knuckles, the clean slice of bone through the delicate skin, brought her back to reality. She could hear Xavier in her head, soothing her and calling to her, and Dr. McCoy in the distance.

What did you expect would happen?

His own conscience taunted him. He'd known the risk – to both of them – yet he'd willingly do it again. He couldn't afford to play it safe, couldn't afford another failure. For her sake, or for his own.

Hank had insisted on keeping Rogue overnight in the Medical Lab, for observation. Her mind had been scrambled by the brief contact, a vortex of conflicting emotions.

Still, Xavier couldn't help being pleased at Logan's performance. For a split second, he could have sworn she'd managed to stop the flow of power, but then she'd jerked free of him. He was fine, of course; a little shaken by their failure, but he was back to his normal cantankerous self in no time. It wasn't a complete failure – she had managed to call up her powers.

Turning them off, on the other hand …

Xavier frowned, considering his options. He needed to be aggressive, but perhaps there was a way to engage Rogue without frightening her. His own powers were useless – he could control her mind, but she'd have no access to the knowledge, the power she'd gained while under his control. No, he'd need a subtler coercion, if he was to succeed.

He made a mental note to talk to Storm, to see how far she trusted the mutant who called himself Gambit. He resolved to do some digging for himself; perhaps it was time to call in a few favors.

Chaos. Her dreams were sharp and fragmented, a broken mirror shattered beyond repair; she was haunted by nightmarish visions, memories that were and weren't hers: a crude underground laboratory, the sickening stench of hot metal searing into flesh and bone, drowning out the snowy steppes and the wide, lazy river; the thrill of the hunt overshadowing the thrill of her first kiss, and then pain and death and blood – so much blood. Sometimes it was her own, and sometimes . . . over and over she watched her lover die at the hands of the monster. That nameless dark figure; she could remember the stench of him, taste his fear as her claws sunk into him, feel the spray of his blood across her face and the crunch of his bone under her fist.

It was cold; she could feel the cool intrusion of the IV needle, cold even under her skin as the icy fluid seared through her veins. The monitors beeped and blinked in time with her vitals, but it registered not a blip as she tensed, scanning the small room for any signs of life.

She wasn't bound, and there were no guards; a surprising omission, but not one she was about to protest. Even her handlers made mistakes. Not often, to be sure, but she supposed the fact that they usually didn't live to regret any lapses in vigilance had something to do with that.

The claws hurt when they came out, but it was a welcome pain. She was used to pain. It gave her focus. Focus she'd be needing if she wanted to get out; they couldn't kill her, but they could cage her. And she needed to be free, if she was going to have her revenge.

Creed.

She had her target. The monitor sounded a low, flat tone as she ripped out the IV, sweeping the sensors from her body; she silenced the machine with a deft swipe of her claws before padding silently down the darkened hallway.

Author's Note (part the second): Dun dun dun! Read and review - I promise Romy next chapter!