Whoa so I know it's been, as a reviewer has informed me, like 10 months since my last update -- which I realize is quite absurd since I used to be such a frequent updater. But like with all things reality catches up to you, and do I wish I could gush about the heinousness of my realities lately. I won't, don't worry. But do read on. I keep forgetting what this sequel is actually about because there are so many intricate arcs and complications in plot...but I hope it all works out!

Sorry again for taking so long. I'm alive and still writing though.

much love,

the author

Chapter 4 – Resurrect

The bell rang to signal lunchtime. Throngs of yapping kids poured out of classrooms, and rushed to miniature lockers plastered with magazine cutouts, packed with makeup, lunch bags, and random playthings.

The sky was the blue of robins' eggs, and one had to squint from the bright sunlight when first stepping outside. Most of the kids sat outside.

The picnic tables were sensitive territory. Specially designated areas, only particular kids with particular friends could sit at particular tables. The picnic tables were filled so thoroughly that many of the other junior high schoolers—the ones without the friends or unendorsed titles—sat on curbs, the school steps, or under trees. The social divisions were more visible out here than inside.

A group of seven kids always sat at one table, farthest from the others. Their locale was somewhat appropriate for them: they didn't like being near the others anyway. They were the school outcasts. They were the mutants.

"I don't get why Becky Parsons is so popular," a scaly-skinned girl said. Her friends called her Adder, after her serpentine appearance. "She's not even pretty. It's all just thinness, clothes, and hair. I mean, have you looked at her face, like really looked at her face? That nose and the placing of her eyes…no Kate Moss that's for sure."

A lean boy, whose hair stood up in metal spikes, huffed: "She's just easy." His steely eyes gleam with good-natured mischief, "Had the whole basketball team."

"Lance! Shut up, that's nuts!" cried a red-eyed girl in disbelief.

"And she's a rich flatscan," a fish-lipped boy said. "She thinks she's better than everybody. She steps on everyone."

"I'd like to see her step on me," Adder smirked. Her forked tongue slipped out of her mouth, slowly licking her brown lips.

"Doesn't she hate you?" Lance asked.

"She's afraid of me. But that didn't stop her from making our friends' lives hell. We're the only ones left that haven't transferred out."

"I didn't forget." Lance looked in the direction of Becky Parsons' table. Some of the girls were casting him fleeting glances. It was an unspoken veracity: Lance was gorgeous, despite his mutation. He was the guilty pleasure of many girls, their only ever mutant crush.

Adder bristled slightly. "What are they drinking?"

All of Becky's friends, and their surrounding tables, were swigging from identical cans of electric blue design. They seemed to enjoy it, their faces lighting up with delight at the taste of this mystery beverage.

At the edge of the courtyard stood the source: a small table stacked with cans, two young representatives handing them out. The sign read: REVIVE.

"You guys want some?" Lance asked, already standing up.

Adder scowled doubtfully, "I wouldn't trust it."

"Oh, come on," Lance said, "we should be able to have some, too." The others agreed. When he went to get a few cans, a buzz trailed behind him.

The mutie's going for it.

The mutie wants our stuff.

Lance returned and shared the spoils. Revive had a refreshingly fruity taste, a unique tang they'd never experienced in a soft drink that left them feeling strangely refreshed. Lance fetched them seconds. He wanted his friends to be able to enjoy things like the regular humans.

Adder watched them empty the cans, a strange dread growing in her stomach. She glanced back at the distributors several times and decided she didn't like how eagerly they handed out their product. For some reason, she had a very bad feeling about it all, an acute sense of dejavu.

X

The cell, put lightly, was less than comfortable. With only a rough cot and unkempt toilet in the corner for an inmate's comfort, it was far from a penthouse suite yet high enough above wretched poverty that Hank McCoy's humble nature could not complain. There was one thing to be grateful for after all: he did not have to share his cell since none of the other prisoners would have him. Something about his appearance, made them fear being eaten or mauled. Or something.

Presently, Hank sat upon the questionable cot (when was it last washed?), legs crossed and hands resting upon his furry blue knees. He practiced mellowing breathing exercises with his eyes closed and paid no heed to the guard that deposited his bland dinner. Only when he sensed a more desirable presence did his attention return to the physical world.

"Hank?"

The cell door opened and closed. Two people had entered.

"Figured they'd give ye crap to eat. 'Ro brought a basket. I threw in the cigar."

The beast doctor opened his blue eyes and smiled pleasantly. "Ah, my friends, how kind of you to call." Taking the basket Ororo offered, he sifted through its rich contents. "Mmm…cheese, French baguette, smoked turkey, fruits and nuts…the makings of a picnic."

Ororo also handed Hank a leather-bound novel. "I remember you're a fan of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. You haven't read The Lost World, I believe."

"Alas no, I admit I was always caught up with the caprices of Holmes and Watson. Thank you my friends, I am very grateful." He glanced at them quizzically, "About yesterday, if my eyes did not deceive me, I do believe I saw a magnificent stripe-haired mutant in City Hall."

Logan sighed and scratched his head. "Yep. Rogue's back, and more of a fighter than I ever saw."

"She was stunning," Ororo breathed. "She executed her powers with such grace. And so many of them as well."

"Yes, her unrelenting control is quite impressive," Hank agreed. "But I am anxious about the extent of her mutant abilities. I was unable to properly examine her before, but now that she seems so...stable, it seems a necessary step in her recovery. And what more, who can know what she was exposed to in all those travels, if she was properly inoculated or given even the most standard of medical—"

Logan coughed gruffly, "Hank, I think you got bigger problems right now. They ain't givin' you bail?"

"No hope for it, my friend." Hank sighed neatly through a bite of baguette and cheese. "The judge seems to believe Charles would help me to run away to Sri Lanka, or some land farther away. Pity, really. I should like to go to Sri Lanka."

His visitors exchanged worried glances. The doctor seemed to be handling his predicament a little too well, as if he didn't really care what the outcome was.

"Hank," Ororo entreated, "are you all right?" She was concerned about how the day's disappointment might affect him.

Hank sighed and set aside the food. He leaned against the cell wall, closed his eyes as though falling asleep. "Ororo, Logan, I can assure you my despondency is fleeting. It bothers me, though, I won't lie. Today's award was not just for me, you understand. I felt it was for all our kind, a testament to the progress the public is finally making toward acceptance. Even the upsurges in violence have helped us somewhat, made people see we too are humans who suffer, who cry, who bleed. But now the judge and the district attorney—Mr. John Abernale, my golf partner!—have forgotten. They've forgotten in a moment's primal fear. And it certainly does not help that neo-Nazis like the Friends of Humanity—however small—are gaining more support with their skewed, radical views…"

"Hank, Hank," Logan scowled, "don't let it get ye down—wait, what'd you say about Friends of what?" A strange expression had befallen his rugged face.

"The Friends of Humanity, a new anti-mutant group. Very small. Hardly any political clout, though they are rising in numbers and influence every day."

"Right…right," Logan murmured, thinking. He shook his head, said, "Anyway, don't let all this trash bother you."

"Excuse me, Logan, but I think I will let it bother me for a bit. Some wallowing is healthy for the soul in small dosages."

"Suit yourself. Thing is, we all know this ain't proper protocol for something without solid evidence. Maybe if you had a late night walk, if ye know what I mean."

Ororo shook her head, "A jail break would only incriminate Hank even more. No, we must try to fix this through the system."

"What system, 'Ro?" Logan demanded heatedly. He cracked his knuckles. "It's all against us. You think Hank's got a lickin' chance in their court?"

"John Abernale has been a strong supporter of mutant rights," Ororo said confidently. "He is only a bit shaken now. He will not abandon us—his beliefs are strong. Hank is safe here and easy for Abernale to access. Even the law cannot be cheated too easily."

"Right. And this Mutant Registration Act that the Circus is about to enact—"

"Congress has not passed it, Logan."

"But they will. And that's only the beginning. Soon we'll be seein' the mutant version of Jim Crow Laws all over this goddamn country."

A frigid gust suddenly blew through the jailhouse. The guard yelped as the papers on his desk scattered into a mess. Logan raised an eyebrow at his white-haired companion.

"I do not appreciate your pessimism," she said simply.

Logan shrugged, "Fair 'nough."

"Friends, friends." Hank picked up The Lost World and flipped onto the exposed ceiling pipes. Hanging comfortably from his feet, he turned to the first page. "I believe there are more productive things to be doing?"

"You bet." Logan lowered his voice, leaning toward Hank a little. "There's some strange stuff happenin', Hank. I'm smellin' something bigger than a few ruffled feathers of the locals. Rogue got her hands on a weapon from the Mayor's attacker, the detonator, and it ain't officially issued anywhere, which means—"

"A private manufacturer," Hank interjected.

Logan nodded, "The most dangerous kind."

"And you wish for me to be your eyes and ears within this jail, where mutant terrorists are most likely to wag their tongues on the subject of their bigoted extracurriculars."

"Well, yeah, pretty much, 'cept I wouldn't put it so eloquently."

"Unpleasant subjects are in dire need of euphemisms."

"Fair 'nough."

Hank nodded in confirmation, "I'm glad to do my part."

Ororo put a hand on his upturned shoulder, "Will you be all right here?"

"Of course. It's not the first time I have been caged." Hank watched his friends leave. As he settled into the book, he consciously listened to the voices coming from the other cells. His parallel attention tracks allowed him to focus on multiple things at once, depending on how much energy he wished to give. At the moment Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was more interesting than the glib talk around. He would tune into his jail-mates later.

X

Her feet left puddles when she stepped out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around herself, she stood before the sink and splashed cold water on her burning face. That was when she realized just how faded the mental barrier was. She stared at her reflection in the mirror—the high cheekbones flushed from the hot water, the ivory skin and piercing green eyes, tendrils of rich auburn hair, the white strips. It was neither vanity nor conceit that made her see her own beauty, yet she saw it in a detached manner, as if the reflection did not belong to her; it belonged to some girl called Rogue that she barely knew.

And as she felt the memory block fade a little more, the rush of feelings came like an unsteady drip. Always a little at a time. And the same questions sprang to mind:

Why didn't he come back?

Didn't he want this?

Wasn't Rogue good enough anymore?

Did he find someone else?

Had it all been a lie, a dream, the worst thing that ever happened to her….?

She rubbed her temples. It was easier to keep control these days, but sometimes, thinking about two years ago, about all the time since, the energy stored in her mind and body reverted back into a burden of personalities. So she sought distraction at its every availability. Emotion could not be allowed to enslave her.

With swift determination she wiped herself down and towel-dried her hair. She had to get used to the new potency of her memories. Movement with purpose always buffered the progression.

The mental block did not completely drown her memories from consciousness. The first one had been placed by the Professor, then after some learning, Jean. Elizabeth Braddock, England's most capable telepath, had been the latest. All of them helped Rogue in the same way: their mental barriers dulled the potency of her memories—she remembered them the way an old woman would think about a lost lover of her youth, an old woman with a lifetime to come to terms with it.

She dressed, pulling on jeans and a black long-sleeved blouse. Sitting before the dresser, she applied moisturizer to her skin and fluffed out her hair. She reached for the make-up next, but paused, fingers hovering over the containers and brushes.

There had been a time when she strived to be beautiful, when she took extreme care in grooming herself, in seeking a prettiness she never realized she had. Remy didn't come back for a reason, after all, and if she just made herself beautiful enough for him—for when, if, he finally did return—then he would love her again. Just maybe. She just wasn't pretty enough, that was the problem. There were so many beautiful women in New Orleans and he had become distracted. But when he came back…

That was when she still believed he would come back. She turned away from the makeup. Why bother? She was fine the way she was.

Then, like a habit that never dies, she reached into a drawer and pulled out black gloves. She felt safer once they were on. Pulling her sleeves over her wrists, she stood just as someone hurried past her door.

She stuck her head out into the hall in time to see Jubilee hurry down the staircase. Frowning in curiosity, Rogue followed her to the war room, where mission briefings and debriefings were given.

Every X-Man was present, even the youngest ones. Rogue got the feeling she had purposely been excluded, but squelched her irritation. They probably thought she was sleeping. She watched secretly from the doorway.

The Professor had been speaking: "…that there has been an incident at several junior high schools in the area this afternoon. No humans have reported injury. The hospitalized victims were all young mutants, with symptoms of intense abdominal and cranial pain."

A mild buzz echoed about the room. Everybody was speaking at once. Rogue looked at all their faces, noticed how much some of them had changed: Jamie was taller, leaner, and his face had lost some of his babyish cuteness; Rahne seemed even more sporty and nubile, if that were possible; Bobby leaned against the wall, lips tightly set in perpetual moodiness; Kurt's blue fur seemed richer and thicker, while his physical features had grown more chiseled. The others were different in their own ways.

Rogue's scrutiny landed on Kitty last and for a moment they locked gazes. Rogue was afraid Kitty would give her away, but she merely ignored Rogue, which might have been more insulting. Rogue couldn't really decide. It worried her, this discomfort around Kitty. They had always been able to talk to each other, despite blatant differences. It was like that age-old cliché: opposites attract. Rogue and Kitty—night and day—were good at being friends. But things had grown so complicated since then.

"…as of yet we know nothing for certain," Xavier was saying, "I am sending Scott and Jean to investigate at a few of the schools. Please stay calm. I know you are thinking of what happened before with Guy Spears, but it is too early to jump to conclusions. Normally I would spare you all these details, but because of the upsurge in violence these days, I believe the more you know, the better you will be prepared to handle unforeseen situations. With that, Logan has something imperative to share."

A grim silence fell over the room as Wolverine took the stand. Storm operated the computer, and as Logan began to speak, the image of a man Rogue had never seen before flashed onto the screen:

"As many of you don't know, Rogue got her hands on the weapon the mayor's attacker tried to use—the detonator for the bomb. She had it checked, I had it checked—it doesn't come up anywhere official which means it's an illegal toy the big boys are makin' themselves. Long story short, I spent the last 14 hours out on the streets 'researchin''.

"My last lead took me to a bar where I found Oliver Merrimac, an anti-mutant activist I had busted some months back. Back then he wore this badge in the shape of an eagle, with the initials F.O.H. on it. When I located him last night, he had the same badge, only an updated version with fancy emblem and all that garbage. Once again, I thought nothing of it, until our visit to Hank this morning. Hank mentioned a new anti-mutant activist group: the Friends of Humanity. This bub here's their leader, Graydon Creed."

All eyes turned toward the projected image, giving it a really good look for the first time. Rogue narrowed her eyes. Everything about Graydon Creed radiated negativity, as if whatever internal hate he harbored had etched its way to the surface, into the creases of his perpetually-glaring face.

"It don't take a rocket scientist to see a correlation between a bunch o' mutant-hating zealots and the surge of violence in the neighborhood," Logan continued. "So I'm planning a reconnaissance mission. Merrimac gave some useful information, after some coercin', so we know where to hit. Volunteers?"

"Take me."

All eyes turned to the doorway. Boldly, Rogue strode into the war room until she was in full view of all eyes. "I've dealt with people like this before. You could use me on this mission."

Logan's brows furrowed slightly, "What'd I say 'bout ye takin' it easy?"

"Yeah, about that, you know how Ah get restless."

"And you know how to follow orders. I ain't takin' ye."

Rogue frowned, knowing if there was a spectacle she had brought it upon herself by being so bold and public, yet she was unable to care about what they thought. At this realization, she was surprised. "If you're mission's reconnaissance Ah'd be the most logical choice. Ah'm all the X-Men in one package and ya know it."

Her statement was nearly arrogant but no less true. Everyone waited for Logan's reaction, expecting a sharp retort, a strategic reprimand. No one expected him to ignore Rogue completely and shot looks to Shadowcat, Nightcrawler, and Jean, "Gear up and be ready by nightfall." To Rogue, "Go get yourself an iced latte, Stripes. You're not needed." Then he turned and left the war room.

After a few seconds uncertainty, the rest of the team began to file out, everyone shooting fleeting glances at Rogue before exit. Xavier lingered, Ororo at his side. "Rogue…" he began. He noticed the tense stance of her shoulders, the tight cross of her arms.

"Ah get it, Professor," she said, eyes staring straight ahead. "Ah don't take it personally. Y'all just want me to relax. Guess Ah'll just find some other way of amusing myself if Ah'm not needed." The words rang in her head. She never realized that she wanted to be needed, by her friends. By him. Which made sense. If he didn't need her, what reason could he have to come back. If he didn't need her… She stopped that track of thinking. Don't be so sad. Don't be like this. She looked at her mentors, "An iced latte sounds good." With a half-hearted smile she left the war room.

X

"Tall, grande, or venti?"

Rogue blinked. "Um…venti I guess."

"Whipped cream?"

"Um…what? Why?"

"Would you like whipped cream on your mocha?"

"I ordered a latte."

"Oh, sorry ma'am. So that's an iced venti caramel latte?"

"Yes."

"Soy, whole, regular, or nonfat milk?"

"Nonfat. I guess."

"That'll be three forty-six."

Sighing, Rogue paid the woman and moved to the pickup counter so the next customer could order. She hadn't intended to actually get a latte, but with nothing better to do with her evening... She recalled Jubilee and Rahne's invitation to a girl's night-in complete with ice cream, pizza, and chick flicks. Rogue hadn't been able to suppress the cringe that leapt to her face.

"Oh…well, if you're not into it, that's fine," Jubilee had said, shrugging sheepishly. "I mean, what were we thinking. Not even the old Rogue was into that really."

"Old Rogue?"

Jubilee's almond-shaped eyes widened. She glanced at Rahne nervously, "Oh, not that you're like totally different now or anything. I mean, you're the same. Sort of. Well, not really."

"Two years is long," Rahne interjected. "And you're just…kinda different. We figured you grew to like girly things. But I mean, that's kinda dumb, now that we think of it because you were kinda just off fighting international criminals and terrorists and doing that army gig…anyway did you have to wear fatigues?"

"Iced venti nonfat caramel latte!" A tall plastic cup landed on the pickup counter.

Rogue snapped back to attention and retrieved her drink. She didn't realize how big it would be, but after taking the first sip, didn't mind the quantity. She walked out of the coffee shop area and began meandering about the strip mall, no destination in mind, no purpose. Maybe spending a harmless night with the girls, re-grounding herself, wouldn't have been so unbearable, wouldn't have driven her mad with restlessness.

"What am Ah doing," she sighed to herself. There was so much to do. It was not like her to be so unproactive. Who cares what Logan or the Professor wanted. They were not in charge of her; she was no longer his ward. And she had just thought of one person she had a few questions for. Governor Thompson would be having a visitor tonight in the hospital.