Chapter Six:


The ceiling was blank.

She had been staring at it for what seems like hours, and she had yet to find even the slightest marking on the alabaster white ceiling overhead. It was just an empty, blank canvas.

Sort of like her.

She didn't know how long she had been lying there on that medical bunk, staring at the ceiling, but she knew it had been a while. She had woken up there, after blacking out on the beach just after her fight with Pietro.

But fight wasn't really the right word, because that would have implied that Pietro had fought back, and he hadn't.

Not that she had really expected him to. In all the time she had known Pietro Maximoff, if there was one thing she knew about him, it was that he was that he did actually care what people thought of him. Her words had cut deep, she had known they would, and yet she could not bring herself to feel bad about them.

She couldn't bring herself to feel much of anything, really.

She had woken up feeling numb, as if someone had reached inside of her and disconnected all of her nerve endings so she could no longer feel emotion. The past few hours had been taxing, and her collapse had brought out all of the damage wrought during three months of captivity.

Logan was still Trask's prisoner.

The mansion, her home, was gone.

Scott, Bobby and the others were probably dead.

No one knew what had become of the Professor, Kurt, Kitty, Jean and the Brotherhood.

Pietro was a traitor.

Carol Danvers was, for all intensive purposes, dead, and she had to share her head with the other girl, possibly forever.

Life had never looked so dark and hopeless in all of Rogue's seventeen years of experience. Her friends, the people who made up her ragtag little family, were gone. Save for Evan and Mr. McCoy, she might never see any of them again. Their secret had been exposed on national television, there was nowhere to hide. She was forced to live among her enemies, for she had nowhere else to go. And, worst of all, she no longer had any idea who see was.

It wasn't just her present identity that was getting confusing. It was the past, too. Memories were blurring together, overlapping, and it was hard to tell which were her own and which were Carol's. They were so vivid, too, so strong and so real that she could remember them as if they were her own. She could remember cheerleading at school, going to wild parties, being a star swimmer on the swim team. She could remember a brother named Kyle who had been killed in a car wreck seven years ago, a mother whose blond locks she had inherited, a father who had pushed her to do better no matter what. She could remember her first kiss with a boy named Mark, and many kisses after that with other boyfriends that followed. Most of all, though, she could remember touch, could remember the feel of her skin touching another's.

Even though those memories seemed so real, so true, Rogue knew that they were not hers, could never be hers, and that made them even more painful.

She was cursed to live her entire life without ever knowing the simple pleasure of a single touch.

And that knowledge hurt worse than any torture Trask, or anyone else, could have ever inflicted upon her.

"This may sting a bit," Hank warned from somewhere nearby. "I'm just going to disinfect your wounds before Harmony heals them. Just to be sure you don't get an infection."

She didn't even acknowledge he had spoken and he sighed wearily before beginning to dab at her injuries with a sterilized cotton cloth. He was right, it did hurt, but she didn't really feel it. Some part of her mind knew that the sensation hitting her brain was pain, but she couldn't really feel it. Maybe she just didn't want to feel it.

She didn't want to feel anything.

Because if she didn't feel it, it didn't make it real, right?

That's what she had to keep telling herself, anyway. Scott was alive. Bobby was alive. Rhane and Amara and Roberto and Sam and Jamie and Ray were all alive. She'd go home to find the mansion still in tack and the lot of them running around driving Scott crazy. She could almost see it in her head, Scott standing in the middle of the messy living room, couches overturned and lamps broken, a look of exasperated horror on his handsome face. Then the Professor would wheel in, with Jean, Kitty and Kurt at his heels, and their eyes would all widen in shock at the disarray before them.

Yes, that was what would happen.

They were alive. They had to be.

She didn't know what she would do if they weren't.

"You've really taken quite a beating lately, haven't you?" Hank asked, trying to keep his tone light as he took a blood sample from her bleeding arm. She doubted the needle would have penetrated her arm if she hadn't already been cut. "And yet you've held yourself together so well. Logan would be proud."

Rogue's blank expression didn't show it, but inwardly she cringed at his words. At that name. Logan was her mentor. Logan was her ally. Logan was the only person she trusted completely.

Logan was dead.

Or he would be, as soon as Trask got bored with him, or as soon as his usefulness wore out. Then Logan would be dead, just like Scott and the others, just like Jean and Kitty and Kurt and the Professor and-

No! she thought sharply, almost savagely. No, they aren't dead! They aren't! They can't be!

Why? Carol demanded haughtily. Because they're the X-men? Or because they're your friends?

They aren't dead! Rouge screamed in her head.

How do you know? Carol shot back with a dry, cruel laugh.

Because they're the good guys, Rogue snapped. An' the good guys don't lose.

Some good guys, Carol sneered. They accepted you, didn't they?

"My name is Harmony," a female voice said, echoing numbly in Rogue's ears. "I'm a mutant, like you. My power is that I can heal myself and others. I'm going to heal your injuries, Rogue, if that's okay with you. If it's not, shake your head."

Rogue ignored her. Maybe if she ignored her, she would just go away.

She saw a petite, black haired woman in her late thirties lean over her, saw hands hover just over her chest. A warm, tingling sensation crept over her, like water crawling across her skin, and the detached part of her mind that had recognized she was in pain felt that pain fading away like gasoline being siphoned from a car.

"That is quite remarkable, Madame, if I may say so," Hank murmured. "Her injuries were dreadful looking mere moments ago, and now they have receded in appearance to the point where they are hardly noticeable. As if they were weeks old instead of hours."

"Thank you," Harmony said with a light, soft laugh. "It is an acquired skill, I assure you. It took me some time to get the control needed to produce the results you see now. She'll have a couple of scars for a few days, but after that, it will be as if she was never injured in the first place."

"That is very impressive, indeed," Hank replied.

"If you think this is impressive, you should see what I did for Lord Magneto's son," Harmony said. "You can't even tell that hours ago the boy was bleeding profusely and nursing broken bones."

"I am sure Mr. Maximoff is most appreciative of your talents," Hank responded.

Harmony chuckled. "I certainly hope so." She paused, looking Rogue over with scrutiny. "It looks like I've got all of her wounds taken care of for now. I think I've managed to get rid of all of the pain, as well."

Too bad ya can't do nothin' 'bout the pain on the inside, Rogue thought bitterly.

"Thank you," Hank said. "I appreciate you tending to her."

"Of course," Harmony replied. "But you really ought to thank Lord Magneto, he's the one who decided she needed medical attention. I just follow his orders."

"Quite," Hank murmured. "Nonetheless, thank you."

"It was my pleasure." Footsteps announced Harmony's departure from the room, and the soft tap that followed told Rogue she had closed the door behind her.

"Well," Hank said thoughtfully. "She certainly seems pleasant enough. I wonder how she ended up working for a scumbag like Magneto, don't you?"

Rogue purposely ignored the fact that he had directed the question at her. If he was going to try to attempt to draw her into conversation, even empty, flat conversation, he was going to have to try a lot harder than that.

When he got no reply, Hank let out a long breath of air, obviously frustrated and concerned.

Rogue still didn't care.

"I suppose one could ask the same about those boys he has working for him," Hank said, trying again. "They don't strike me as the type of boys who should be working for an evil mutant overlord. At least, not the older two. That Pyro boy, him I'm not all that surprised about."

Why are ya even talkin' t' me? Rogue wanted to yell at him. Can't ya see Ah don't want t' talk? And why would ya want t' talk t' me anyway? After what Ah've done? After who Ah've become?

Beats the hell out of me, Carol muttered.

"I must say, it certainly is good to be out of that cell. It's amazing what wonders being able to walk around, to move, can do for you after being in captivity so long. I imagine you and Evan are both itching to run around some, hmm? Teenagers don't usually like to be cooped up for so long."

Teenagers don't usually drain the life out o' someone with a single touch, either, Rogue thought dully. She wanted to curl up in a ball and hide from him, from the rest of the world.

Only creeps like you, huh? Carol sneered.

"Magneto was good enough to have Harmony leave you some of her clothes," Hank said. "But I do believe they may be a bit too big for you. Perhaps I could persuade him to locate some more appropriately sized for a seventeen year old girl, if you'd like for me to?"

I'd like for you to just get lost, Carol scowled. I'd like for you to go jump in a lake. I'd like for you to go take a bath and then shave-

"I will take your silence as a request for me to do so," Hank said.

"You should take it as a request for you to shut the hell up, you blue freak!" Carol snarled viscously, gaining control of Rogue's vocal cords in her moment of distraction.

Hank took a step back startled, looking as if he'd been slapped.

Rogue drew on all of her strength to shove Carol back, and sat up with a jolt, turning her head towards Hank, her eyes pleading. "Mr. McCoy, Ah didn't mean it...Ah... Carol, she..." She swallowed, tears welling in her eyes. "Ah'm sorry, God, Ah'm so sorry...." She buried her face in her knees so he wouldn't see her crying.

"There, there," Hank said in a soothing tone, placing one of his large, furry hands on her shoulder. "Don't cry, dear. It's alright. I'm not upset." He paused thoughtfully. "I suppose that was the lovely Miss Danvers to whom I just spoke?"

Rogue nodded her head miserably. "She keeps tryin' t' take control o' mah body, an' she just won't stop talkin' t' me in mah head."

"Talking to you how?" Hank asked gently.

"Tellin' me Ah'm a killer," Rogue half-sobbed, half-spat. "Blamin' me for what happened. Callin' me all sorts o' nasty things that Ah reckon ya ain't wantin' t' hear repeated."

"I see," Hank said softly.

"No," Rogue shook her head. "No, ya don't. No one does. How can ya? Ya don't know what it's like, t' have someone else in ya head, t' have someone else's mem'ries, someone else's thoughts, pounding away at ya brain like a sledgehammer!"

"No," Hank agreed quietly. "I don't suppose that I do."

"Ah keep tryin' t' shut her out," Rogue rasped, shaking her head as if to clear it. "Ah keep tryin' t' make her go away, but Ah can't. She ain't leavin', an' she's drivin' me crazier than Principal Kelly after one o' the Brotherhood pranks. Ah keep tryin' t' block her, usin' those mental shields the Professor taught us t' make, but it ain't workin'. It quiets her down for a bit, drowns her out, but then she breaks through 'em, an' comes back twice as loud, twice as angry, an' twice as mean."

"That sounds quite aggravating," Hank said. "Miss Danvers could use some etiquette training for how to act when visiting someone else's home, couldn't she?" He smiled weakly. "Or in this case, someone else's head."

"Ah doubt there's a Book for Dummies on that, teach," Rogue gave a bitter, desolate laugh. "An' if there is, Ah'd like t' meet the guy who wrote it. Maybe he can give me a few tips on how t' deal with ol' Carol."

"I'm sure the Professor could help you," Hank replied encouragingly.

"Like he helped me with mah mutation?" Rogue drawled flatly.

There was an awkward pause, then Hank said, "I believe this will be within his present capabilities. He might be able to simply enter your mind and erase Carol's persona."

"An' he might not," Rogue pointed out dimly.

"Regardless, I'm sure he'll think of something," Hank assured her. "Charles Xavier is a brilliant man. This is a matter he will know how to handle."

"Ya mean if we ever find him," Rogue muttered darkly, wrapping her arms around her knees tightly.

Another pause. "I have no doubt we will," Hank replied, trying to sound certain, though she saw right through it. "He may even find us, who can say? But I am sure Charles is out there somewhere, looking for us even as we speak."

Rogue merely grunted in reply, not voicing her own doubts about the Professor's current situation. If he was even alive to have a situation, that is.

For a long moment the room was filled with silence as they both reflected to themselves on the events of the past three months, and the sudden changes that had been thrown violently into their faces upon their escape. Part of Rogue wished that they had just left her in that cell, where at least she could go on believing that any day now her friends would show up, all safe and all alive, to rescue her. That they would all go home together and Ororo would make hot chocolate and they would all sit by the fire and watch cartoons together.

Another part of her wanted to be left alone, for everyone to just go away and leave her with all of the pain. She could handle pain, she was strong. Even Logan had said so. She was a loner, just like him. She always had been. She could deal with this, she could find a way to overcome it, if everyone would just go away and let her be.

But the rest of her, the part of her that was just a teenage girl whose whole world had just been shattered, whose entire life had been taken out of her hands and molded into something she didn't even recognize, just wanted to be held. Just wanted someone to tell her that everything would be alright, that everyone was alive and well, that it had all been a dream. A trick, to make them think that they had lost their family.

She swallowed hard, her mouth dry. "Hank?" she whispered, calling him his first name now, a subtle challenge for him to answer her truthfully, to answer her like she was an adult, a teammate, instead of just a kid, one of his students.

"Yes, Rogue?" he asked, his tone conveying that he understood the hidden request and was willing to answer as truthfully as he could.

"Do you believe Magneto?" she asked hoarsely. "About the Institute?"

Hank's face, if possible, paled at least three shades of blue. For a long moment she thought he wasn't going to answer her, but then he lowered his head, his expression filled with great pain. "I saw the news footage," he said quietly. "The mansion was completely destroyed."

She forced back a sob. "An' the others?"

Hank looked ill. "The blast was of such force and such a powerful magnitude that if anyone was inside of the mansion when it exploded, they would not have survived."

Rogue closed her eyes against the tears that threatened to overflow. That was it then. Scott was dead. Bobby was dead. All the other students, even little Jamie, were dead.

Just dead.

"Thank ya for bein' honest with me," she whispered. "Ah'd like t' be alone now, if ya don't mind."

Hank nodded sullenly and moved towards the door, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently. He didn't offer any words of comfort, for which she was grateful, merely squeezed her shoulder and slipped wordlessly out of the room.

Rogue waited until she heard the door shut before collapsing forward on the med bunk, her tears soaking her cheeks, her slender shoulders shaking uncontrollably.