Chapter 7
Westchester, New York, February 2002
The furious Logan climbed the eighth step and stopped dead in his tracks, tilting his head to the side and tracking her rushed, hurried, panicked movements. His enhanced hearing piecing together further stupidity from her bedroom, he growled irritably under his breath. It's true what those grizzled booze hounds in bars often said, their words muddled with drink, but hitting the nail on the head when it came to raising teens. You never knew what lingered around the corner, ready to kick you in the balls or knock you clean on your ass.
Heaving the heaviest of sighs, he sniffed her fresh scent again. It wasn't Mystique. This couldn't be a shitty prank because nobody dared. That was his kid, and he needed to calm the hell down before he unsheathed claws and took down a door, a wall, and whatever furniture she piled between him and the goddamn truth.
Violent thoughts clouded every inch of his murderous intent, and he rifled through several flannel-lined pockets until he found a trusty lighter and cheap cigar to help chase the anger away. Yeah, he needed to dial down the fury before dealing with a whole host of bullshit behaviour that had sprouted overnight in Marie's empty-headed dumb-ass excuse for disrespecting authority.
As he stalked down the stairs, ready to smoke up a storm outside, he mulled over fatherhood. At first, it's fair to say it took him by surprise, and how things were handled at the time could be chalked down to stubborn pride and short-sightedness. Being a parent meant nothing would be the same again. Roots were planted in the dirt of Westchester Country without his say-so. No, no permission needed here because here's a kid; now let's watch you fuck everything up before she turns eighteen.
Yeah, he still contemplated hitting the road on a weekly basis, fantasising about heading home and cage-fighting across the snow-capped Rockies. Still, he stayed put because he'd grown fond of the kid. His kid, his daughter, his blood, and his responsibility to keep safe and as far away from enemies' clutches as possible.
That pushing him down the stairs business, though, with that real bright, powerful light. What the hell happened there? Had she gained a new power without telling him? Maybe something had gone down while he'd been away. She had a habit of keeping secrets, never wanting to say her piece or rock the goddamn boat. When would she learn that all he wanted from her was the truth? They would live happily under the same roof if she stuck to the rules, kept herself safe, and quit lying.
"Who am I kidding, huh? She's the daughter of Wolverine and Mystique and bound to dish up a helping of trouble each and every goddamn day," he muttered to himself, lighting the cigar as he reached the relative calmness of a cold winter's day.
Rogue hated Forge because inventors who claimed their inventions worked well were liars, complete liars. Look at this stupid situation and tell her the logic was flawed. Forge: Liar. That's all, really. But did you know that life had no meaning when your time-travelling watch failed to take you back to a Canadian-based bed in the past? Further thoughts tumbled in a flow of panic and strife as she dragged the desk in front of the door, knocking books, papers and a pot of pencils and pens onto the floor.
"Oh, wait," she murmured, reaching to lock the door and pushing the heavy piece of furniture into place with a huffing, puffing flow of silly movement destined to send her straight to, no, not hell, but somewhere where groundings lasted years.
Glancing down at the watch hissing and emitting smoke like a steam engine, she almost prayed and repeatedly pressed every button ten to twenty times in a spooked and frenzied fashion. Nothing happened, and those troublesome red, rubicund and rosy flags almost poked her eyes out, piercing every edge of her brain until she promised to never steal another invention again. No, not steal; she had borrowed it. Yes, borrowed it. If anyone asked, this was a BORROWED watch coddled in capital letters with lies hollered from the heights of the Empire State Building. Who was she kidding? No one ever believed her when she strung nervously constructed lies together.
"I'm so dead, I'm so dead, I'm so, dead, I'm so dead," she chanted, reaching the window seat and gathering the flustered thoughts. Rapid plans formed and bridged a gap between her and certain death. She quickly unlocked the window and opened it. Peering down at the relatively new trellis fixed to the stone wall, a relieved smile appeared on her face. "I'm so not dead."
Within seconds, the thoroughly frightened Rogue climbed carefully out the window, her feet scrambling to reach the top of the trellis.
The crisp early afternoon breeze whipped around her as she descended one tiny rung. The trellis wobbled slightly, and she frowned in concentration, clinging desperately to the brown envelopes. I'm so not dead. I'm so not dead.
Suddenly, cigar smoke wafted in the gentle wind and tickled her nostrils like a feather plucked from an unsuspecting bird. Those ruddy-faced, ruby, rose-tinted flags continued to plague every inch of a scatter-brained trip through the future and the past. I'm dead. I'm so dead.
Logan walked into view; brows knitted together as he gazed at her dilemma. He puffed on the cigar and stood underneath the trellis with a heavy-set scowl. Continuing to work through the rage, he remembered a promise made to himself after Marie flipped out on Jean one sunny afternoon: Never hunt your kid down like an enemy because the scent of their fear swept far and wide.
She gazed longingly at a patch of ground, pretending to count the blades of grass, and traced the outline of his shadow instead. Why did nothing ever work out when travelling through time?
"I'm over here, Kid," he growled, determined to work out once and for all if this was some kind of scam.
Her eyes darted to Logan's face. Oh no, he looked fit to be tied, his face lined with ripples of anger. "I can explain everything."
Exhaling a lungful of smoke, his eyes narrowed while he hammered out a rapid plan. "Sure, you can." Eyeing the stone wall beside her head, he gave a gruff nod. "Watch out for the spider." The resounding shrieks that left her lips as she hung off the trellis made him chuckle. Yeah, that was definitely his kid. "Go to your room, cook up whatever excuses you have, and I'll be up soon. It better be good, Marie, or I'll run you ragged in the Danger Room before grounding your ass."
Wide-eyed and suddenly side-eyed with an extra helping of cross-eyed, she glanced from right to left, upward and downward, scanning the stone for any signs of a spider. The fearful disapproval died a hasty death when she realised he lied about any and all eight-legged spiders invading her personal space.
"That wasn't funny, Logan. You know I'm scared of spiders," she complained bitterly, glaring down at him with a tense huff.
He pointed the cigar at her. "You pushed me down the goddamn stairs and don't have a leg to stand on right now."
The shock of hearing the accusation almost knocked her clean off the trellis. "No, I didn't, but maybe if you'd been more careful, you wouldn't have fallen."
Logan's eyes narrowed dangerously while counting to ten in his raging mind. "If you're not climbing back inside that window by the time I've finished talking, you'll regret it."
Great, now he had fallen back into issuing threats. She huffed in response and carefully climbed up the trellis with all the care in the world. "Most people are sorry when they fall down the stairs; they're not shifting the blame on others. Maybe your age's catching up with you."
That did it, and she had pushed things too far again. "You know what that sass has just earned you, huh? Go get suited up for a Danger Room session, Marie."
Rolling her eyes to the heavens and beyond, she climbed back into the bedroom with the brown envelopes safely in her gloved hand. "Do you hear that sound, Logan? It's that fiery seat in hell calling you home again," she responded in a snappish tone, slamming the window closed.
The growling Logan's rage needed throttling before he kicked her ass from here to Timbuktu. He walked away, heading toward the lake to walk off the wave of anger that made his knuckles itch. Somebody should have warned him that fatherhood would bust his balls every goddamn day. This is the kind of shit that needed teaching in sex ed: wear a goddamn condom, or you'll be a slave to your temper until your kid flies the coop.
From her spot in front of the bedroom window, Rogue smiled and watched Logan stalk into the distance, a trail of cigar smoke snaking into the wild wind. The sass worked! It worked! He's storming away, too angry to deal with her. Victory danced a triumphant lap around her mind, and she giggled, the tenseness thawing until she gave herself a self-congratulatory whoop. Deliberate sass worked and chased her birth daddy away like a blackbird waddling toward an ocean of worms.
She could sass her way out of trouble now. That sass belonged to no one but Rogue. What did you expect when her birth mama and daddy are Mystique and Wolverine? She had sass in her bones, sass running through those silly, little veins, and ate three helpings of sass for breakfast each morning. Okay. Time to disappear. The sass needed putting to the side for the moment because this Rogue had a Canadian bed to return to in the past.
"Please work. Pleeeease," she pleaded to the watch, pressing the button time and again, and praying to the time-travelling gods. "Send me back to Logan's cabin. Please, please, please."
The white light swallowed her with a sudden envelope of energy. Sixteen-year-old Rogue gazed around the bedroom, 'confused' her middle name. Surprised to find the mess on the floor, she picked up the books, pencils, pens and paperclips. How did the desk move itself in front of the door? Dropping them onto the bed, she searched memory after memory.
Confusion reigned and sat upon her head akin to a glittering British Royal crown encrusted with stolen jewels from African and Asian nations.
"Hey, Chica, you're late," Jubilee said, knocking on the door impatiently. "Come on, we're taking the party on the road."
Rogue gazed around again, tidying the bedroom and dragging the desk to the corner. The Logan argument was a dream, right? Perhaps a daydream with shouting wrapped in fury and stamped with the royal crest of hell no. It had to be a dream. Maybe even a hallucination? She hadn't slept well since he left on the mission because the nightmares continued to spook every sleeping thought. It had to be a strange dream because how could she fade from the stairs and appear here with the furniture moved and no raging birth daddy in sight?
Picking up the duffle bag, she unlocked the door and gazed at her best friend. "Have you seen Logan?"
"No, Mr. Hot and Heavy's on a mission, remember?" Jubilee grinned, tugging Rogue's arm excitedly. "Let's go. Quick! We have way too much fun waiting on the horizon to worry about Wolvie's wild addiction to scowling."
"But I could have sworn I saw him a few minutes ago," she said softly, even more puzzled and followed Jubilee downstairs.
"I'd know if the hottest guy under this roof had returned. Seriously, trust me, Chica. I have an internal Wolverine clock, and it vibrates every time he's close."
They rushed through the kitchen and soon reached the garage together. "That's disgusting. My daddy looks like a mountain goat addicted to nicotine. Do they have nicotine in cigars?"
Jubilee shrugged and pointed down the drive toward the gates where a beat-up sedan waited on Graymalkin Lane. She chatted about her three older friends, admitting that their names didn't matter at that moment because they were on a need-to-know basis. They came from the gritty New York streets and lived for their extra-party lifestyles, which she admired, and they would party all week long if they wanted to.
Rogue struggled to ignore the gut feeling that told her this was stupidity central and silliness on steroids. "I don't know about this, Jubes. It doesn't feel right," she admitted when they reached the gates.
Snickering, Jubilation Lee swung a sunshine yellow rucksack as she went. "Take a chill pill, Roguey. It's party time! Think of all the fun we're about to have. It's real fun, not the X-Men kind of Danger Room fun. Total fun with riotous, cool dudes."
"Riotous, cool dudes?" she questioned with a frown, rolling her eyes and wandering onto the lane. That intuitive feeling twisted and turned again, releasing the heaviest dose of anxiety possible as she gazed at Jubilee hugging two out of three of the occupants of the vehicle. Her curious gaze narrowed and pinned on the overly fidgeting driver, who couldn't be older than twenty.
He noticed her staring and reached for something under his seat, readying himself for any trouble coming his way.
"I know," she answered the voices in her head warning about the high chances of a weapon in the car while the others gloated.
Jubilee settled on the backseat with a grin, stuffing the backpack into the footwell. "Stop talking to yourself and hurry up!"
The cautious Rogue wandered closer to the car and peered through the back-passenger door, gazing at the girl with the hot pink hair sandwiched between Jubilee and the neatly packed pile of bags. "I don't think there's any room for me."
Minutes later, with the extra luggage dumped into the trunk, those relentless red flags floated freely in the sky high above Salem Centre as the vehicle left Graymalkin Lane. Only there to protect her friend from possible danger, Rogue worried the chronic silence would make everyone else suspicious of her intentions.
Mystique's personality barged into her mind. Well, say something, then. Have I ever taught you that specifically handpicked words can be as fear-inducing as actions? Speak your truth, Anna-Marie. Go on, seize this opportunity for personal growth and show everyone what you can achieve when you put your mind to it.
Logan's growling voice entered the chat. No, ignore her. She's got no goddamn idea how dangerous this situation is. Get your phone out and let me know what's going on. I mean it, Kid. You're in real trouble here.
Oh, what a surprise. Here comes Wolverine to the rescue, hmm? She's sixteen. She can handle this herself.
Like hell, she can. A sixteen-year-old with her head screwed on wouldn't have agreed to go on this trip in the first place.
She has every right to spread her wings and fly. You're just being overprotective, and it's unwarranted and unwanted.
Logan's voice grumbled at the accusations and fired back. Spread her wings and fly? Have you listened to yourself? She's clueless and taken off in a car with a bunch of armed convicts.
Victor Creed rammed into the conversation headfirst. Yeah, I agree with Jimmy. The girl's up shit's creek without a paddle. She's not you, Raven. Look at her. She's putting her life on the line for a drugged-up idiot who wears nothing but the sun's castoffs.
Raven's voice dripped with vitriol. Not you, too. Who invited you into this conversation, Victor? Did anyone expressly call for Sabretooth? Do you hear that silence?
Logan snorted, and Victor answered for the both of them. Stupid woman. You can't hear silence.
Sighing at the battle inside her chaotic mind, Rogue scrunched her eyes closed, focusing on putting the voices to bed. The seconds turned to minutes, and talk turned to taunting from the front seat.
It was now or never. Her voice needed to be heard. Calm thoughts clouded insecure confidence, but she could handle this. Everything would be fine. This was a huge moment for her and time to stand up and be counted because it was her first mission, and she had something to say to those personalities cluttering her mind. I can handle this, and I'll never abandon my friend, even when danger's involved. Oh, and Victor's wrong; she isn't on drugs. She's never taken a drug in her life.
Rogue then leaned forward, breaking up the silly argument between the boyfriend and girlfriend in the front seats. "I'm sorry to bother you, but do either of you have a copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover I can borrow?"
The three dominant personalities in her mind all groaned, groused and grumbled in unison. Stupid girl, Victor muttered.
Manhattan, New York, February 2002
The unstable burst of time-travelling light faded around the thoroughly confused Rogue. Expensive furnishings surrounded her in a modern apartment building that meant nothing to someone on an unbalanced trip through time.
Sprawling floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a busy New York City street, reminding her of footage she had previously seen of downtown Manhattan on the local news station. She wandered closer to the view, gazing at the high-rise buildings and the windows glistening in the late afternoon sun. Yellow taxis scattered the bustling roads below, and several memories dislodged from the bottomless pit of a cageless mind. Her gaze searched for the framed photos on the mantlepiece. She had visited here before.
Stepping around the enormous sectional couch and crossing the shaggy rug that cost more than a lifetime of smutty books, she studied the black and white photos. All were stylised and perfect, like an interior designer had swept through a crack in the wall and waved a magic wand.
"You really need to brush your hair once in a while," a familiar voice from the doorway declared with a melodramatic sigh.
Rogue's free hand reached for her wild, frizzy locks. Time travel had created a frazzled mess on her head, and she teased an annoying knot free. "I've been here before, haven't I, Mystique?"
"Once or twice," she admitted, walking toward the fireplace in her bleached-haired, sunkissed-skinned, and blue-eyed form. "I wanted to invite you last Christmas, but you-know-who vomited verbal diarrhoea on my plans with an over-the-top growl."
The southern teen softened her stance on the nightmarish birth mama. "You talked to Logan?"
"More than once. He's a typical male of his generation, though, unable to communicate without issuing threats through clenched teeth." She paused beside her daughter and picked up one of the portraits of a young sandy-haired boy scowling down the camera lens. "Unfortunately, most men are the same nowadays. How's your love life treating you?"
Her mind wandered to the blossoming crush on Gambit, and she quickly changed the subject. "Every picture looks like it's taken on the same day."
"Graydon's fourth birthday. Look how muddy his dungarees are. Did you know he hated having his photo taken? I had to bribe him with candy, money and toys." Mystique smiled sorrowfully, putting the frame down with an abundance of care. "He despised me even then and hated everybody within a thirty-mile radius. By the end of that particular day, Victor cowardly walked out, and everything went downhill from there."
Curious thoughts twisted in Rogue's mind. "Why aren't there any photos of me?"
Mystique gazed at the girl, frowning at the lack of awareness on display. "isn't it obvious? You're still alive."
"Oh," she said, wondering if, in a warped way, that meant her birth mama cared. "In case someone breaks into your home."
"Exactly. Leverage is weighed not on the quantity but the quality. For instance, if an idiotic and unscrupulous moron kidnapped you, Wolverine and I would naturally join forces to rescue you, but I would rather not leave your photo around for anyone to find." Her eyes narrowed slightly with a mild interest and the need to delve deeper. "How did you break into my home?"
Red flags flew in her line of sight because Mystique couldn't be trusted. "Do you own the whole apartment?"
She followed her daughter's gaze across the palatial-sized room. "It's rented."
"It's nice," Rogue said, falling into the safety net of small talk she picked up from recently watched house renovation shows.
"Yes, it is. I used it as a safe house until it became home. It's at its most beautiful at Christmas with the warmth of the cosy fire and a cup of hot cocoa. Lonely but beautiful. Would you like a drink?"
She searched her mind for a response, wondering if the forever-failing birth mama could be trusted just this once. What if this turned into another kidnapping attempt? The last thing she needed was the red flags dancing in her gaze and choking her out. "Do you have hot chocolate?"
Nodding, Mystique further responded with a smile and pointed to the brown envelopes the girl shielded at her side. She idly wondered if the envelopes contained gifts because it happened to be her birthday today. "Is that something for me?"
Rogue glanced down at the padded brown envelopes and gave away the world's worth of anxiety and nervousness. The audible gulp and ocean of silence only made her birth mama more suspicious. Shuffling her feet, she sighed, and the panicked gaze darted across the room for solace, hope and a hug. Time travelling wasn't anyone's best friend, making her feel lonelier and more lost in a life with a poisonous mutation.
The display of pure apprehension and awkwardness made Mystique's suspicions lurk on the paling teen's face. Come to think of it, she had seen envelopes like those before. The black marks on the corner of the ruffled brown corners matched those in her office. "What's wrong? Is someone threatening you? You don't have to answer, Anna-Marie. Just nod your head if you're being threatened."
Anna-Marie? Rogue would never accept that mini mouthful being her real name. She nodded, glancing at Mystique for a second or two to check for distrustful body language. Her inner Wolverine called her a too-trusting idiot, and the inner Sabretooth backed him up. "I think I'm being blackmailed."
Her birth mama looked appalled. "You believe you're being blackmailed, or you know you're being blackmailed?"
"I'm being blackmailed," she confirmed softly, feeling uncomfortable about admitting anything to the worst mama in the world.
"Sit down. I'll make you a hot chocolate, and we can talk." She crossed the room, walking in the direction of the sparkling, seldom-used kitchen. Her designer heels brashly clip-clopped against the shiny marble floor in a show of sheer determination to get to the bottom of this shameful plot. "Who would be foolish enough to blackmail you?"
Rogue sighed in response and glanced at the overheated watch. Oh no, what if Mystique wanted Forge's invention? Think of all the damage she would do time travelling with the Brotherhood. Thoughts turned to instant plans to escape, and she pressed the buttons on the watch, praying to those fickle time-travelling gods.
Mystique eventually returned, holding the scalding mug of hot chocolate decorated with pink and white marshmallows on top. Just as her young daughter used to like during those secretive visits many years ago. Loneliness instantly blanketed the route as she stepped inside the empty lounge. "Happy Birthday to me," she murmured in disappointment and went to check the security surveillance.
British Columbia, Canada, February 1979
Rogue gazed around the familiarity of the master bedroom with a smile that gradually faded. Everything looked out of place, and music escaping the chunky retro alarm clock on the nightstand helped pinpoint further hitches in the plan to return home. A woman's voice sang along to the lyrics from the bathroom, and yoga and teaching books littered the bed beside cardboard boxes filled with unwanted clothes.
"We are family. I got all my sisters with me. We are family. Get up everybody and sing!"
That isn't Logan, is it? The thought almost made her giggle until she realised the severity of the current situation. I'm dead. I'm so dead.
Rolling her eyes, she crept closer to the door with the quietest of movements. Using the watch didn't enter her mind because curiosity took over and she wanted to pry into Logan's past.
Maybe a gentle wander through his past would help him recover these memories? Yes, she could be the memory herder! A time-travelling memory gatherer who returned lost pasts to grouchy birth daddies. Anything to forget about blackmail, serial killers, crushes and panic attacks.
Sneaking onto the landing, she held her breath for several seconds and listened closely to the singing. It suddenly stopped, footsteps replaced the pleasant-sounding voice, and a startled woman peered out from behind the partially opened bathroom door.
Coffee-coloured eyes greeted the surprise visitor. She adjusted the sage green towel wrapped around her dripping wet hair and another matching towel, thankfully covering the nakedness left from a mid-afternoon shower. "Logan, there's an intruder!"
It was Kayla. Kayla from the framed photos that Logan had tossed down the basement steps. Kayla from the paperwork, letters, correspondence and pictures that littered the cabin in the future. This wasn't 2001. It couldn't be 2001. The year 2001 was on the run and wanted very much alive.
The shriek forced Rogue into action, and she desperately pressed the buttons of the watch. Nothing happened. No, not again! Thundering down the stairs, she stopped beside a window choked with cigar smoke, snow and the wild peaks and valleys of the Rocky Mountains. Lost in the beauty of the mountain view, she almost forgot this version of her birth daddy didn't know anything. He would see her as nothing but an intruder scaring the singing towel-draped Kayla in the bathroom.
On cue, Logan's eyes darted to the trespasser, and he discarded the half-smoked cigar with a darkening scowl.
Her eyes widened, and she backed away from his threatening stance. Oh no, no, no, no. Switching routes, the flustered teen's feet took a different path to the back door, but the sounds of boots on the ground matched with the lyrics of We Are Family felt a step too far. This had to be a joke. An out-of-control prank. Someone hated, despised, and loathed her. The red flags would be choking her soon, readying the ground for a scruffy casket and a never-ending party in hell with balloons the scope, span, size and shape of vultures.
Rattling the handle, she lightly booted the locked door, but no solace encased her in a desperately needed hug. The watch screen had blackened like one of Logan's ultimate scowls. Blackness coated the screen, and the panic set in. She had broken the watch. The watch was dead, deceased, departed, defunct. It died and dragged her only route home to the duskiest, dingiest, bleakest, barren land in all of hell. Yes, hell. Let's get biblical because bullshit rained down and guaranteed death approached in the form of her growling birth daddy.
Snikt
That sound only paved the way to danger with a capital D topped with adamantium claws and no hope in the fiery hell of winning anything. Peeling one of the forest green gloves off her hand and tucking the padded envelopes under her arm, Rogue felt older and wiser than the collection of personalities in her wayward mind. Chasing the last drops of fear away, she schooled her face into a deadened frown and turned to face Wolverine with a courageous announcement on the tip of her tongue.
The late-seventies lyrics from upstairs continued to bleed through the floorboards and doused her head in a sea of irony, satire and wit. We are family. Get up everybody and sing.
No singing was needed today because with a soft tone and letting her southern accent do most of the heavy lifting, she gazed at the narrowed eyes of her would-be-murderer. "I can explain everything." It was a bold choice for a trespasser dressed in a pair of pyjamas, but she stood by each and every word, even when Logan continued to scowl. "No, really, I can. I'll explain everything if you let me."
