A tense quiet surrounded the survivors as they stared at the carnage around them. Mutants lay dead or dying on all sides, blood spilled for the worst of reasons. There would be no sleep that night. Maybe soon they would be able to close their eyes and not see their friends being killed in the strange ways that only mutations can manage.

Wolverine’s breathing was heavy, his battle instincts still in full force, when he heard a wet cough behind him. He spun around, looking for the source, but there was no movement anywhere nearby. Two or three X-Men had begun to wander around the battlefield, looking for fallen comrades. Every muscle in Wolverine’s body quivered when he noticed one particular X-Man was not among the searchers.

Eyes narrow and heart pounding, Wolverine scanned the bodies littering the ground. Paying no attention to the blood and gore covering most of the fallen, he began turning over bodies. Most of those surrounding him were of the dead sort, not the dying. He became quicker in the search when he couldn’t find what he was looking for.

He found her towards the furthest edge of the carnage, lying face down. He could see that she wasn’t breathing and hoped that this time would work just like the last. Turning her over was easy. Looking at her face, slashed, scraped and bruised, was a different story. This face was horror of a new sort for him.

Without wasting any time, Wolverine stripped off his glove with his teeth and grabbed her bare hand with his. He waited for what seemed like an eternity. Surely, this was taking longer than it had before. Surely, her skin should be responding at this point.

Storm found them ten minutes later. Wolverine was still holding her hand as if she would respond if he just held on long enough. There was a wild look in his eyes, a combination of grief, guilt and self-hatred. She bent down on the ground next to them.

“It’s not working, Wolverine. Rogue is gone,” Storm said softly, laying a hand over his bare one.

Wolverine snarled and pulled away. He lifted Rogue’s body with him, cradling it against his chest. He stalked off to the edge of the bloody concrete where the Blackbird sat, his eyes turned straight ahead but not focusing on anything. He entered the jet, found a good space on the floor and gently laid her down.

“You’re dead, and it’s my fault. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my promise to you. I’ll take care of what’s left, though,” he told her in a rough voice. His throat burned as he thought of the words he had spoken to her, telling her he’d keep her safe. It looked like his shitty track record had ended in the worst possible way.