"...it is far better to be feared than loved if you can't have both."
--Niccolo Machiavelli, "The Prince"
"Marie?"
The voice was far away from my nice, comfortable, warm--oh, I fell asleep. Didn't expect that. There was a reason I wasn't supposed to fall asleep. Lemme think...
"Marie? Hey, it's morning. You wanna go get some breakfast?"
Bobby? Darling Bobby, who was...who was at the door. I stifled a yawn, turning into my pillow. Mornings sucked--and what was up with that Marie stuff? As I tried to roll onto my side, I noted my legs were tangled--crossed, even, as if I'd fallen asleep sitting up. Why--
--Wakey, wakey. Welcome to hell.-- Why thank you, Carol. Always good to get your snark first thing in the morning. Stretching my arms idly, I noted I was still wearing my gloves. Why did I sleep in....
"Shit!" I sat up, trying to take in my surroundings, blinking the sleep-fog away. My room--yes. There was Kitty's bed, and--where was Jubilee's? Did she move out again? No, this was something else--
"Marie?" I looked at Bobby. When did he let his hair grow--and that scar was new...
--Marie, wake the hell up, darlin'. You're not in Kansas today.--
A flood of memories--a short one, granted, and I sucked in a startled breath. This wasn't Kansas--eh, my Kansas--umm...my Westchester. It was that other place, this was that other Bobby, and Jubilee didn't live here anymore.
Where *was* Jubilee anyway?
"Hey." I kicked the blankets off, trying to bring everything in my head together: different Westchester, different Bobby, camps, fences, Rogue-dead--got it. My--my hair--I pushed a hand up to my head in panic but the blonde wig was still locked in place. I was good with bobby-pins. "Yeah. Breakfast." Think, think, think. "Umm...I'm gonna take a shower. Do you--"
"I'll meet you downstairs," he said with a smile. He'd always been a morning person, damn him. "Come on, Johnny."
Ah, Johnny, who stabbed me with a quick, sharp glance as he passed by my door. I slowly stood up, walking to push the door closed, then rethought the situation and locked it for good measure. Which I seriously should have considered doing the night before. Oh well. Shaking my head, I went into the bathroom, taking off the wig after a few tactical pin removals and placing it on the sink, then unpinned my hair and took a good look at myself in the mirror.
Oh yes. Here you are, in mirror world. Oz, even. Something like that. And you look fine. So far, you've changed timelines, seen your tomb, almost killed one of your best friends, and made a lot of people ultra-suspicious. All kinds of good things managed in one day. And don't forget that being dead part.
"Shit."
--Clever, darlin'.--
I so wasn't in the mood for him right now. With a growl, I turned to the shower, flipping on the hot water and pulling off my t-shirt and underwear before climbing in. Kitty had quite a selection of bath gels and shampoos. And I should feel really guilty for using them after half-killing her.
I should, but I was feeling like crap, and mint bodywash, with any luck, would do something for my mood. Leaning back against the cool tile wall, I shut my eyes. A nice long, leisurely hot shower. Oh yes. That would help. Ducking my head beneath the water, I reconsidered the idea of cutting my hair--but where would I go to get it done? Was my favorite salon in operation, and anyway, with my skin issues, that could be a problem if it wasn't--not to mention the entire issue of making sure no one *saw* me, and what if other mutants went there regularly too? Find the time to dye it--and getting from brown to blonde was hell on earth; I'd tried it during my Carol-controlled days and never gotten it right. Maybe I should have chosen a different shade of blonde wig. Golden-blonde was hard to get right....
--Marie, honey, we don't have time for this. Bobby and Johnny are waiting downstairs for you.--
Bobby was waiting downstairs. I take too long, he might come looking for me.
Straightening, I grabbed a sponge and got to work.
Getting out, I towel-dried my hair and looked into the mirror for a long time, absently brushing it tangle-free. It'd be easier if I cut it--less danger of my hair forcing the wig off or random strands appearing out of nowhere. With a sigh, I began rooting through the cabinet drawers. Kitty always kept a good supply of possibly necessary beauty products and other sundry, but me, couldn't even keep up with my own pair of tweezers. First drawer--brush, comb, pick, toilet paper; second drawer--tweezers, toenail clippers, here we go, scissors. Straightening in front of the mirror, I took a long, deep breath.
I hadn't had a serious haircut since my tenth birthday--running my fingers through the waving brown strands that clung damply to my fingers, I remembered how Jean would help me find creative ways to keep it out of my way during missions, remembered the number of hair care products in my closet at home, the luxury of mayonnaise treatments with Jubes and Kitty. Absently, I caressed a long length down over my shoulder, felt it heavy and wet on my lower back.
No problem. It was just hair. I could do this.
Picking up a length of hair, I held the scissors and marked the place I needed to cut with two fingers. Shutting my eyes tight, I made the first cut and felt the heavy length drop to my feet on the floor. The stunted end caressed the edge of my chin and I opened my eyes to check the length and winced. Grabbing the trash can with trembling fingers, I picked up the dropped hair and slipped it in, then ducked from the sight of the mirror and tilted my head forward, blindly made the corrections by touch, watching with a strange sort of sick fascination as the weight of silky-dark and blinding silver-white coiled like a snake at the bottom of the plastic liner. Barely breathing, I made the final cut and shut my eyes tight again as I brushed away the remaining cut hairs from my face and neck and slowly stood up. The ends of my hair brushed my cheeks and the top of my neck with every movement of my head.
For a full minute, I stared into the mirror and recognized that I'd made Marie Danvers fact. Unevenly chopped, the waves thickened into half-hearted curls as I reached for the pins and my hands shook as I began to secure the remains of my hair to my head.
It'd grow back. It was just hair. No biggie here, none at all. I bit down on my lip while I picked up the bag from the trashcan and hid it under my bed once my wig was in place. I'd need to dispose of that someplace safe soon.
Dressed and rewigged, I emerged from my room, passing kids who gave me nods and a few adults I didn't recognize. Several humans edged by me, blending themselves into the walls as if they wished they could disappear into them. Frankly, it was spooky--worse, it seemed justified, when a kid that couldn't be above thirteen winked at me and levitated a young man off his feet and into the air. The human let out a startled scream, dropping the pile of folded cream linen onto the woven blue hall rug.
The laughter from the kid's group of friends was sickening and I turned away quickly, hoping my face didn't reflect anything but blank acceptance. Breakfast suddenly seemed like a *really* bad idea.
At the bottom of the stairs, true to form, were Bobby and Johnny. Johnny, making cute little fire shapes that danced in midair, was smiling at something Bobby was saying, and I noted how really sinister he could look all in black--shirt, jeans, and cross-trainers. As I touched my foot to the bottom stair, both of them looked up, alerted by whatever sixth sense men had about things like attractive women appearing in their general proximity.
No, I'd never lacked confidence. At least something was looking up today.
"Hey," said Bobby, admiring gaze tracing me in the three-quartered sleeve green shirt and the jeans that were a size too big, but I'd been in a rush at the store. He didn't look bad himself--a red t-shirt that looked vaguely starched stretched over a muscled chest, combined with nicely worn jeans. Yummy. St. John blinked, taking me in--all that nice clean morning sunlight on my face from all the huge windows. Shit. He frowned a little, then shut his hand over his fire and shrugged, touching Bobby's shoulder.
There was no way he could recognize me, even with statuary of my face scattered around. Just no way. Seven years of maturity had changed me, the eye-color was green, no longer brown, and short, straight blonde hair. Think about it, Roguey. You're good here.
"You two ready?" Johnny asked as Bobby's admiring regard stretched out uncomfortably enough for me to shift slightly on the last stair. I'd forgotten how Bobby used to look at me, as if I was the most wonderful thing in the world. It was a heady feeling, truth be told.
"Sure," Bobby answered, without a glance at Johnny, and very lightly brushed the collar of my shirt. I smiled tightly, forcing my body not to react.
--Now that you're done drooling over Drake, honey, maybe you should think about finding out some stuff.--
--Okay. This is what I'll do. I stand up in the middle of breakfast and ask who specialized in Twilight Zone as a hard science, because man, do I have a problem.--
Carol went perfectly silent--I wasn't sure whether it was because she was angry or because I actually had a point--sort of. Victory was victory, however, and I took it any way I could.
--You need to find a way to talk to someone, see someone you can trust.--
--Jean and Betsy play psi-games and I wouldn't trust Magneto any farther than the tip of my nose. Scott is Jean's husband--thank you Kitty for that trivia--and I don't know about the others.--
--You want an excuse to approach Logan.--
Maybe. I tried to consider that, dodging out of the way of a passing student. Probably unnecessary, but the habits of being Rogue the Untouchable stuck.
--Yes and no. He's my best friend. I don't trust anyone like I trust him.--
--He's not the same here.--
--None of them are. Feel free to suggest. Bobby's enthusiasm for the Polaris experiment isn't doing anything for my peace of mind, and Johnny...I don't know.--
"Marie, what are you hungry for?"
Oh. Hmm, here we were at the breakfast buffet and I hadn't even noticed we'd gotten to the dining room. This inner talk stuff was going to have to be curtailed in public. I consulted my stomach briefly, then eyed the variety of breakfasty foods available. "Fruit, I think." I got a tray from the stack on the edge of the buffet table, carefully not looking at the humans very inconspicuously carrying empty bowls and trays in and out of the kitchen door. It wouldn't help my appetite.
Picking out a banana and a bowl of strawberries, I grabbed a glass of orange juice as an afterthought, and then silverware at the end of the sideboard. As before, Bobby led me to a quiet table, and oddly well out of range of the main table, where the other X-Men were eating. From the corner of my eye, I saw Jean and Scott come in together, but they were too far away for me to hear what they were talking about. Quickly, I dropped into the closest chair, looking down at my tray, wondering where Logan was.
"You don't eat much, do you?" I blinked, looking up from my contemplation of the banana to see Bobby smiling at me over his truly massive breakfast selection. God, that boy could eat. Surreal. He'd commented often on my eating habits when we were together. Once said he didn't understand how I survived on how little I ate. He didn't know how my body had adjusted to little food during my time as a runaway hitchhiker, and I'd never made the push to adjust back. Just seemed safer that way.
"No--have you seen Kitty this morning?" Grabbing my fork, I picked out a ripe strawberry, trying to look interested and hopeful--which I was. Definitely. Almost killed the girl, after all.
"Not yet." Bobby thought for a second. "I heard about what happened." He practically oozed sympathy. I caught a disgusted expression on St. John's face and quickly turned my eyes back down. "If Jean's up here, she should be fine, though. Don't worry. It happens to all of us." So warm, so sweet, so very, very Bobby. Almost normal, too, and how disturbing was that?
And how very disturbing could it be that someone waking up and attacking a roommate could be considered pretty damn normal? I choked down a half-chewed chunk of strawberry and stabbed another in half. My stomach wasn't too thrilled with the prospect of food, no matter what kind. Damn. Absorptions had always taken my appetite away for a few days--I'd never quite figured out why.
--All right, get done there.-- Ah, Logan. Great.
--And how are you this fine, morning, sugar?--
--Don't be smart with me. We have things to do. I suggest you start lookin' around the school and see what you can find out about Magneto's newest experiments.--
--Bobby can show me around.--
Logan growled softly and I dropped my fork in surprise. That was unexpected.
--Logan?--
--Never mind. You're right. Get your new best friend there to show you around, see what you can get from him.--
I nodded--the touch with Kitty had been so quick, most of it was fading already. But I had a little bit trailing through my head like a trail of slime--sudden, horribly vivid images that I knew would make up my newest nightmares, no question. I glanced at Bobby as he devoured a small mountain of scrambled eggs and St. John played with his pancakes--they were quiet, and for some reason, their silence didn't seem comfortable.
I thought about that for a few moments.
--St. John never liked me.--
--St. John never liked you when you were hangin' all over Bobby. He was fine with you otherwise, you know.--
I sighed, because that was true, and got two pair of vivid blue eyes fixed on me for my trouble. I pulled out a smile and pasted it across my face before burying myself back in conspicuous strawberry consumption.
--Yeah. I know.-- Didn't like it, hadn't liked it when Bobby and I were dating and St. John had played the part of best friend to perfection, but I could always feel it, feel his dislike. And here it was again. Whoo-hoo. Again, sameness.
"Bobby," I said, looking up with my brightest smile. "You mind finishing the tour after breakfast?"
He lit up, pure happiness oozing from every pore, and it was familiar. So familiar, wonderful, and I caught my breath a little in surprise--had he always looked at me like that?
--Libido down, girl.-- Carol's amusement was rich through me.
"Sure. Just give me a second to finish." He attacked the eggs with new determination and I grinned as I dropped my fork into my half-finished bowl of strawberries, absently tucking the banana into my pocket. I might want it later, if my appetite returned.
"I'll meet you in the garden." I answered, getting to my feet and reaching for my tray, ignoring the stab of St. John's eyes. "I'm going to go ask Dr. Grey how Kitty is."
Bobby opened his mouth to say something--umm, why?--but St. John's hand on his arm stopped him flat. Johnny had always been like that though--Bobby's single decent link to the earth. Left to his own devices, Robert Drake was either relatively quiet or an incredibly careless extrovert--a lethal combination if there ever was one. St. John, both cynical and circumspect, had always been his best foil as well as his best friend.
Well, except when they froze and melted the pipes in my bathroom for fun, at which time they joined my Top Ten List of People To Watch.
Turning away, I deposited my tray and turned toward the main table. Then stopped short, checking--ah, no Logan.
--Clever, darlin'. Maybe next time you'll *look* before you leap.--
Ah, sarcasm in the morning. Always good for digestion. Picking up my pace and hoping no one noticed my hesitation, I slowly approached the dais and realized--
--wow, was I allowed to go up there? Magneto wasn't in evidence anymore, and the faintest traces of Erik that still remained in my head reminded me that he had always been an ultra-early morning person. He was probably already at work, plotting the destruction of mankind. Were common mutants allowed to approach the Big Table? Was I breaking some weird new mutant etiquette?
Screw it.
"Marie." Jean was smart, I'd give her that. Dropping her napkin and turning her attention from Ororo, she motioned me over. Gratefully, despite our interesting conversation the night before, I ascended the dais. "I thought I'd see you this morning. Sit down."
I nodded dumbly, tentatively perching on the chair beside her. Jean shifted until she faced me, the sharp brown eyes meeting mine. She was dressed far more casually today--simple short-sleeved, dark-green blouse that complemented the chin-length red hair, plain khaki slacks. The slightest edge of power lingered just outside my shields--she wasn't "on" so to speak, and I blinked a little. It was somewhat comparable to being inches from an electric fence--you could *feel* the buzz, just beyond the range of your senses.
"Is--is Kitty okay?" I asked, forcing my attention from the feel of her. Inner Logan and Carol were both silent, stationed in key positions inside my shield--if she broke through, she'd be dealing with some seriously interesting personalities wandering around and blocking my presence. I wondered, a little vaguely, what she'd make of Logan there.
Jean pursed her lips, head tilting.
"She's still unconscious, but otherwise uninjured, and I'm not seeing any abnormalities in the tests I ran."
--Shit. Could they pick up my little sucking thing in a test on Kitty?--
--Well, Jeannie couldn't back at the lab, so probably not, darlin'. Just don't look so jumpy.--
I wanted to growl back, but refrained, keeping the expression of concern on my face, mostly because it was real. God, I hoped I hadn't hurt her too much.
"Can I--stop by and see her?"
Jean began to nod, then suddenly frowned in thought.
"Of course, after lunch--she should be awake by then. Reminds me--I need to reschedule your appointment."
I was pretty sure God had just intervened directly on my behalf.
"Oh?" I nodded, trying not to look too eager, but Jean was frowning still, and the tell-tale shifting of her body in the seat--she didn't like it, whatever she had to do, and it was bothering her. This could mean a short-tempered Jean, never a fun thing. God, a short tempered telepath of any flavor couldn't be a good thing any way you looked at it.
"Some--tests to run." Interesting--she didn't have to tell me that. "In any case--"
I didn't hear the rest of the sentence, as my gaze over Jean's shoulder showed me Logan, rapidly approaching the table. I stood up so suddenly the other woman started.
"I--I'm sorry." I tried to think of a reason, but my mind was blank. Seven words. Logan. Coming. This. Way. Get. Out. NOW. "Excuse me, Dr. Grey. I--feel a little ill." Truth was, I did. My stomach was interested in rejecting the strawberries. I tried to negotiate with it as I took a step back.
"Marie?" On her feet as well, and Logan was closing in--oh thank God, a student stopped him for something. They were paused, talking, but I couldn't count on that for long. "You look pale. Are you--" One hand reached out dangerously close to my face and I backed off another stumbling step, almost tangling my feet in the chair I'd just left.
"Just--not used to eating this early." I spit the words out, still backing up--shit, how obvious did I need to be? Ororo's attention was on me now and I wondered how close I was to the edge of the dais and what my chances were of falling over. Farther down, Scott had looked up from breakfast and the red glasses were turning their full attention on me. Great, I had all kinds of attention now. Just exactly what I needed. "Thanks, Dr. Gre--Jean. I'll be by after lunch."
--Just put up a sign.-- Carol advised acidly. --An "I am uncomfortable and stay BACK" posterboard. Calm down. Look nauseated. Good girl.--
Nauseated I could do--Logan was moving back toward the table and the clear hazel eyes fixed on me briefly.
For a second, there was no one else in the room. Logan took *everything*, always had to me, whether I wanted him to or not. Taking my sight, my hearing, soaking the scents around me until there was nothing left *but* him. A sharp breath and I broke the lock and turned away, getting down off the dais without undue difficulty and feeling the curious gazes of the diners who had witnessed my frankly weird behavior and were wondering at it. Way to be inconspicuous there, Rogue. Good for you.
--Cool down, Rogue. It's been years. He can't remember your face that perfectly.--
An inner sigh from Logan made my stomach drop and I scurried from the dining room and leaned back against the doorway just outside, drawing in a deep breath.
No need for this. Being silly, definitely. Definitely.
Taking a chance, I ducked my head back in the room briefly, watching Logan sit down beside Jean, before his head jerked around in startlement. Catching the scent on the chair, where my hand had touched the table, all around him. Jean frowned, leaning over on one elbow to ask him something, then both sets of eyes went to the door I'd just exited.
I ducked back into the hallway and flattened myself against the wall, torn between outright paranoia and the knowledge that there was no way on earth that anyone could seriously think that Rogue had returned from the Great Beyond.
--My scent, my face, it's been seven years. He's forgotten by now.--
Logan was quiet inside for a moment.
--No, darlin'. He'd never forget.--
The short tour ended with Bobby being called away for some unspecified morning duty and left me seriously disturbed and left to my own devices until Scott found time to interview me for whatever purposes such an interview entailed. We'd gone over most of Mansion at record speed, then the grounds--nice, distant spots with an easy view of approaching people and upwind of the school, in case Logan's curiosity got the better of him. I wanted fair warning. Couldn't imagine how it would play out if we met face to face and he *realized* who I was, but--sure as hell didn't want it happening like that, here.
I turned my attention back to scanning the porch area facing a nicely open yard that I could see all approachers long before they could see me. So, interview. I supposed it had something to do with my future here--what I wanted to do. 'Hey, Marie, how do you feel about being a nice little executioner or maybe joining up to wipe out human civilization on earth?' Nah, Scott would never be so crass. Maybe they needed a secretary. I was a good typist.
Leaning back in the wicker chair, I thought about what the tour had showed me. Which was, to wit, a truly scary number of parallels.
--They remade the school the same. How the hell could they rebuild and make it *exactly* the same?-- The same number of classrooms, unused now; the mobile blackboard Scott used for the Calculus class that always seemed to be in the hallway and likely to be tripped over; the hardwood floors and their myriad collection of rugs that looked the same, though most of Xavier's had been the expensive, handmade variety and I couldn't tell if these were the original or not, though God, they looked it. Frankly, I didn't want to know. It was nerve-wrecking enough to be aware that the memories of the X-Men were good enough to recall that there was always supposed to be a quarter-inch of space between the wall and the main hall rug. The rec room was as worn and welcoming as always--obviously still used often. When Bobby had jokingly challenged me to a game of foosball, I'd turned him down with a grin that I'd hoped hid the nervous shifting of my stomach.
I should *not* have had breakfast. I was going to regret it before the day was done.
--I mean, seriously, these people have memories like *nothing* I've ever seen before.--
Neither of my inner voices answered, but then, they both were as completely floored as I was. Carol was less so, perhaps, simply because before her death, she hadn't spent any time at the Mansion, but Logan's reaction was predictable--he simply didn't discuss the issue. Always a good indication of Deep Logan Disturbance.
--Notice the wainscoting, the flooring, the doors, even the damned hand-cut glass. If Bobby hadn't told me, I'd never have even guessed this wasn't the original.--
--They wanted to return to normality after the war.-- Carol answered, obviously trying to find the root of my unease. --I don't see why you're reacting like this.--
--No, you don't understand.-- I tried to find a comparison, rummaging through Carol's memories, rummaging through Logan's, and finding nada. Crap. --Look, that's not natural. You can't--It's almost impossible to get the original back perfectly. I mean, me, I'm not the same person I was before I absorbed you. Some of the same characteristics, some of the same feelings, I'm still Rogue, but I changed. This is a home and a school, which by definition should be different, should embody change--and it's not. It's like they stuck this place in a time bubble to keep it pristine, to keep it the same. That's not natural, it's not normal; I mean, shit, even the GARDEN layouts are the same, but 'Ro at home is regularly redesigning them for change. But this place... There is no change.--
There it was, my finger was pressed on the button.
--This place is more home than home is. They made it a memory.--
--And what's wrong with that?--
--That's not life. That's not natural. That is concerted effort to keep something from happening.-- Shit, I wasn't explaining this any better either. Giving up, I stretched a little and looked around, feeling oddly restless.
--No training yesterday or today.-- Logan told me. --You're used to the release.--
He was right about that. I'd trained every day of my life since my eighteenth birthday, when Scott approved me for pre-team combat instruction. I was used to working out my frustrations and my energy, channeling them into positive destruction in the Danger Room or the practice ring.
"Marie Danvers, right?"
I came to startled attention, looking up into the smooth visor of my mentor and friend and teacher. Smiling down at me, he extended a friendly hand to pull me to my feet.
I drew in a breath and took it, irrationally reassured by the familiar strong grip. In the seconds it took to find my footing, I took him in. Sunstreaked dark brown hair was combed back neatly from his forehead, definitely longer than he'd ever worn it before, though ruthlessly trimmed into a fine straight line--Scott's anality tended to manifest in personal hygiene most strongly, though a close second had always been the pristine garage; in a plain yellow t-shirt and jeans, as if he was on his way to a class like any other morning in my life. A scar on one high cheekbone, just below the line of the visor--must have been old since it was nearly healed. I studied him as if he was a stranger, trying to figure out how to talk to him, how to approach him.
"Hi." --Okay, should I know who he is?--
--Yes. He led the Resistance. You'll know.--
"Mr. Summers." I said, feeling oddly off-center--not exactly an unusual feeling here, but not one I was enjoying either.
"Scott." A brilliant smile, his put-at-ease smile, one of the Three Good Ones that the teenage girls of the Mansion had always sighed over. I knew--I'd been one of them. Still was, and my heart did a quick mini-pitter as he stepped back, releasing my hand. "Just Scott. I'm sorry this took so long--we're in the middle of a project right now." I stiffened, knew I did, and hoped he didn't notice. "But now's as good a time as any. Has Erik given you a room assignment?"
"Yeah." Again, that personal name use, screaming immense amounts of unnatural intimacy that made me wonder what on earth had changed so radically in the interpersonal relationships of the X-Men. I fell into step beside him, trying to throw out casual glances, trying to feel the difference. There wasn't one.
I shivered a little and Scott did notice, coming to a halt as he opened the front door to lead me back inside.
"Are you all right?" All that warm sympathy--too much, too much like him. But the Scott Summers I knew would never have bombed a city--or cities, as the case might be. Of course, the Scott Summer I knew wasn't forced to watch his wife raped, feel her every scream and shudder, while being held down and asked questions he couldn't answer. He hadn't watched Xavier die and he'd never watched students tortured.
God, I hated how Kitty's memories filtered through my mind, sticky with leftover emotion. The assimilation process of what I'd received was almost complete. These were mine now, and I didn't want them. I didn't want these things crawling through my thoughts, even if I needed them to survive.
"Fine. Just--" I waved a hand in general, hoping he'd take it as just normal new-mutant confusion--well, of course he'd take it like that. And it wasn't even a lie, not really. I wondered why he didn't ask me about my little performance at breakfast and decided that he was putting it down to the same thing--new mutant reaction.
"It can be overwhelming," he agreed as we went down the bright, sunny corridors, and Scott smiled as he noted a broken tile in the foyer and pointed out the sad little dehydrated ivy clinging to life in the far corner. The light chat was designed to put me at ease, and even being aware of that, it did its job and I was smiling as we went down the office hallway.
He came to a pause at a large polished wooden door--his office door, I realized with a shock of recognition--and he opened it, ushering me inside with a gentleman's grace, giving me all those warm smiles, smiles I remembered from my first days at the Mansion as well. Slowly, I sat down on a high-backed chair that shouldn't be so familiar and waited for him to seat himself at his immaculate desk. The pens were arranged to the left by size and he still had the neatest workspace of anyone I'd ever met.
"Marie--Danvers, right?" He paused as he rifled absently through a set of folders in the inbox on the corner, pulling out one in what seemed like random chance and flipping it open. Looking over the information sheet, he gave me a long look--I supposed it was the sheet the nice people at the Salem Complex had written up for me. Please God, don't let there be a physical description. "Flying, strength, and invulnerability?"
"Yeah." I nodded quickly, lacing my fingers together, and I saw his gaze linger on my gloves. He didn't ask questions though--Scott Summers was sensitive to other people's feelings.
Like Lensherr the night before, he asked about my past and Carol helped me reconstruct what I'd told him, adding detail when necessary and forcing myself to memorize every word. With Kitty's memories, I was even able to elaborate on my camp experiences.
"Palm Beach." His voice was colorless. "Yeah." A pause. "I'm sorry--that was one of the last liberated."
I shook my head quickly.
"I don't--" God, he felt guilty. Shit. Move on, move on, move on, I didn't need to hear Scott Summers apologize to me for something I hadn't gone through. Palm Beach had been a random choice from Kitty's memories of the locations of the camps. "I--just moved after that. I didn't feel--comfortable--being out in the open."
He nodded sympathetically.
"Yes, I can understand that." Absently, his pencil began to tap against the wooden surface of the desk and I felt my fingers echo it against my knee--it was an addictive rhythm, always had been. "And then you decided to come here after the elections?"
Elections? Ah, one dollar bill. Got it. But--I did a rapid sort through Kitty and found it.
"Not exactly." Elections had been awhile back, soon after the end of the war while trying to return to a normal government--he was testing me. I wondered why. "I just--I was tired of being alone." I looked down, trying to elaborate, because I couldn't think of a reason.
"I don't mean to put you on the spot, Ms Danvers," Scott said quietly, and I watched as he took the pencil from between his fingers, gripping it tightly. "We've had--problems with some mutant groups. Reconstruction hasn't been easy."
--Protests against the human camps.-- Carol Danvers told me after her delve though Kitty's memories. --A lot of groups don't agree with it.--
And you know, I would have sworn that if anything like this happened, the X-Men would be the first to protest against it. At least the worry about infiltrators explained Betsy's and most especially Jean's mental probes the night before. Something in me relaxed--this wasn't normal behavior, they didn't just wander around reading people's thoughts at random. As a newbie, I was under suspicion.
--The X-Men and the Brotherhood had been targeted specifically to be broken--Lensherr, Scott, Logan, Jean, Ororo, Bobby. Targeted for their profile, especially Jean.-- Carol said, pulling out Kitty's memories for me. One look and I dismissed the images quickly, focusing on Scott again.
No, Scott Summers would forgive so much, but not the torture of Jean. That I could definitely understand.
--But this...--
--This is reconstruction, honey. We need more information, but my suggestion is you don't get it here. You don't need to be suspected of being an infiltrator on top of everything else. Be low-key.--
Oh yeah. Definitely. I was *not* interested in getting noticed. I was going to be the very epitome of low-key.
--You know who I haven't seen? Sabretooth, Mystique, Toad, some of Lensherr's favorites.--
It was an interesting thought. I leaned back into my chair, my boots kicking lightly at the legs as I considered that. Then I tilted my head, realizing Scott was watching me.
--This wasn't accidental. The timing of this meeting.-- I blinked, thinking. --I'd take bets that Betsy and Jean both reported about their inability to get into my mind to him. Shit.--
So I waited. Scott Summers glanced down at the paper, then back up, that same smile on his face.
"All right. I think that'll be all for now, at least for a few days." The project. Definitely. "Until then, decompress a little, decide what you want to do. Relax. Bobby's being useful?" There, a teasing grin. Wow. "And my door is always open if you need to talk. So feel free to use it, okay?"
That was a dismissal, and a graceful one at that. Relieved, I found my feet, smiling in gratitude before making for the door as Scott went back to work. Checking my watch, I noted the interview had taken an hour--I needed something else to do.
"...I think they'll all be here in time." Jean's voice drifted from down the hall, and if I hadn't had Logan's senses, I never would have heard it. Closing Scott's door behind me, I began to scout for a non-suspicious area to sit and look busy doing something. Hmm. Wish I'd grabbed a book. Seeing a bench against the wall that wasn't too far out of range, I quickly approached and sat down, then turned all my concentration to listening.
"...problems with retrieval?" Logan. Dear God. I did some quick mental calculations--if I was quiet, Logan wouldn't hear me, but I couldn't be equally sure of scent range. God, this was stupid--I was trying to *avoid* him. Being caught out here would *not* be a good thing.
--Too many twists in this corridor--he'd have to know someone was here to start lookin', kid.-- I nodded gratefully to Inner Logan and shut my eyes to concentrate.
"Betsy's going over to try and keep them under control. There are so many--too many, and we have every telepath available working on keeping them under control. We're going to have to hurry. I don't think we can afford to wait. Especially if the revolts continue. This has to happen now or not at all."
Revolts?
"How many?"
"All the remaining leaders you retrieved, five thousand seventy volunteers. I don't know how many others Erik is bringing in." A pause. "I don't like the odds. He has to have found a way to make the casualty rate lower."
"What's the current rate?"
"Same as it was on the Statue--twenty-five percent mortality. He says it will be lower this time, but the computer simulations aren't backing that up. I don't like it."
"I don't like our other options."
Jean sighed in frustration. I listened closer--they were getting to the very edge of my best current range.
"I know, I know. If it works--then this will be over faster. Much faster than waiting until we're recovered. But I--" their voices drifted further away, and I almost got up to follow.
Didn't though--my legs were frozen in place and my mind was rewinding and replaying the conversation
Leaders. Volunteers. Casualty Rate. The Statue.
Now I knew why they were risking Polaris in that machine.
Predictability was something to be cherished--so it fucked with my head, fair enough. The concept that they'd kept everything so much the same, that screwed with me, but it sure as hell made my little game of detective simpler.
--And what reaction would you have had to a radically different Mansion, honey?--
I thought about that as I went to the elevator. Carol had a good point.
--Yeah, I know--but I wouldn't feel so creeped out. If they're going to go to the dark side, couldn't they--I don't know, like, act like it? You know, live in dark corners, twist metaphorical mustaches, be carelessly vicious? Act--weird?--
God, that sounded silly. It was true though--I didn't like that Scott was as friendly as always and shook hands, and I liked even less that Bobby was being so kind and so warm. I wanted black and white, and I wasn't getting it.
Carol's low laugh wasn't comforting.
--So you want a caricature of evil. Honey, it doesn't work that way. It's not often people think they are doing wrong when they are--trust me, almost everyone thinks they're on the right side. Those in power are the ones that get to *enforce* their vision of right. That's the only difference.--
There had to be more to the right than that. It couldn't be just power.
--How can they think this is right? There are *camps* and they are *using* people. Jean and Betsy tried to break into my mind. You're telling me they think they're *right*? This *wasn't* Xavier's dream, it never was.--
--Dreams change.-- Slightly dismissive--arguing ethics with Carol was always an exercise in futility at best. If she and Logan in my head had one single burning thing in common, it was a highly-developed, bitterly cynical sense of self-preservation; fuck the right side. They'd never been believers in anything. --Now go. You don't want to get caught out in the sublevels, not when they're suspicious of infiltrators.--
I had to agree to that, little thought I liked it. I took a moment, searching my memory and Kitty's until I came up with the right code rotations. With trembling fingers, I punched it in, half-expecting the alarms to go off.
The doors opened with a decided lack of melodrama and I paused, almost in disappointment, before slipping inside and ducking into a corner, pushing in my level choice. I could do this. Be all secret-agent and so forth. No problem, I was Rogue. I'd dated premiere-thief Remy and I'd lived with premiere-thief Kitty and shoplifter extraordinaire Jubilee (all in their misspent youth, of course). I could do this.
Shit, I was afraid though.
When the doors opened, I slipped out and took a scent check--Scott and Jean and Logan had been upstairs, no problems there; I didn't smell the warm-furriness of Hank or the cool-fresh Ororo, but Lensherr was still unaccounted for. Breathing in the sterile scent of the tube-like hallway, I made my way down, glancing periodically at the doors to check for any other presences. The sheer lack of identifying scents was comforting--no one had been down this hall in at least a few hours.
--I wonder if they still have Cerebro, now that the Professor is gone.--
--I'd think so. They still have Jeannie.--
I frowned a little.
--Jean always said she didn't have the control to use it properly.--
--She used it to find you on the Statue of Liberty.--
I winced a little in memory--Jean had never talked about it, but Logan's memories supplied me with the aftermath of her desperate attempt.
--Almost burned herself out too.--
She'd been telepathically deaf for some time after that incident, though none of us had been aware of it, even me, not until years later when I overheard her and the Professor in an argument. She'd risked more than her telepathy though--I knew now that Cerebro could have destroyed her mind if she'd been just a little less determined, if her will had been just a little less strong. It took *a lot* of concentration and power to control Cerebro.
--That was then. Those little stabs into your mind weren't light, darlin', and they were deliberately placed. She's stronger. You felt it yourself.--
No shit on that one.
Hmm. I glanced around, trying to think of where I wanted to go. The computers first--the secured ones, the ones most likely to give me a crash history lesson on the war. Kitty's memories simply weren't enough. And while Bobby was an excellent source of information, I needed to know what I *should* know just as a survivor before I could start some serious interrogation, or I'd slip up and big time.
So if I was right, there was a computer in Jean's lab, a computer in the Danger Room, and one in conference room, all of which were restricted access and had database control. Lab--bad idea. Danger Room--don't think so. The conference room was only used for conferences and most of the people that would use it seemed pretty busy on other projects.
Conference room it was.
I counted off the doors, passing Jean's lab and two storage rooms, then paused at the conference room. It wasn't locked--only sensitive areas down here would be--so I ducked inside, glancing around at yet another example of people with too-vivid memories and a seriously disturbing obsession for detail, lingering on the holoprojector and the screen before I turned to the desk and sat down, looking carefully at the keyboard.
I dragged out Kitty's memories for her passwords and began to search the information available. Like all the computers in the lower levels, they were networked--Kitty had taken over the computer systems soon after her graduation in my world and explained the theory to me, and I figured it wouldn't be any different here. Sitting back, I peeled off my gloves and went to work. This was information, for the most part, that they wouldn't necessarily be trying to hide. Scott's love of detail--it would be here. Records, histories, everything.
With the press of a few keys, I had the database and began my search. It wasn't exactly comforting.
--Razing of Atlanta, destruction of fourteen government research facilities. Liberation of the Daytona camp, the Memphis camp--shit. Look at the list, Scott was leading most of these.--
I could feel Carol peering at the information over my shoulder--metaphorically speaking.
--Interesting. Look at the dates. Scott got out a little over four years ago. Once he was out, the war actually began and was over in a year and a half. He must have done the organization.--
--If there's one thing Scott can do, it's this. He's a natural leader, a natural organizer. But I wonder...--
--Wonder what?--
Frowning, I tapped a few more keys, bringing up a separate screen. Took a long breath.
--Look at the layout of the current internment camps and human-restricted areas--they're keeping the locations the same. Ghettos, where mutants had to live after the first revisions of the MRA. Where they have humans stored up--how efficient. Except the Salem camp--that's new.-- Frowning, I sat back, reading the beginning quickly. --Got it. The machine worked--I wonder what was different? Mutation of the world leaders at that conference and apparently portions of New York City were affected as well; panic in Washington, forcing through the MRA with even stricter provisions. Required genetic tests for work, college, licensing--shit, they were forcing us into poverty and powerlessness.-- It was easy to imagine Scott's reaction. He would have held off as long as he could, trying to find the legal way to do this, trying to find the loopholes.
There wouldn't have been any, though. Prejudice was good at plugging up the loopholes.
--All any war needs is a catalyst, Rogue. You said it yourself.--
--Well, theoretical and practical application. I wonder if Scott and Jean knew they weren't just saving New York the day they rescued me--they were preventing a war.--
--Not to mention saving you.--
I grinned a little bitterly, leaning back into my chair.
--I was more important in death than I ever could have been in life, Carol. Face it, my value is how well I can be used, always has been.--
--You're not being fair to yourself.--
I had to find that a little ironic from the woman who'd tried to kill me.
--We're on the same side now--it's not as if I have a choice. I sink or swim on your survival.-- Carol snorted softly. --Keep reading. Maybe we can find something--oh God, Rogue.--
I'd reacted seconds after she felt the information flood my mind, unable to tear myself from the cold facts scrolling across the screen.
--Logan.--
Carol faded a little as Kitty's memories catalyzed at my perusal of Logan's war record; a hundred scenes that Kitty had witnessed before she and Logan had escaped. All the filth a human mind could think of to do to a superhealer. I shut my eyes, but the memories played over in my head, a movie I couldn't turn off, and I heard my breath speed up, the hammering of my heart when I watched them hurt him in ways that had to have scarred his soul if not his body. A flash of black heat across one arm, the slice of something sharp across my abdomen and throat, collapsing in the grey-metal cell alone and waiting to see if they brought him back--oh God--God no....
{--he was collapsed at my feet, and blood was making my hands slick when I tried to close the ruin of his abdomen, feeling intestines move under my fingers, and he should be dead, please let him die, please don't let him survive this, but it was healing, he was *healing* even *now*, but never enough, never all the way, God, they had his collar and they were....}
--Rogue?--
The voices were faint, far away, and I stumbled to my feet, knocking the chair away and grabbing for the edge of the desk, trying to draw a clear breath, seeing everything Kitty had watched them to do him.
Feeling everything they did to her, condensed into a brief moment that sucked the air from my lungs.
Hate. Pure, unadulterated, rushing through me with a force that was energizing as I marked each face in my memory--if they weren't dead--if they weren't dead yet....
--That is the way of it.-- Carol, stronger, and distantly, I felt her and Logan work together, pushing back the tide, blocking it in my psyche until the images slowly faded from their burn into my soul. --That is the way of it, honey. That's how you become a believer. That's why there are camps and that is why Erik Lensherr runs an ideology, why a mutant Kelley runs a country, and why Scott runs a parody of Xavier's dream. Hate.--
Shivering, I grabbed for the chair, the rush of adrenaline fading and leaving me cold. I blinked away the memories, finding my breath before I began to hyperventilate.
--They tortured him.-- The realization, the *fact* of it was coating my mind. The difference between theoretical and practical. I didn't want to know this. --All of them. Kitty, Scott...this is what they went through.--
Carol's mental voice was unexpectedly gentle. She could easily understand this. --Yes, they did.--
--I can't forgive--can't forget that.-- I wanted to find them, hunt them down one by one. Let my memories guide me on my method of execution, slow and harsh and long, days and days I could drag it out, that was the way of it--
--That's the way of it.-- Logan's voice was rueful, even understanding. --That's how you build a lie, Marie. Just believe it's true. That's all there is to it. Revenge is never pretty, it's never satisfaction, it's never peace. It's a way to get yourself as dirty as they are, it's bathing in filth and letting it cling to you. It scars you and changes you and it's never worth it. It'll never feel as good as you think it will. It's only good as long as the heat lasts, and it never lasts, darlin'.--
This was a man who could hold a grudge for half a century.
--You're not me. And I don't lie to myself 'bout what I'm doin'--I don't fool myself into believin' taking out those who fucked me over will do anything but lessen me.--
--If it were me--in those images...-- I trailed off at the rush of raw rage, staggering against the chair and closing my fingers over the edge, almost blacking out from the pressure in my head.
--Every fucking one of them. Just like you said.-- A pause, and slowly, too slowly, it began to cool and I could straighten again. --But not their wives and kids and parents and friends. Not the people who went to school with them and deliver their mail. Not their species, not their world.--
I let myself back down in the chair, residual tremors shaking my hands as I clasped them tightly in my lap.
--Here...here you did. Their wives and their kids and their friends and their world. You, the X-Men...--
Killers. I bit into my lip and felt the skin almost break under the pressure.
--And that's not something I'm taking much comfort in, darlin'.--
I nodded my blank acceptance--the emotional highs were leaving me drained, exhausted, utterly undone. I wanted to crawl into my bed and think--oh God no, I wanted to run and stop thinking--I wanted to--I wanted to--
--That's not you, darlin'. Not this. Not them. Not a killer. Never.--
I had believed that--now, I had to wonder.
--Finish reading.-- Carol told me softly. --Finish up, honey. You've got a mission to complete. Let's do it and get out of here.--
I nodded, numbly turning back to the computer to finish my history lesson, learn about the people who'd been my friends--how my death had created this.
The garden was beautiful and silent, Bobby sitting less than a foot away, watching me with quiet interest. I wasn't up to being social.
It was sick curiosity that had driven me to look for one more thing--just to see. Maybe I hadn't believed they'd still be there. But they were--long, neat rows of glass cases holding the uniforms of the X-Men.
That final nail, that tiny straw I didn't need at all, and why the hell had I stopped by there anyway?
They still had the uniforms, and I'd stared at them for an endless moment of pure shock, everything snapped completely out of focus. Completely. Absolutely. They had the uniforms of the X-Men and it looked like--dear God, they were still being used.
They'd set up chain-link camps with razor wire and humanity was locked behind fences or into inner city ghettos that couldn't be much better. But they still wore the uniforms of the people who followed Xavier's dream. I'd spent ten minutes staring at Scott's, barely caring if anyone caught me down there--he had to know the difference. He had to. When he put on that uniform at home, he wasn't Scott Summers or a mutant-rights activist or a man--he was a superhero, a defender of innocents. A *leader*. What the *hell* was it to him in this place?
I could handle so much, but those uniforms in their cases just froze everything.
"I wanted to see if you wanted me to supervise your evaluation tomorrow."
"Sure," I answered a little blankly. I should eat something. Me and the fruit had parted company the second I'd gotten out of the sublevels and into the downstairs bathroom down the hall from the former Calculus classroom. I'd been lucky to get that far. The banana was still in my pocket, but even the idea of it sent my stomach rolling again and I covered my mouth with my hand.
"Great." A big smile. "It'll be fun."
What?
I turned my full attention on Bobby, blinking at the sight of the clear blue eyes filled with afternoon sunshine. God, he was beautiful. God, I'd just agreed to something that maybe I shouldn't have.
"Evaluation?"
He patted my arm lightly, almost a squeeze.
"Nothing to worry about. Three Danger Room scenarios, one hand to hand, to evaluate your combat experience and your control of your powers. Don't worry--we have training available for almost anything you can do. I'll make a report after I've seen you fight and place you in class."
He was going to--fight me. Oh, this couldn't be good.
I blinked, opening my mouth and trying to find something to say that would completely contradict my yes as well as not seem suspicious. Nothing emerged that sounded vaguely believable. And by now, Carol and Logan were so utterly beyond words annoyed with me that they didn't even bother to comment.
"Logan usually does the evaluations, but since he's working on the project, he probably doesn't have time," Bobby continued, in blissful innocence of my appalled shock. "Don't worry--I'm qualified to place you."
So my other choice would be Logan. Okay, I was officially in the Bobby-camp. I was Rogue, after all--I outclassed most living mutants, so beating him wouldn't be a problem. Psis couldn't easily get into my mind; very little could pierce the invulnerability of my body. I didn't age at anywhere near normal rate (as far as Jean's tests could ascertain), and I could fly. Throw in the skin, I could kill anyone and anything at all if I needed to, take their mutations as my own. Bigger plus--I'd been trained by some of the best combat experts in the world before I'd ever absorbed Carol's gifts.
Sort of disturbing, come to think of it. But Bobby's evaluation would not be a problem--just ignoring the skin thing. Which was going to be tricky as hell to get around--he *was* going to touch me if we went head to head, and unless I wanted to climb into something out of a BDSM video, there were going to be problems.
On the other hand--biggie indeed--Logan would know something was off the second he got my scent. And yes, he was different in this world, granted--but I suspected his natural paranoia would not stand me in good stead. He'd prod until he figured out *why* the scent was so familiar, and I couldn't count on him dismissing out of hand the idea that a New Rogue had somehow gotten herself tossed over here, no matter how much I wanted to. He'd seen shit I couldn't even begin to imagine, things that when I sorted them in my head, I still had trouble believing.
--Thanks, darlin'.-- Logan did irony well.
--Don't start, sugar.--
But--But I may need Logan for this world--it was getting clearer every second I was here that I couldn't do this alone. I needed help, and God knew, my options for it were whittled down to--one.
--Marie...--
So Logan wasn't completely on-board with the plan. Well, if he had a better one, I'd love to hear about it.
"Hey Bobby, Marie." I squinted into the general west, from where the voice originated, raising a hand to shield my eyes as Scott emerged into view from the other side of the house. There were grease stains on his otherwise immaculate shirt and his hands, while clean, had grime worked in under the nails. All unconscious, I smiled, remembering when he taught my shop class and we ducked our heads into a car's engine so he could teach me about the properties of a internal-combustion motor. Watching him rub his fingers into his jeans absently, I laughed softly.
He'd always hated getting grease under his fingernails.
"Hey, S-sir," I answered, catching Bobby rise from the corner of my eye.
"You finished?" Faintly excited, and Scott grinned.
Finished with what?
"For now, anyway." Absently, Scott rubbed his hands on his denim-clad leg again and shook his head briefly, careful not to dislodge his visor. I could see the cling of grease to the ends of some of his hair under the sunlight, drawing fine black lines on his forehead. "Your car should be ready by tomorrow." Ah. Bobby's car. He and Jubes should never, ever have been given licenses. Their vehicles tended to spend a lot of quality time in the garage. "What are you two up to?"
Bobby shrugged with elaborate casualness, and Scott relaxed onto the bench in front of us, running a hand carefully through his hair. Missed the grease, though.
"Just setting up Marie's evaluation, sir."
Scott's eyebrows arched over his glasses.
"You talk to Logan yet? He's the one that'll place her in class level..." Scott trailed off, apparently reading something in Bobby's face. I wished my angle of observation was better, because hell if I knew exactly what that was he saw there. "Suit yourself." A wide smile, before he flicked his gaze to me. "Marie, are you settling in well?"
I tried to think of a way to answer that truthfully. Yes, no, I'm in shock, thanks. Probably *not* a good idea.
"It's still very--new, sir." There, that sounded reasonable. Not too bad, Roguey.
"Scott."
"Scott. Thanks for--for everything." I wanted to ask if he still had the name Cyclops but decided against it.
"No problem." Absently, he stretched slightly, then stood up. "Jean asked me to take you down to see Kitty after lunch." I blinked, realizing that it was well-passed noon, probably edging toward two. Shit, I'd been in the sublevels longer than I thought. "If you're ready--"
"Oh yes." Ooh, maybe shouldn't have shown such naked enthusiasm there. I felt my face heat at Bobby's start and Scott's slightly surprised glance, before the older man rose gamely. "I mean, thanks. I was worried about her."
The visored eyes looked into me for an endlessly long moment, before he nodded slowly. I wondered what was going through his mind.
"All right. Come on."
It was a quick walk to the lower levels, mostly in silence--Scott wasn't a talker and I wasn't feeling terribly chatty myself. In the lab, Kitty was still sleeping, her head bandaged, and I tried to feel more righteous about the fact I'd given her a concussion. Granted, I'd had to--but still...
--You aren't getting a guilt trip, are you? Shit, Rogue, you just want to march up to Magneto and apologize for damaging one of his pets and volunteer for the project yourself?--
Okay, that was extreme sarcasm, even for her.
--Don't fucking start with me, Carol. I hurt her.--
--She'll live. You're safe, and now you have some concrete memories to work with. This was a win-win situation. You think anyone is going try to touch you without your permission when you took out Kitty for waking you up?--
I hadn't thought of that.
--So think of it now, honey.--
I watched Kitty for a few more minutes, then turned away, surprised to see Scott's steady gaze still fixed on me. I tried not to twitch under it. His instincts were too good, and he read body-language better than even Logan did. He'd figure something was up.
"She's gonna be okay, right?"
Scott's head tilted in thought, then he shook himself and nodded quickly.
"She'll be fine. Probably wake up later. Come on." Scott pushed the door open for me and let me back into the hall, where I looked curiously around, as if I didn't know every single inch of this floor far too well. "Bobby didn't include this in the tour?"
"Nope." I smiled up at Scott winningly.
--Go gently, Rogue.-- Carol's voice was suddenly very serious. --He's suspicious.--
Well, no shit. I could smell that from ten feet away. Every reason to be, too--I'd shown up close to the newest pet project and took out one of his team members. I waited as he glanced around, probably trying to decide whether to give me a tour or wait on that until one of the resident telepaths could perform some serious scanning and find out what I was here for.
"You spent time in the south?" he asked, as he let the door close and led me down the hall back to the elevator. Choice number two, get the newbie away from the cool stuff. Smart guy. I thought about his question carefully. It didn't seem casual.
--Do I still have an accent?-- Except for my extended vowels under stress, seven years in New York had cleared the heavy drawl of Mississippi from my voice.
Carol snorted.
--Not much, honey. There's something in the south that's worrying him, I'll bet. Pockets of human resistance, maybe? Mutants not thrilled with the status quo?-- Carol snickered softly and I found myself echoing her silently. --Not that I can see why. This isn't bad, you know. For mutants.--
She would think so. Of course, she *had* been Brotherhood, and I'd bet anything if I went back home and asked Erik what his dream world would be like, it might very well resemble this.
--Pockets of mutants against all this crap?--
--Isn't that a unique thought. And you being a mutant who is against all of this crap, the logic.--
Sometimes she could be a bitch. I tuned her out and realized we were standing in front of the elevator and Scott was giving me those long looks that made me wonder yet again what other people saw when I went into Internal Conversation Mode.
"A few times--Mississippi, Alabama. I moved around a lot." True. Very true. I had visited most of the deep south states and the entirety of the east coast during my misspent year as a hitchhiker, not to mention my vacations in Louisiana with Remy. "Bobby said this used to be a school." When in doubt, change the subject.
"Yes, it was, and will be again. We're reopening the school soon--there's a lot of children who lost their chance to finish their education during the war. For now, we've focused on training."
Combat, of course. Get these kids ready for another war, if necessary. I had strange and uncomfortable visions of Scott calmly explaining the fastest way to kill, instructing them on the finer points of bomb-making, going over tactical simulations and showing the students one by one how their powers could be lethal. With a start, I realized the memories were Kitty's, and shifted uncomfortably, trying to find something to say.
"Oh? You're a teacher?"
"I was." A slight shadow crossed over his face, so quickly that if I hadn't been looking directly at him, I would have missed it. I wasn't quite sure how to define what I read there, not for the first time hating that his eyes were always hidden. He could keep the most perfect facade of equanimity of anyone I'd ever met, just using that visor. Reading him was all body language, all intuition, and I'd sometimes wondered if his mental link with Jean was just so his wife could figure out what was going on in his head when there was no possible way to read it in his face.
"What subjects?" I asked as he punched in the codes.
"Mathematics, English--shop, sometimes."
He'd hated teaching English, and when we'd gotten a permanent English teacher, he'd thrown himself out of the class with such naked enthusiasm that the rest of us had been tempted to follow him. More time to indulge himself with advanced mathematics that only he and Hank could possibly understand, work on engines all hours of the day and night, and spend serious quality time in the garage debating engine mechanics at the top of his lungs with Logan, who had specific ideas on the subject that rarely meshed with those of the Fearless Leader.
So the rest of us students had hung out around the garage when that happened and had tried not to get caught. It'd always been better than a prizefight.
"Did you finish high school?"
Actually, got a bachelorate, but why did I think that info probably wouldn't fit very well into this world?
"Yes." Here. You taught me to conjugate verbs, differentiation in Calculus, and engine repair. Ethics too, but I'm guessing that's not your specialty now. Wrapping my arms around myself, I watched the doors open, Scott pausing briefly to glance inside before ushering me through with his usual excellent manners, and as he turned around, I saw the scar crossing the back of his head, just below the hairline. Thick white tissue crawled just above the spinal cord, over the skin that protected the bundle of nerves of the brain stem, but the fall of his hair completely covered it within seconds.
"How'd that--" I bit my tongue. Oh stupid, how the hell do you *think* he got it? Scott half-turned and I knew, with a sudden sick certainty, that there were worse on his body. Much worse.
"Hmm?"
Absently, I noted how his back wasn't to the elevator door--a half turn, just enough to see me and keep an eye on the door. Interesting. Gentlemanly manners concealing a dislike of turning his back on a threat. Reminded me of Logan, who always kept a secure wall to his back and stayed within six feet of any possible exit.
"--that you teach three different classes? Short on teachers?" Whew. And I mean, whew. Good save there, Roguey-girl.
He smiled a little and I stepped back, trying to watch him and take in the New Scott Summers. I hadn't seen anything in his fluid walk or movements to tell me if he'd been injured in other ways. Of course, it'd been years since he was in the camps, and Jean was a doctor, so she probably had fixed what she could when they got out. Maybe that on the skull was about it.
Shit, I wished. I'd seen Kitty's mind.
"Very short on teachers. We recruited where we could, before the war. We're doing so now, actually."
I smirked a little.
"I couldn't teach if my life depended on it, so don't even think about it."
That got me a grin, a real grin that seemed to light up his face, and he shook his head, that little oil-slicked strand brushing backward and clinging to the rest of his hair. The doors opened and Scott took a step to glance out briefly before he ushered me out.
--Reconnaissance.-- Logan would know that. --Checking for enemies. I'll bet this place has security unlike *anything* you're used to. Listen to the buzz just below normal hearing--that's video monitoring. And I'll bet that there's weaponry scattered everywhere through here, not to mention technology that constantly scans the perimeter and all sensitive areas.--
Interesting. And slightly panic inducing--hadn't I been wandering around the sublevels earlier? Crap, that might be on tape. Someone might have seen me.
Before I could work myself up into a serious froth, I reconsidered. If they'd seen me live on tape downstairs, they'd already have me in for questioning. Nothing about these people was telling me they'd be subtle--if Betsy and Jean were willing to scan me on first acquaintance, then they *weren't* going to wait and see what I did. So okay. Maybe the sublevels weren't monitored as heavily, since they were restricted access anyway.
--How would you know?-- I asked, addressing Logan's comment on the security issues of the Mansion itself.
--Who was called paranoid at the last meeting with Xavier back home, darlin'?--
Ah, yes. Got it. I grinned a little as I waited for Scott to come out.
"Is there anything I need to be--doing or something?" I asked awkwardly as we seemed to start a trek in the general direction of his office. Maybe he had more questions. Scott paused his stride, tossing me a glance.
"Bored?"
I shook my head.
"Just feeling--loafish."
That earned me a laugh and a long look that I couldn't interpret. He began to say something when he frowned at something over my shoulder, and I turned my head to catch Bobby barreling down the hall toward us, reminding me irresistibly of an eager puppy chasing a bright red ball.
"FoH activity in Virginia, sir." Sir? I stepped back a little, giving them space but trying to keep close enough to figure out what's going on.
--Anyone but me find it slightly annoying that the Friends of Humanity really are the cockroaches of the planet? Shit, what does it take to make them die?-- I sighed, then remembered not to draw attention to myself. Luckily, the boys were in Combat!Mode and had forgotten all about the noncom listening in on them from less than a foot away.
"--I'll be ready in five." Scott dismissed Bobby, who was already turning toward the elevator, when he paused, blue eyes searching Scott's face.
"Extermination procedures?"
What?
"Yes. I'll be down in a moment." The red gaze was fixed back on me and I tried to look uninterested. "You're not loafing, you're decompressing." A quick, strained smile--he wanted to be downstairs and be Leader-like. Got it. "If you get bored, repaint the Mansion while we're gone. Something in sky blue should work."
Scott Summers and weird humor. I giggled and Scott touched my shoulder lightly, ignoring the automatic stiffening of my body, before meeting Bobby at the elevator. Overhead, I heard the alarms going off and turned in a slow circle, blinking in shock.
--Alarms? But--
--They probably learned the value of being prepared, darlin'.--
I'd say so. Those things were loud enough and high enough to drive Logan up the wall. I wasn't doing much better.
"Marie?" St. John, right behind me and *definitely* in my personal space. I jumped (a very little though) and turned to face him, trying not to look as startled as I felt.
"Yeah?"
"Come on--while the first team's gone, we're on alert."
That was interesting.
"What's that?"
"Second team goes on alert, defenses go on full lockout. Stay inside the Mansion, no non-team members outside, and stay near exits to underground." St. John blew out a breath in exasperation at my blank look. "Of course Bobby would forget to explain this. Stay with me, all right?"
Why did I get the impression that St. John wasn't inviting me along spontaneously? Dollars to donuts, Scott was having me watched. Nice job, Leader. A little late, but nice job.
"You're second team?" I asked as I fell into step beside him. There was something faintly different about him now. I'd never seen St. John in command before--he'd always shirked the very concept, with a witty phrase and a fade into the background that never seemed anything less than smooth and logical and you'd forget minutes later what you were going to ask him.
"You got it." A pause, blue eyes giving me a sharp look. "You're really not used to this, are you?"
No shit, Sherlock. And should I be?
"Interesting life you must have had on the outside before you got here--you'll have to tell me about it sometime."
Okay, that was weird.
"Sure," I said finally, not sure what he wanted me to say. Then I looked around--there definitely was a tension in the air that I could almost taste, and below the alarms, the normal sounds of Mansion life had dribbled down to nothing. "Um...what do I do?"
"As long as we're inside, it doesn't matter." For the first time, I noticed St. John had one of the comm units in his ear, tiny and almost invisible. Scott had just started using those at home. Seeing my gaze, he smiled. "I take reports from here. It's just rounds, checking security. No one's tried to attack the Mansion in a year or so--we should be fine."
A *year*?
"You mean, the first team might have been called away as a distraction?"
"Yes." A slightly tight look. "It happened once. We had to rebuild the east wing."
They'd rebuilt it identical twice.
"Okay." We'd started walking and I struggled for conversation--St. John Allerdyce wasn't far famous for his talkativeness, after all. "Bobby's first team?"
I got an odd look--shit, shouldn't've mentioned old Bobby.
"We vary team composition depending on the situation. Kitty, Piotr, Remy, and Kurt are on second today too." I tried to look blank on the last three names--after all, I hadn't met them. "Come on--I want to do a perimeter run, and if you're thinking of joining, you'd probably like to see it."
Actually, I would like to see it, whether or not I was planning to join anything.
The perimeter sweep was both thorough and familiar. I could see an interesting blend of Scott and Logan in it--quasi-military, but slightly variated for use in a civilian compound. In some of the interior rooms, I could faintly hear voices and activity--I had to guess that's where the other residents were restricted during alerts. Watching Johnny listen intently to the comm as he walked the corridors, giving short orders that didn't mean much to me, the sheer routine efficiency--this had to happen often.
After several minutes of silence, St. John and I came to rest near the kitchen entrance, where he rummaged through the refrigerator and produced two sodas, neatly placing one on the table in front of me.
"Thanks."
A shrug for my trouble as he popped his soda, drinking it thoughtfully, eyes scanning the kitchen.
The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable--but the silence around us was beginning to grate on my nerves. I wished--
"You st--smoke?" Raised eyebrows greeted my choppy question--was I actually gonna say *still*?
--Why yes, you were, honey.--
I wished Carol would leave me the hell alone for a few minutes--I didn't need a committee vote on my own thoughts right now.
"Yes." A rummage through his pockets before he produced a slightly crumpled pack--and he pulled out two, tossing me one and cupping a hand around it when I raised it to my lips. It flared into life and I drew in a breath of smoke. Cigarettes had never been favorites, but under stress, I was used to absconding with a cigar and a fifth of whiskey and heading to the roof, sometimes not alone. I grinned a little in memory, letting the familiarity of having a cigarette with Johnny soothe my nerves.
St. John straddled the chair beside me, pushing his sleeves above his elbows as he lighted his cigarette, and I noted the line of needle-scars at the juncture of his elbow and down his forearm. Older scars--in a few more years, or if he had lighter skin, I wouldn't be able to see them at all, but the rich tan was revealing the vivid white in sharp relief.
Kitty's memories would tell me where he got those. I decided that, for now, I didn't want to know.
"So you like it here so far?"
I sighed without even meaning to, catching myself quickly and giving him an apologetic grin. Resting my fingers on the worn kitchen table, I focused on the vase of freshly-cut flowers in the center--had to be Ororo's touch. She'd always been fond of filling the house with the smell of whatever flowers were in season.
"Sorry. I get asked that a lot. I'm fine. It's nice here." Creepy, but nice. Just like home, in all the ways that tended to do a number on my head. St. John nodded, taking another drag before picking up his soda.
"It's natural--a lot of people come here pretty paranoid. As mutants go, you're pretty well-adjusted."
That told me things I seriously didn't want to know about post-war mutant psychological health, and I took another pull from my cigarette to hide my reaction.
"Thanks," I mumbled over the smoke, trying to think of a way to turn the conversation somewhere else. No inspiration was coming very fast. It figured. "I'm glad I came."
"You've been here before."
I didn't choke on my soda, one of the greatest accomplishments of my life to date. Logan and Carol were suddenly up close and personal in my head and the pressure was startlingly intense.
--Careful.--
--You think?--
Holding my soda, I leaned back in my chair.
"I knew about the school." Better go with partial honesty--I wasn't going to get caught up in a lie now. "From other mutants."
"Hmm." Nothing else for a few minutes. "You know the place pretty well already." He gave me a slight smile, but it didn't hide the suspicion in his eyes. Well, it was hard to walk around home and pretend you weren't familiar. I wondered how I'd slipped up.
--Fishing.-- Carol hissed.
--No joke. Gimme a second here.--
"The school is pretty well known," I answered, leaning back into my chair with careful casualness. "Homebase to the mutants and all that jazz." I took a moment to let him process that.
"It is that. I lived here before I started college," St. John answered, turning his attention to his cigarette.
"Where'd you go?" My Johnny was USC all the way, but--
"NYU." A pause. "One of the deans' daughter was a mutant. He faked our gene tests through." Slightly wistful. "I wanted to go to USC, but--" A shrug that could have meant anything. I nodded, sipping the soda. "Anyway, the war began and everything changed."
"Yeah," I answered, remembering the information I'd gleaned from the database. The first organized rebellion against the restrictions of the MRA, when seventy-nine gamma-class mutants had refused to do a gene test. They'd been cited for illegal terrorist assemblage and arrested. Opening salvo--they'd never been found, and their names were inscribed on a memorial in Washington DC that Sen--President Kelley had ordered erected his first day in office. The destruction of Xavier's school had been next.
The wholesale arrest of mutants and, later, sympathizers and family members suspected of being carriers of the gene, had happened soon after. I bit my lip, studying St. John over my cigarette. I'd never known anything about his family before--it made me wonder if he'd lost them during the war.
"So you lived here before the war?"
Tipping forward, he picked up his soda, regarding me calmly over the lid.
"No. I was born in Australia, actually--but I've been in the US since I was twelve and here since I was thirteen." He shrugged. "Manifested here during vacation, parents took it badly and forgot to pick me up before making for the airline."
Fuck. I hadn't known that. Covering my reaction, I took another sip of my soda--Johnny had never talked about his past. Standard operating procedure for mutants, true, but--but I'd never asked. The most I knew was from Carol--he'd spent close to a year with her before Xavier had picked him up and Carol made a run for the Brotherhood operatives and pretty much disappeared from sight.
Now I had to wonder why I hadn't ever asked him about his childhood, or anything at all. Mutants were private at the best of times, but seven years of friendship should have counted for something. I should have asked.
"You ready for another sweep?" he asked as I finished the cigarette in the quasi-comfortable silence between us. Grabbing the ashtray, I stubbed out the butt and took a last drink of soda, nodding.
"You're really nice, to let me tag along," I told him--and meant it. St. John gave me an indecipherable look, but there was amusement in it, definitely.
"Always a pleasure, Marie." He straightened, tossing his can away. "Come on--I'll show you the outside sweep patterns."
I stared down into my soda, feeling that piercing gaze--every instinct coming up on full alert.
"Sure," I answered slowly, staring at my can. I had to talk to Logan. That was all there was to it.
--Yeah.-- To my surprise, Inner Logan was thoughtful--I'd expected an empathic no, and it was almost a let-down that he didn't respond as I'd expected.
--Why'd you change your mind?--
His hesitation was obvious and stretched out for so long I almost thought he wasn't going to answer. All this morning and early afternoon flashed across my memory--every look, every question, and now Johnny, who was smiling at me beneath eyes that were fishing for something.
--Instinct, darlin'.--
And that's all the answer I got. Truthfully, that was all the answer I really needed.
It was easy enough to find a car once the teams returned--Kitty, in our room, was less nervous around me than I expected and was even cautiously sympathetic to my "bad nights", as she labeled them. I got the distinct impression she had some of her own--the bits of her I caught floating in my head confirmed it. With some guilt, I asked her if there was a way I could get into the city to look up someone, and she paused in surprise.
"In the camp?" The slightest wrinkling of her nose, before she cleared her expression and waited for me to answer. I sensed edges of suspicion there as well. These people made me look easy-going in the paranoia department.
"No, in the restricted zone--someone who knew my sister." I paused, dragging up the information I'd pulled off the computer and hoping this would work. The restricted zone was where the non-locked-up humans got to live, lucky things. I hadn't seen it yet, but I was pretty sure I didn't want to. "She died early on, but there's so little information. I traced a name of a...a collaborator who was stationed at the facility she--died in. I wanted to know..." Know what? How she died, if it hurt, how the *hell* did you kill someone invulnerable, because seriously, that would be information I'd need to know. Jean and Hank had never found my weakness yet, and we'd run every test in the book. Off-subject thought there though--I met Kitty's eyes and saw her nod, eyes softening and growing large and possibly wet. I didn't want to make her cry.
"Yeah. I lost my parents," she murmured. "Here--take my car. Scott said yours was stolen in Salem?"
I nodded and made up my mind to get a look at that report the Reherr had assembled on me. I was getting the distinct impression it was something I *seriously* needed to see.
Handing me her keys, she gave me a description, and I was a little surprised she didn't offer to go along with me--weren't they watching me? Good question, I needed to watch for that. With a smile and a thanks, I left our room and tucked the keys in my pocket, heading down the stairs without running into anyone else, and glad to see that the dinner was holding most of the population hostage. So meatloaf wasn't my favorite in any universe--it didn't count as food as far as I was concerned. Maybe I could find that McDonald's after all. My stomach twisted a little at the thought of food and I remembered I still had the banana tucked into my pocket. Even the thought made me a little nauseated.
Okay, so no food.
Stopping on the porch, I took a deep breath in sudden realization--I didn't know where Logan lived. I knew he didn't live on campus--even this Logan would need privacy and space, which was convenient, but to find out where, I'd have to follow him. I didn't even try to fool myself into believing that I could do so without him catching me, either, and while theoretically, it didn't seem like a problem if he caught me and asked me what the hell I was doing and I revealed who I was--I wanted to do this somewhere fairly far away from the Mansion and its inhabitants.
Instinct I trusted, and it said, get him alone and preferably a good distance from the X-Men.
While searching out the car in the garage, I reconsidered how I was going to go about doing this. Following Logan home was out, talking to him here was out, so I needed an option three--which would be, who would know where Logan lived. And how I could get that information. Scott would know and Logan's second would know--if Logan headed security on campus, he left his second in charge for nights and kept a cell-phone or home phone number on call. Very Logan, same as at home. Surely, someone knew where he lived--with his position, Scott, Logan's second, and Magneto, definitely. Jean, possibly. The information wouldn't be in the computers, but--
--but phone records would have what I needed.
Turning back around, I jogged back to the Mansion. Scott's office would be ideal, but also probably a secure area, and I didn't know enough about their security systems to bypass. I knew procedure, however--Scott was Scott in any universe. The house accounts were kept separately from the regular, and I tripped into the small, musty, non-secure office off the kitchen because, really, who wanted to steal or spy out grocery receipts?
Organization--Scott's great forte. I grinned as I ran my fingers over the files, then plunked down on the desk by the computer. Color coded. Scott's special arrangement. The good things sometimes stay the same.
Going through the files, I searched out the phone records and flipped through the pages, looking over the numbers called. Night would be most likely for a call to go through, so I focused there and pulled out several with prefixes I recognized. So far so good. Dozens of different local numbers--but if Logan lived in the city, I needed to narrow. At home, he'd had a place in Manhattan--
--and at least fifty calls within the last month at midnight and four to the same phone number. In Manhattan. Clockwork, very organized, military precision--very Logan.
I pulled it out and grinned to myself.
We had a winner.
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