I remember very little about the month following our unhappy return from LA. I do know, however, that the big quake ended up being a six-point-six, that the damages exceeded sixty billion dollars, and that the death toll was sixty-three people. It could’ve been worse, of course. The city wasn’t entirely decimated, after all. But it was a big enough disaster to send the conservatives in Congress into frenzy.
Within a matter of days, the Mutant Registration Act was put on President McKenna’s desk. In keeping with his reputation as a fence-sitter, he refused to acknowledge it. Ten congressional days later, it was made into a law without his signature. Thus, like the obvious mutants, the rest of us no longer had anonymity as a defense. It was a scary prospect, and I had enough to be scared of as it was.
Because I was going crazy.
At first, it was just mood swings. Really bitchy mood swings. Bobby tried to talk to me again, but I wasn’t having any of it. All I wanted to do was fight. I couldn’t control the words that came out of my mouth, and then I couldn’t control my whole body. By the time I figured out that I was possessed by Warbird, alias of Carol Danvers, I was too far gone to care. The Professor would’ve known if he had been there, but he was needed in Washington.
Under Warbird’s influence, I stole anything valuable I could get my hands on, pawned it all, and then took off for New York City to have myself a good old time.
I hooked up with the Brotherhood quickly, wanting more than anything to be destructive. They were understandably wary of me, but decided to keep my presence in New York top secret. They put the word out that I was headed West to break Warbird’s old friends out of jail.
We laughed ourselves into a tizzy when we found out “the pathetic little X-Kids” had actually taken the bait. “Without Daddy X around,” they guffawed, “the goddamned peacenik fucks couldn’t find their own assholes,” let alone someone under the protection of the Brotherhood.
A few days after I’d gotten in really good with the New York branch, John flew in town to investigate my legitimacy and keep an eye on me. It didn’t take him long to realize that I was not a spy or myself. That, of course, didn’t stop him from letting me put the moves on him.
Warbird loved to be bad, and I completely assimilated that trait. Helping the Brotherhood make pipe bombs and terrorize anti-mutant, neo-Nazi shitheads was all kinds of fun, but imposing teasing sexual advances on unsuspecting older men, bumbling teenage boys, or even the occasional female gave me the ultimate sadistic kick. With John it was different, though.
I – the real me – had always thought of John platonically. I knew he was good-looking in a smirky kind of way, but our personalities had never meshed well. However, with my new Warbird-inspired personality in place, I saw him as a kindred soul.
Forget Logan. He was lost in the jungle halfway around the world and playing for the other team. Forget Ricochet. No way I was going to waste money to fly my ass out to California just for a conjugal visit once a month, if that. He’d never been that great of a boyfriend, anyway. Fuck both of them.
John – sizzling hot, acerbically sarcastic, wonderful St. John Allerdyce – was in the flesh right in front of me. I wanted him, so I was fucking well going to get creative.
One afternoon about two or three weeks after I’d first come to New York, I went to an S&M shop and I bought that dominatrix outfit and deluxe box of condoms.
I didn’t start feeling queasy about it until we were in John’s room, in his bed. I wasn’t in the leather outfit yet. I was going to let him watch me put it on, preferably while he begged.
God, I wanted to hear him beg. I knew from Warbird’s memories that it was the ultimate rush of power. John may have thought he was in control, but I was calling the shots. All I had to do was straddle his thighs in my short little skirt, and he was mine.
I was grinding against him and kissing him through a sheer, lightweight scarf, and he was practically whimpering, when I got my first inklings of guilt. I paused for a second, confused. Guilt was an emotion I could barely remember, and could certainly do without. I quickly pushed it aside in favor of lust. I’d missed lust.
“Rogue, ah, fuck,” John moaned as I slowed my hip movements.
“Warbird,” I corrected, trailing one gloved finger down the side of his face. “Rogue’s dead.”
John didn’t hear me. He put his hands on my waist to increase the pressure on his lap. His hands slipped under my shirt, and came in contact with my bare skin for just a moment. The guilt flared, then disappeared. I leaned over him, lips inches from his.
“Tsk, tsk. Don’t touch,” I smirked. Nipping at his lips, I drew a little more energy from him. There was guilt there, too, but it was his guilt.
John wasn’t thinking totally of me. He was thinking of the other Rogue. That kind of pissed me off.
Holding his head down, I forced my tongue into his mouth and gave him a real kiss. “That hurt?” I asked breathlessly as I pulled back, knowing it had.
John’s eyes were glazed and his mouth hanging open slightly. Gaining his strength back, he clamped his hands on my gloved elbows. “What the hell did you do that for?”
With my superior strength, I easily maneuvered his hands over his head and into a locked position. I leaned over and licked his jaw. I kissed my way down his neck and then started sucking.
John made guttural noises as I drew more energy. I was ruining our night, I knew, but the power was eclipsing my lust, if not fueling it. Distinctly, I felt John frantically think that whoever I was, I was one crazy bitch.
I bit him, hard, then jerked back “You fucking bastard. All you want is this body. You fucking don’t even like me.”
“Get off of me,” John wheezed.
“Or you’ll do what, exactly? Sorry, Johnny-boy. No lighter, no fire. I’m afraid you’re helpless. Hey, I wonder,” I asked coyly, bringing one hand down to undo the button on his jeans. “What do you think would happen if I just fucked you outright? Would it kill you? Should we find out?”
The guilty feeling came back in abundance. Suddenly, there was a bitter tightness in my chest. I couldn’t stand myself. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. For that moment, I was me again. I looked down at John and saw the fear and disgust in his eyes. I dropped his wrists.
John brought up his knee to my back, pitching me sideways off the bed. The action brought Warbird out again, but the bitterness stayed.
Wiping off my toxic saliva and standing shakily on the other side of the bed, John flicked open his lighter. Smirking, I used the power I’d drawn from him to flare the flame back into his face. He staggered back half a step but soon got his baring back. He sent a ball of fire right at me.
Unlike John, the flames burned me. But also unlike John, I enjoyed the pain and I could heal.
“What now?” I challenged.
“Rogue,” John said in a calculated beseeching voice, “Rogue, I know you’re in there somewhere. I saw you. Talk to me, Rogue.”
Hackles raised, I replied curtly, “I told you. Rogue is dead.”
“Come on, Rogue. I know this isn’t you. You’re a good guy, remember? You gotta fight whatever the hell this is. You can do it.”
No, no, no. I didn’t want to fight. I had to fight, it was the only way, but I didn’t want to. Why was he doing this to me?
“Oh, right. Now you want Rogue back. Now that you’re not wanting to get fucked! You son of a bitch. You son of a fucking – goddamned – bitch!”
I was crying now, well on my way toward sobs. “You didn’t say a word until I hurt you. You were gonna let me – You let me hurt – ”
I fell to my knees, Rogue once more. I buried my face in the bed sheets, consumed by anguish. “I hate you. I – f-fucking – hate – you, John. I h-hate you. Oh, God. I hate myself.” I waited for Warbird to take over again. I wanted her to. I didn’t want to have to deal with this guilt. I didn’t want to be good anymore. I just wanted to be left alone.
Vision blurred by tears, I looked up just in time to see John lift a lamp over his head and strike it down over mine. My already darkened world went totally black.