Ground. Trees. Building. No, not a building, a tower. Concrete. Statue. Cars. Footsteps. Leaves. “Oh my God…are you alright?” No, I’m not. Running. Shouting. Run faster. Just think. What happened? Work. Home. Girl. Mystique. Girl. Me. Me? Think. I am Carol Danvers. I am 34 years old. I am…Marie. Marie? Who is Marie? Think. Where am I going? Dark. Very dark. Help me. Who are you? What was that? Telegraph Hill Blvd. I need help. I have to get home. Where?
I am Marie D’Ancanto. I am 18 years and 11 months old. I am Carol Danvers. I am 34 years old. I was born in Meridian. I was born in Boston. No. That’s not right. Leave me alone. Help me. Filbert Street. Home. How do I get home? Just think.
**********************
“Early this morning, authorities arrived at the home of Carol Danvers, popular editor of ‘Woman Magazine’, only to find it vandalized. Neighbors reported hearing a disturbance around 7pm last night. Carol was nowhere inside the house, and this case is now being considered as a possible kidnapping. Blood stains were discovered on the carpet, and preliminary forensic testing has detected foreign DNA, leading authorities to believe that this was the work of a mutant terrorist group.”
Scott turned off the television and tossed the remote onto the coffee table in disgust. “Mutant terrorists? This can’t be good.”
“Who would want to harm Carol?” Storm shook her head. “Especially one of us?”
“I’d put my money on Mystique or Magneto,” Hank deduced. “They were her most outspoken enemies.”
“No, no,” Charles countered. “Erik was not responsible for this.”
“Then it was that scaly bitch,” Logan announced. “That settles it. So what now? You gonna ask us to go find her? Suit up in our X-men gear and play the hero?”
“What’s your problem?” Scott rose from the couch, sizing up Logan.
“You’re one of ‘em, Bub.” He hooked his paws on Scott’s collar.
“Boys!” Storm stepped between them. “This is not the time.”
“Look, Rogue’s in trouble. We have to help her. Professor, do you think she had anything to do with this? It’s kind of weird that you felt that disturbance and then the next morning Ms. Marvel isn’t feeling so marvelous.” Bobby’s deep concern was a surprise.
“I do not know,” Professor Xavier closed his eyes.
“What do you know?” hissed Logan.
“If you find my methods taxing, Logan, you are welcome to-…”
“Yeah, I do. You show up and you know that she’s gonna leave, and you don’t tell me. You knew where she was heading, and you didn’t even try to stop her.”
Charles raised his head and looked at Logan, coldly. “As I said before, I do not have to explain myself to you.”
“Look,” Jubilee interrupted the hostile exchange. “Even if we are going to go after Mystique, find Ms. Marvel, and rescue Rogue, we don’t have a clue where to look.”
“When was the last time you had contact with Rogue? Her thoughts gave no indication of her being in trouble?” Hank paced back and forth, notably irritating Logan.
“The only anxiety I could discern was a, reasonable, fear of walk-…”
“Professor!” Tessa hurried into the room, shuffling to keep herself steady on the slick wood floor. She was out of breath, and her glasses had slipped down her nose. “Professor, there’s a phone call I really think you need to take.”
Charles asked no questions, and guided his wheelchair into his office. Tessa rushed past him to the desk and handed him the receiver. Logan and Scott tried to enter the room at the same time and wedged themselves in the doorframe. Logan growled and forced his way through, earning an expletive from Scott and a parade of rolling eyes.
“Charles Xavier,” the Professor held up his hand to silence the disruption. “Yes?” His face turned dark and sober. “Where are you? … You are not safe… No, don’t do that. It is very important that you stay exactly where you are. I’m going to contact someone. She will come to you. She is the only immediate help I can give you… Yes, but you will have somewhere to go until I can send my team… Do not speak to anyone. It was unwise for you to call here… Hello?” The pause in the conversation lingered. Charles’ expression was one of astonishment and deliberation.
“Professor, what is it?” Scott folded his arms across his chest.
A muffled dial tone could now be heard, and Charles slowly moved the phone away from his ear. “That…was Carol Danvers.”
Tessa looked markedly confused. “Professor, are you cert-…?” Charles closed his eyes, and Tessa gasped, “Oh!”
“Looks like we’re going to San Francisco!” Jubilee could hardly contain her excitement. Her exclamation was met with dissent, and she weakly added. “Uh, I’ve never been there?”
Quietly and with a distance, Bobby spoke. “We have.”
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“Miss? Excuse me, Miss? You can’t sleep here.” A tall man in a blue uniform gently shook the young woman lying on the bench. “This is a bus stop, not a hotel.”
Rogue opened her eyes and groggily looked up at him. She yawned and stretched her arms. “Where am I?”
“A bus stop,” his voice was drenched with irritation. “Look, kid, you got a dollar and this bus’ll take you anywhere you want, including the Four Seasons. You can take a nap there, but you can’t sleep on that bench.”
“I don’t have a dollar,” she explained.
“Well, I’m sorry about that. When I drove my route this morning, I saw you lying there, and I didn’t do nothing. The second time, you were usin’ a phone, so I didn’t do nothing then either. But this is the third time I’ve come around, and you’re still here. Either take a hike or get on the bus and hope you come up with some money.”
She hissed in pain and clutched her head. The driver’s attitude changed. “Hey, are you okay?” He reached out a hand toward her, but she screamed.
“Get away from me!” She jumped up from the metal grating of the bench and stumbled.
“Lady, what the hell is your problem?”
Across the street, a woman with fuchsia hair, a sternum piercing, and thick black studded boots exited a coffee shop. She ran toward the screaming girl and the bus driver. “What’s going on here?”
“I don’t know! This bitch is crazy! You take care of it!” He climbed the steps into his bus and quickly shut the door. The bus creaked as it rolled away, and the motor purred loudly. Dusty wind kicked up leaves, and the woman shielded her eyes as she crouched down.
“Hey…hey,” she soothed, placing a hand on Rogue’s shoulder.
Rogue instinctively tore away. “Don’t touch me!”
“Relax! I’m not going to hurt you. My name is Alison. Alison Blaire. I’m going to help you, okay? You’re Rogue, aren’t you?”
Rogue blinked. “I don’t know.” She sobbed, fretfully rubbing her upper arms.
“Do you remember Charles Xavier? You were his student. You called him this morning, and he sent me to find you.” She had gained enough trust to pull Rogue to her feet. “Do you remember Charles? Can you tell me about what happened? Rogue, it’s okay. You can trust me.”
Rogue eyed her apprehensively as they followed the sidewalk. Alison asked her many questions, trying to get a coherent response, but she remained quiet. Her disorientation spread to her feet, and she occasionally lurched, nearly capsizing Alison. They reached a large tattered-looking building. There was a small rust colored metal door next to a cigarette shop, and Alison pushed it open with a good shove.
They were standing in a foyer. Directly in front of them was a flight of stairs, gaping holes decorating the greenish wood. Just off to the right, next to the banister, there was a long dimly lit hallway. Doors sat wide open and children were screaming. At the end of the corridor, there was a small office. A large woman had stuffed herself into a chair, and the light from a TV danced across her face.
“This way,” Alison called. They climbed three sets of steps and stopped at the first door on the left. Alison dug a key ring from her pocket and unlocked the door. “Home sweet home.”
Rogue sat on the lime green couch. The entire apartment was one room, save for a small bathroom with a ridiculously tiny shower. The walls were stained, and an orange blanket with moth holes served as a curtain for the window: the window with a lovely view of aluminum siding. The kitchenette was a sink, a microwave, a tall slim pantry, and a mini-fridge. In the farthest corner of the room, there was a pathetic mattress covered with blankets and a deflated pillow.
A fat gray tabby lounged on top of the space heater, his tail lazily swishing back and forth. Rogue sighed and leaned her head against the back of the sofa. Alison handed her a glass of water and some crackers with bologna and cheese. “It’s the ham and Swiss for the starving musician,” she smiled.
Rogue nibbled politely at her food, but she wasn’t hungry. Alison watched her intently for a while, giving her time to adjust. “I like your hair.”
“What?”
“I like your hair,” Alison gestured toward the frame of her face. “The white. It’s cool.”
Rogue frowned. “My hair is blonde…”
Alison’s eyes widened. “So, um, how long have you been in the city?”
“I’ve lived here for 5 years,” Rogue replied. “I’m the editor of Woman Magazine. Have you heard of it?”
“Yeah,” Alison nodded. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. So you’re the Carol Danvers, huh?”
“Yes. What do you do?” Rogue sipped her water and picked lint from her jeans.
“I…play guitar and sing in a local band. In fact, I’ve got a show tonight.”
“Really? How interesting. What about a real job?”
Alison snorted. “Oh, jeez. Is your other personality like this?”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing… So, listen. I have to go to rehearsal. I’m going to leave you here. Don’t open the door for anyone. I don’t know when Charles is going to be here, so you’ll probably be spending the night. Lock the door behind me.”
“Okay.”
“Here’s my bassist’s cell phone number,” Alison scribbled on the back of a take-out menu. “Call me if you need anything. Let’s see…it’s 3:30. I’ll come back before I head off to the show. Like I said, don’t open the door for anybody. This is the safest place for you.”
Rogue nodded, and Alison retrieved the black gig bag that was leaning against the foil-covered television. “I’ll be back. Lock the door!”
Once the door had shut, Alison’s muffled voice repeated, “Lock the door!” Rogue forced herself from the couch and latched the chain. She turned the knob on the deadbolt, and pushed the button in on the door handle.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Rogue felt a strange weight on her stomach. It was moving…and jingling. She opened one eye and saw two chartreuse orbs staring back at her. There was a calm rumbling sensation and something was massaging her chest. She smiled. Alison’s cat had hopped onto her lap and was kneading her, fluffing her like a pillow. He purred loudly and his wet nose nuzzled the soft cotton of her t-shirt. “Why hello there handsome…”
She scratched under the tabby’s chin. “What’s your name?” She grasped the gold tag hanging from his blue collar and read, “Brando… Hmm, interesting. When I was little, we had a calico named Butter. I bet you would’ve had a crush on her.”
Brando meowed loudly and leapt onto the floor. He wandered to the door and sat, staring upwards. “What is it?”
Rogue sluggishly rolled off the couch, and walked toward the door. She looked through the peephole, and the hallway was empty. Brando continued to meow. She undid all of the locks and twisted the knob, and the shabby door opened with an eerie groan. She stepped out into the corridor, and Brando ran past her down the stairs. “SHIT! Brando! Come back here!”
She raced after the smoke-colored cat, trying to keep up with his swift pace. She halted in her tracks when she reached the very bottom step. The door to the building was sitting wide open. Brando happily trotted out, but Rogue’s blood froze. Something…wasn’t right.
“Mon petite fleur… Don’t look so scared.” That voice. It was familiar. She slowly turned to the left and saw him leaning against the wall in the shadows. He would’ve been completely undetectable if it wasn’t for those eyes. She stifled a scream and fled, up the stairs. He was close behind her. She threw herself over the threshold of the apartment and slammed the door, her fingers clumsily maneuvering the locks.
She turned and was met with another pair of eyes. They were piercing blue. They belonged to an old, weathered, and wise face. “Rogue…”
“What do you want from me?” She yelped when she heard a loud snapping noise behind her, like fireworks. The door swung open and Gambit loomed.
“Rogue, what did you do to Carol?” She turned back to the white-haired man.
“What are you talking about? I am Carol!”
A smile spread across Magneto’s face. “Oh, you poor, poor girl. Peter?”
Rogue felt a sharp sting in her neck, and everything faded to a blur.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Disclaimer: The X-men and their likenesses belong to Marvel and 20th Century Fox, not me.