Seven months later, New Orleans, Louisiana...
The music is deafening. The lights are so blinding that the faces, only a few feet in front of me, are completely indistinguishable. I like it that way, though. I don’t want to see their expressions. I’d lose my nerve. I bend ford, giving then a glimpse of what’s under my corset, plant my hands on the cold black floor, and slowly lower myself into the side-splits. My legs are spread-eagle. I swing my legs forward and stretch them toward me, so they’re parallel to my torso. I’m really grateful for those ballet classes my momma forced me into. I do a flirtatious set of kicks and then roll onto my knees. I hop up and my legs form a triangle with the stage. I seductively slip my hands from my ankles to my calves to my thighs and dangerously close to that somethin’ all these strangers are hoping to see. In one quick snap, I stand straight up and slink toward the pole. I toss my head back and let my hair rest across my shoulders. I place my hands on the pole, facing away from the audience of horny, lonely men, and sway my hips back and forth.
I’ve been up here for 20 minutes. I’ve got my signature move left, and then I can head home. Using all the upper arm strength I can muster, I pull myself up, climbing the pole just slightly. Leaning toward the right, just a little, I let gravity and momentum capture me in a brief spin. I always stop so that I’m facing the curtain, then fall into a back-bend, push myself all the way over, and land in the side-splits. I figure I’ll give ‘em one last look at sexiest asset, no pun intended.
I smile sweetly and wink as I pick up the bills scattered all across the stage. Ugh, some jackass gave me a five. I walk “backstage” and tear my wig off. When I got hired here, Rusty, the boss, told me that I was a “hot piece of ass”, but the white thing wasn’t going to work. So, I borrowed a blonde wig from Kimber. The sad thing is, that’s her real name.
I change into my jeans and a tank top and brush my hair out. I pull it into a ponytail and slip on my sweater. I viciously attack my lipstick with a Kleenex and makeup remover. I head out to the main part of the club and meet up with Rusty behind the bar. “Hey, Sugar…”
“Hey, sugah…” I grin. I reach into my bag and pull out my tips from tonight.
“How much you got there?” he takes the bundle from me and starts to count, quickly. While I wait, I scan the club, out of habit. For some reason, my eyes linger on a particular guy at a table towards the back. Why does he seem so familiar? He sips his drink and looks in my direction. “One thousand nine fifty, two thousand, two thousand 20. Two thousand 40.”
I turn my attention back to my boss. “Huh?”
“Two thousand 40…” He pulls his trademark calculator from his pocket and his fingers fly across the buttons. He takes his share, plus what’s due to Turo (the bartender) and our human security system, George. “Okay, Sugar, it looks like you’re getting a thousand.”
“Wow,” I pretend to be happy. Usually I can get at least $1800, but it’s been a slow night for some reason. He hands me a stack of twenties, and I count them. Yep, fifty. “Thanks, Rusty.”
He smacks me on the butt and tells me to have a good night. Normally, the idea of a guy smacking me on the ass makes me livid, but when Rusty does it, it’s not demeaning. It’s more friendly and…caring? Rusty takes good care of us. He usually gives us a little over half of what we make, which is generous, considering the fact that The Peach Tree isn’t exactly the most popular strip club in town. Also, most of us don’t mind giving him a little extra. He’s got his dad living with him, and his wife’s a waitress at the 24-hour diner up the street. His dad’s a war vet, and he’s got a million medical problems, but he’s so sweet. His stories are amazing. During the day, business is slow, so all of us girls gather around to listen to ol’ Mr. Cooper.
Okay, so it’s not that spectacular of a job, but at least I can go home and sleep at night. And if any creeps manage to get pass the bouncer, we have plenty of people to take care of us. Plus, the money I make gets me a roof over my head. I live six blocks away in a pretty crappy apartment. I share it with 3 other girls, and there are only 2 bedrooms and one bath. I don’t talk to them much, but we get along.
“’Night, George,” I shout as I approach the exit. He nods in response. That’s George for you.
The air is cool for May. I breathe in deeply and stuff my hands into my pockets. I always walk quickly, and I always switch up my route. I’ve learned how to protect myself. I still remember a few combat techniques from when… when I was being trained for the X-Men. The streets are bright, and there’s a gas station on the corner. I hear the clink of a tin can hitting the ground, and a cat meow. I turn my head slightly and accelerate my pace. There’s another sound. Spurs…on heavy boots. My blood freezes. There’s a gush of wind and a flash of red sparks hit the garbage can a few feet ahead, and it explodes. I try to run, but a hand covered by fingerless gloves grabs me from behind and I’m dragged into darkness.
Xavier’s School
Logan threw a punch and growled. His claws tore free and sliced ferociously. Sweat beads burned his eyes and his veins threatened to escape from beneath his skin. He let out a visceral roar and struck one last time. His chest heaved, and the punching bag squeaked pathetically, swinging violently and spinning back and forth.
The room was large and decorated sparsely. The floors were stripped wood, and there was a large mirror on the wall. There were no curtains on the windows, and the early morning light unfolded itself across the space. Sun particles danced through the white and yellow rays. Logan picked up the tattered jump rope off the floor and began to do his sets. The floorboards groaned loudly under his weight. He watched himself in the mirror and bared his teeth. His breathing became more and more labored, but he kept going. Finally, he threw the rope down, ran toward the mirror, and sank his claws into the glass. Glistening shards dug into his hands, but his wounds quickly healed and the shrapnel fell to the floor. The cracks surrounding the impact swelled and extended, reaching all the way to the wall. Logan backed away and watched the entire mirror come crashing down.
Within seconds, the door flew open and Storm ran in, followed by Scott, Bishop, and Kurt. “What the…?”
Logan cracked the muscles in his neck and shoved his way out of the room. He heard Scott mutter, “Asshole.”
Logan made a beeline for Xavier’s office downstairs. When he opened the door, he found Professor X seated at his desk, overlooking some paperwork with a new arrival to the institute. He would only refer to her as Tessa, but Logan didn’t give a shit about the details. She was hot in a naughty school teacher kind of way. Hank sat on the couch, cleaning his glasses.
“Ah, Logan,” Charles greeted. “I was just thinking about a change of scenery in the gymnasium. I’m glad to see that you would like to help.”
Logan cocked a brow. “You’re welcome. Any word yet on Magneto’s whereabouts?”
“He was spotted in Quebec,” Tessa replied, hopping onto the desk and crossing her legs. She adjusted her glasses. “He got word of a young mutant with powers that he found useful, as usual.”
He turned toward Beast. “How do the numbers look for the cure?”
“The rates of regeneration are astounding. There has been a pattern established, however. It seems that only Class 4 and above can make a complete recovery.” Hank thanked Kitty for the tray of tea she brought in, and then continued. “Magneto was an isolated case. His powers were regained so quickly, within a matter of weeks, and it is such an extreme compared to the cases we’re seeing. Five months, six months…”
“I believe it may be connected to a mutant’s knowledge and acceptance of their power…” Charles added. He stirred sugar into his tea and tapped the teaspoon twice on the rim of the cup.
“What do you mean?” Logan furrowed his brow.
“Well,” Hank continued, “it seems that the individuals who were involuntarily administered the cure, especially Magneto and Mystique, proved more resistant to the gene suppression. It is as if they fought the antidote, and they won.”
Logan cleared his throat. “So what about Rogue?”
Kitty dropped her cup and saucer. They clattered noisily against the hardwood floor. “Um, sorry…” she stammered, immediately dropping to her knees to clean up the mess. Storm, who had just entered the room, offered to help.
Logan eyed Kitty suspiciously and resumed his investigation. “What’s going to happen to her?”
“I am happy to inform you, Logan,” Charles announced, “that Rogue is a Class 4 mutant. But, she is afraid of her powers. If she chooses, she could never recover.”
There was silence. “Where is she?” Logan asked.
“I do not know,” Charles sighed. He had had this conversation many times with Logan, and he always gave the same answer.
“Bullshit,” Logan argued.
“Logan, before she left, Rogue asked for my blessing. I gave it to her. I gave her the space and freedom she desired, and I am not going to betray that trust,” Charles explained.
“She could be in trouble!” Logan roared.
“She’s safe and sound,” Charles assured.
“Then you do know where she is!”
Charles smiled mischievously. “Kitty, this tea is most enjoyable. Do I taste a hint of lemon?”
“It’s lemon ginger,” Kitty replied.
Logan looked disgusted by the exchange. “Look, either you tell me where she is, or I’ll have to find out myself.”
“Logan,” Storm chimed in. “If you leave to look for her, you could put her in unnecessary danger. I think you should just stay here and wait. Rogue’s a smart girl, and she can take care of herself.”
Logan snorted in contempt. “Yeah, well she never should’ve left.” He stalked out of the room.
Kitty looked down at the floor, sadly. Charles noticed her gesture. “Kitty, it wasn’t your fault. A Rogue will always wander.”
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
Disclaimer: The X-Men and their likenesses belong to Marvel and Fox, not me.
Rogue gets a surprise in this one. Guess who!
Rogue gets a surprise in this one. Guess who!