There was a pretty Asian reporter on the television as Betsy watched, silently transmitting the report to Jean. “There was commotion here last night, under cover of some surprisingly thick and heavy fog. The military is claiming that the soldiers here were under attack by a small squad of highly dangerous mutants, and claim that five men lost their lives, with a fourth very badly wounded, and many others with assorted smaller injuries; however, they have not released any information about the dead, or given any information about the mutants in question––not even whether or not they were killed, captured, or got away...” Jean thanked Betsy, and said that she had heard enough.
The med lab was tense and silent.
It had been several hours, and Logan had only just woken up a few minutes ago, from the throes of a nightmare. He had turned on Hank and Jean with wide eyes and extended claws, poised to spring into an attack. Then Hank had spoken, and his voice made Logan’s pupils shrink, going back to their normal size.
Logan had retracted his claws, seized the sheet he lay under and wrapped it about his bare hips to keep them from staring, and headed for the showers down the hall.
Now he had come back, with the smells of fear and metabolized sedatives scrubbed from his skin, and at least a pair of sweatpants on. He was rather unhappy with the prolonged hesitant silence that had greeted his simple question: “Where’s Rogue?”
After the long pause stretched to what Logan considered a ridiculous length, he gave a low growl. “Oh come on!”
Hank reached into his pocket and retrieved the three darts: two green, one blue. “You got hit with these, right outside the entrance. Rogue cut open your uniform, drained you and apparently pulled the toxins out of your system, and tossed you to me before she lost control of her mind.”
Logan stared at the darts as if reading something deeply irritating and slightly confounding written on them. “Where is she now?”
“We don’t know, Logan,” Jean said quietly. “With Stryker’s device in effect, we couldn’t get a lock on her position, let alone follow her.”
Logan growled again, running a hand through his hair. His knuckles itched.
“But the soldiers are gone, now, Logan,” Hank murmured. “They left behind surveillance equipment, but I can easily hack into it. There remains only the lingering trace of the press corps, and even those hardy souls are in the process of leaving.”
Logan clenched and unclenched his fists. “Good. Then I can head out tonight.”
Jean was immediately worried. “Logan-”
Hank rested a hand on her shoulder, and she fell quiet. “Do you want any of us to join you, Logan? I would not advise your going in alone––especially not when they are in all likelihood expecting you.”
Logan appeared thoughtful, in a dark sort of way, but also grateful. “We should get these kids to Chuck, anyway. I can head out from there, and if any of the rest of the X-men wanna follow me, I won’t stop ‘em, but no matter what ideas Scooter gets into his head, this is gonna be my mission. This isn’t his territory; it’s a real war-man we’re up against here, not another ideology that happens to want a war, and that means he’ll fight like the war’s already started and the Geneva conventions never applied to us.”
Hank nodded, and squeezed Jean’s shoulder, saying to her, “Tell Betsy to help you contact the Professor. I will prepare the emergency subterranean escape plans, and make sure everyone knows what to do.”
Jean nodded, and stepped out of the lab.
When the door shut behind her, Logan turned his gaze to meet Hank’s, and raised a questioning eyebrow.
“I’ve processed that formula: it resembles something on record for a former student here, who was apparently Stryker’s son...and a vastly powerful illusionist.”
Logan nodded slowly. “You stole some of those ugly-ass helmets from the soldiers, right, Hank?”
“You know me too well, my friend.”
Again, he nodded. “Yeah. Maybe I do.” Logan raised his eyebrows slightly. “What’d she say that rattled you?”
Hank hesitated. “It was...more to do with the way in which she said it, but yes, she did rattle me. It was simply the way she said that ‘they wouldn’t be taking you again.’”
Logan’s poker face cracked for half an instant, but he recovered too quickly for Hank to read the emotion there. Logan took in a slow, deep breath, recollecting himself. “Thanks, Hank.”
Hank wondered how much Logan remembered, from before he had fully passed out. The sedative had a slight delay before it took full effect. Hank bid Logan a light farewell and stepped out of the lab, leaving Logan to his thoughts.
Logan rested a hand over the place on his chest Rogue had touched. It had been that touch, not the drugs, that had sent him flying into an abyss. He had seen her eyes change color and the momentary panic that almost overtook her as she absorbed what was in his system––as she had absorbed him. It had hurt like nothing else he could remember: like electricity had been trying to slide between his skin and the rest of his body and rip it away. And she’d done it to keep them from taking him––or maybe, just maybe, she had done it deliberately in order to go back to the lab. Logan doubted it, but he had seen the thought cross Jean’s mind, even without telepathy. He had never smelled a lie on Rogue, and the all-too-clear scents of pain and fear and anger when she had touched him...
Her skin had been soft. Logan had been surprised momentarily at how fragile, and how soft her skin had felt. He’d seen her wrap her hands around a man’s neck and snap it, but her touch had been soft, and firm, for that brief moment before her mutation activated. She had looked almost apologetic just before his vision went black.
Logan made his way to the locker rooms just outside the hangar, and put on his t-shirt and jeans. He sliced off the end of a cigar and set off for the one place he could smoke. He sat in the dark with his thoughts, uninterrupted for ten glorious minutes, before the sound of quiet footsteps and the smell of a lit butane lighter interrupted him.
Johnny approached, seeming unperturbed when Logan appeared in the dark once the firebug’s dim circle of light got close enough. He sat a few feet away and transferred the flame of his lighter to form a sphere of dancing flame hovering over his palm. John then put his lighter away, and used his fireball to light the tip of a cigarette.
To Logan’s relief, the kid stayed quiet for a while, letting the disgruntled Wolverine adjust to his presence.
Then Johnny said, “We heard about Rogue.”
Logan just looked at him, his gaze hard.
Johnny held it, if only for a few moments before looking away. “I want to help you bring her back. I’m just not sure any of the other X-men will be too keen on lettin’ me.” Smoke curled around his words and flames danced in his warm brown eyes, making them look yellow and almost wolfish.
Rogue, Logan reflected, had been right about the kid’s scars. She’d also been right about not giving him the do-good feel-good treatment. John wasn’t a monster yet, but he’d sure as Hell left innocence behind a long time ago. Logan said, quietly, “You’ll be with me. If Scooter doesn’t like it, he can deal with me.”
John exhaled, sounding relieved, but his mood was solemn enough not to allow a smile, and he had something else to clear up, too. “You heard us, didn’t you?”
“I was here the whole time.”
“Yeah...you tend to be, whenever something’s goin’ down. Whenever you’re here, at least.” Johnny let his ball of fire roll back and forth between his hands, like a cross between a slinky and molten lava. “You think she’ll stick around?”
Logan eyed the movements of the flames, looking deeply contemplative. “She wanted to, but once she’s outta that lab, if she’s anything like me, she may not want to be around any people for a while.” He tapped ash off of the end of his cigar. “Maybe a long while.”
John considered this. “I’ll just have to charm her with my sparkling wit,” he said, perfectly deadpan.
After a slight pause, Logan gave one single low chuckle. “You do that, firebug.”
John winced. “Oh, God, don’t tell me that’s gotta be my X-man title.”
Logan gave an amused snort, and shook his head. “Nah. Pyro should do for that.”
John was only mildly surprised that he’d overheard Jubilee’s nickname for him, and the way it had begun to stick amongst their circle of friends. “Yeah. I’ve always been at least a little bit of a Pyro. Might as well make it official.”
Distantly, they both heard a knock on the supply room door. Then Storm’s voice floated to them through it.“Logan? Are you in there?”
Logan stubbed out the small stub of his cigar and pocketed it. “Yeah, ‘Ro.”
She opened the door, instinctively reaching out and flipping on the light switch, even as a look of surprise crossed her face as she realized Johnny was there. “Oh. Hello, John.” She turned to Logan again. “We’re having a strategy meeting.”
Logan nodded, getting to his feet. He looked at John and jerked his head toward the door. “C’mon, kid.”
John leapt to his feet and followed him.
Storm’s brow furrowed and she looked momentarily hesitant. “Logan?”
“He’ll be joinin’ us on this one.”
Storm seemed about to question, but after a lingering look at the determination on both men’s faces, she merely nodded, understanding. Logan rather liked that about her.
Rogue was first aware of the metal around her hands: keeping her fingers fully extended and bent slightly back, so that attempting to extend her claws would be both unspeakably painful and essentially futile. Shortly after noticing this, she snapped fully awake, opening her eyes wide and then snapping them shut again against the bright surgical lights. She gave a low grunt of discomfort, tugging at her bonds instinctively, though she knew it wouldn’t help her. She was held fast, on an inclined board which Rogue thought might be reminiscent of “the rack” from the Spanish Inquisition, which of course no one would suspect from an evil doctor with a sadistic streak; although her arms were not held out above her head, but instead spread-eagled out on either side of her.
A growl escaped her throat when she caught Stryker’s scent.
“That’s quite a voice you’ve got. Sounds just like a panther,” Stryker said, his voice coming from a position behind the board. Rogue felt a faint buzz on the skin of her arms and winced, glaring at the intricate traces of micro-wires, like silvery threads along her skin, acting as sensors and held in place by conductive gel that felt cold. When Rogue shifted her head, she felt highly disconcerted to realized that there was a gap in the board just behind her head, allowing something of Stryker’s to attach itself to the back of her neck. She could feel the weight of it, and the slight tug when the cord plugged into it shifted.
“What’s on my neck?”
“Think of it as a specialized applicator. It allows me to be precise with what I give you.”
“Why am I awake?” Rogue asked suspiciously. “I know that’s not how you work.”
“I’ve got some questions for you.” The device positioned directly between two vertebrae in the back of her neck, with two tiny needles sticking into her spinal column, gave a single low beep and a faint hiss.
Rogue’s head lolled back onto her small headrest as the unfamiliar drug hit her system. Yuriko had never been hit with this; although it was similar to the mind-control, it left her somehow still close to present. Her dark eyes were tinged with pale green at the edges.
Stryker had a small headset on. “Testing. Testing.” Satisfied with his recording stats on the screen in front of him, Stryker gave his name, military ID, and a long series of numbers and other codes related to super-secret things. “New subject: mutant with adaptive ability with absorbs and replicates the mutations of others, and drains life. Fatal potential, as proven in the destruction of project Deathstryke, whose abilities and metal skeleton seem to have been absorbed and retained for a much longer period than previous observations would indicate she was capable of. Mutation is activated only through skin-to-skin contact with another living creature. Subject is under the influence of 50mL of compound nine-six-two-seven also known as Veritas.”
Stryker made his way around the table, pressing a button on a small remote control in his pocket that caused the table to rotate until Rogue was positioned vertically.
“Test question: what is your name?”
Rogue’s eyes fluttered as she struggled through the fog, but her lips moved of their own accord. Her voice sounded flat, distant, and as though she were half-way dreaming. “My name is Rogue,” she said.
Stryker snorted. “No. Your name is Marie D’Ancato, born in Meridian, Mississippi. Why do you say that your name is Rogue?”
Rogue’s brow furrowed, just slightly. “Marie is in here, but so is Yuriko. I’m not either of them: I’m both.”
Stryker made a thoughtful noise. “How do you know the name Yuriko?”
“Yuriko Oyama was my name, before you sent me to capture the girl named Marie. The chase ran on too long, and my mind had begun to return. My head went clear when she touched me, and I decided I would rather die than come back here.”
“So you do not think you are Marie?”
“I was. But I’m not anymore.”
“I see. And this occurred after the absorption?”
“Yes.”
“Where was Yuriko Oyama born?” Stryker demanded, upping the dosage of the truth drug slightly.
Rogue shivered as it sent a chill down her spine. “Singapore, in the English embassy in the capital. It was raining.” Her voice sounded dreamy, as though she might actually be hallucinating.
Stryker made another thoughtful sound. “Subject appears to have developed an identity disorder, resulting from the absorption of more than we had anticipated. Her abilities must extend into something slightly psychic, as well. This has potential for making her an information-gatherer,” he said into the headset.
Rogue’s eyes were wide and blank and emotionless, but inside she was screaming.
“Why were you at the school?”
Internally, she began to struggle, and she wondered if it was just wishful thinking or hallucination that made her feel like it might work. “I was––” Her brow creased. “I found the Wolverine. He brought me there.”
Stryker covered the mouthpiece of his headset as he muttered something under his breath about ‘taking in wild animals.’ Then he turned back to Rogue and stared hard at her face. “What do you know about the device called ‘Cerebro’?”
“It was mentioned, but never described,” Rogue replied, her voice sounding empty.
“How many mutants were in that school?”
Rogue was still fighting, and managed to halt her answer for a few seconds, but could not permanently stop it. She gave him an exact number. She had instinctively counted them all, when she had been given a tour of the mansion, when she had wandered, listening to its nighttime sounds, and she had learned all of their scents before she had even seen most of them.
“My, my, my: that’s more than we thought,” Stryker mused. “How many are members of the so-called ‘X-men?’ Do not count Xavier among them.”
“Five.”
“Hmm.” He scratched a few notes on a notepad. “What, exactly, does your mutation do?”
Her voice sounded ever so slightly less dreamy. “It drains energy from people, which gives me a bit of a buzz, but I also get their thoughts, impressions of their personalities and memories like ghosts in my head, and mutations if they have them. If I hold on too long, they die, and everything I got from them is assimilated, until they are as much a part of me as I am.” In a sharper, more forced voice, she added, “I guess you really could call it a disordered identity.” She sounded pained, but triumphant.
Stryker immediately upped her dosage again, narrowing his eyes even as Rogue shuddered and went limp in her bonds. “Why do you require such a high dosage? It isn’t the healing factor from Deathstryke.”
Rogue’s eyes opened a little, as the last dose, double what he had initially given her, had caused her eyelids to weigh roughly a ton. “I don’t know. Perhaps the same reason that telepaths cannot get a good read off of me: my mutation makes my mind a very complicated and dangerous place.”
He pushed another button on the remote, and Rogue slipped into temporary oblivion.
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