Rogue:
Three days.
It’s been three days since my lover and best friend were ambushed on their way to the auto-shop. Three agonising days since the X-Men found Wolverine’s remains in the wreckage of their still burning truck and told me they were dead.
I died myself that day.
Not physically, of course. No, this is something far worse – a numbness of mind and spirit that goes so deep I can’t feel myself anymore. I thought the pain was bad the day Logan was shot and pronounced dead by Jean on our own front porch, but this …….. this is agony of the cruellest kind. Because I can’t help but dwell on what Logan must have gone through in his final moments. With his healing factor constantly trying to repair his damaged flesh even as he burned, he must have suffered untold agony before he finally died. I can only hope he was unconscious before the final rocket hit the truck, because I wouldn’t wish that kind of death on my worst enemy.
At least the end would have been mercifully quick for Jubilee.
My inner Logan knows something is wrong – he’s retreated to a far corner of my mind, but I can sense his misery. His incessant whimpers are enough to break my heart. He seems to know that part of himself is gone – is this because he was still connected to Logan in some way? Or is he simply reacting to my own grief?
I guess now I’ll never know.
The last three days have passed by in a daze – a kind of grief induced stupor. I’ve spent the majority of this time locked away in my room, shunning company and the sympathy of my team-mates. Nothing they could say would ever ease my pain and I don’t want to see my own agony reflected in their eyes. The whole school is in mourning following the attack and everyone is trying to come to terms with their loss in their own way. Both the student body and the X-Men have been rocked by the carnage that has been visited on their number. Bad enough to lose a student, but to also lose a member of the elite team – a man whom everyone considered nigh on indestructible – is a point that has reminded everyone painfully of their own mortality. We won’t recover from this for a very long time.
If ever.
Jean has called by to try and talk to me a couple of times – I pretended not to hear her knock and reinforced my shields so that it would seem as though I was asleep. Once she brought the Professor with her to try and coax me out, but I wouldn’t open the door. This may seem petty to some, but I can’t help blaming them both for Logan’s death. They knew there were people out there who wanted him dead for some reason, yet they stood by and did nothing. Oh, I know the Professor said that he was investigating the situation, but why couldn’t he come up with anything? He’s the strongest telepath on the planet, for god’s sake! I refuse to believe that Logan’s murderers were so well shielded that he couldn’t pick up their intent with Cerebro. And Jean? Well, don’t get me started on Jean! We all know how she has lusted to get Logan’s pants off, despite being engaged to Scott. Oh, I know she acts like she doesn’t really want him and gets all prissy when he flirts with her, but I’ve seen the glances she gives him when she thinks no one’s looking. Could she really have kept silent about the attack because she figured that if she couldn’t have him, no one else could? Is she really that devious?
All I know is that both the Professor and Jean failed to protect their own, and Logan and Jubilee paid the price.
A price I would have gladly paid if it meant I could save them both.
And the Professor wants me to come out of my room and discuss my feelings with him?
Better that I don’t.
Because I really don’t think he wants to know how I feel right now. How I’m considering leaving the team because my life doesn’t reside here any more ………
I roll over onto my side to face the window, squinting against the bright sunlight which is streaming through the crack in the curtains to fall coincidentally right across the patch of bed I am curled up on. It seems wrong that the sun should be shining – inside my heart it is raining, and it will forever rain as long as I am alone. But life goes on and the sun will continue to shine, defying the darkness in my heart.
My clothes are rumpled – I haven’t changed in three days, having eaten and slept in pretty much the same position since I locked myself away. Barring the occasional trip to the toilet, I’ve barely moved at all. I know I look a sight, but I really couldn’t care less. Why should I bother? I’ve no one to live for anymore.
My only visitor – the only one I’ll allow to enter my Fortress of Despair anyway – has been Kitty. She’s the only one who knows what I’m going through, I think. She lost a good friend herself that day – she and Jubilee were practically inseparable and, while Jubes was a good friend to all at the mansion, it’s Kitty who misses her the most. They were partners in crime, the culprits of at least ninety per cent of all the pranks carried out on fellow students and hapless teachers. And, while they never dared to carry out any pranks on Logan, being scared of retribution for their crimes, I know they both respected him a great deal. It was only towards the end, after he and I got together, that Jubilee dared to steal his fighting jacket and …….. customise it. And I know that she dared do that only because she had seen him change over the last few weeks – become more relaxed and easy with the crowd. Vandalising his jacket was her way of welcoming him to the gang. I know she never said anything but, in her own way, she thought a lot of Logan and was pleased we had finally got together. She said I was good for him. That we made a cute couple.
She wished us well and hoped we’d have lots of growly feral kids with crazy hair.
Wherever Jubilee is now, I hope Logan’s still looking out for her ……..
I looked for Logan’s fighting jacket after the attack, but I never found it. I know he left it in my room, but I figure he must have taken it away to get it cleaned. Funny how I don’t remember ……..
My stomach gurgles loudly and I curl in on myself, groaning at the queasy feeling in my gut. God, wouldn’t it be just typical to get food poisoning now of all times, right when I want to have nothing to do with Jean or the Med-lab for reasons all too obvious. Although how I’ve managed to get food poisoning when I’ve hardly eaten in three days is completely beyond me. The congealed remains of last night’s dinner is still sitting on the computer desk where Kitty left it – the beef casserole just didn’t tempt me at all. Neither did the banana split she prepared herself, knowing it’s a particular favourite of mine. The ice cream has long since melted and resembles something out of an alien horror movie. The sheer thought of it turns my stomach. I must remember to ask Kitty to take it away when she comes again.
As if thinking of my friend conjures her out of the very air, there’s a soft tap at my door and I know it’s Kitty. My door isn’t locked at the moment and, when I bid her enter, she moves quickly into my room and closes the door behind her. A greasy smell seems to enter with her, which immediately makes my stomach lurch, painfully.
“Rogue? You okay? I’ve brought you some breakfast.” She advances towards the bed and I groan as the smell of bacon wafts over me. And is that fried egg? Oh god ……..
“Take it away.” I try to snuggle deeper into the covers, but the aroma follows and I grit my teeth against the overwhelming urge to vomit. A wave of nausea washes over me, my stomach spasms painfully and I am suddenly up and bolting for the bathroom, only just making it in time to decorate the pristine white porcelain with the remains of my last woefully inadequate meal.
“Rogue?” I hear my breakfast plate clunk down onto what I assume is my bedside table and then Kitty is at my side, gasping in horror at the sight of me retching feebly into the toilet. “Oh god, Rogue, what’s wrong?”
“My stomach’s upset,” I groan, as Kitty rips off a wad of toilet paper and hands it to me before kneeling down beside me and holding my tangled hair back from my face. “Ah think ah’ve got food poisoning.”
“That’s not good.” The concern in Kitty’s voice is painfully evident. “You’ve hardly eaten for three days. If you’ve got food poisoning you could dehydrate and that would be really bad.”
“What, worse than this?” I ask weakly, groaning into the toilet bowl. I feel dreadful, as if finally standing up has opened the floodgates and allowed all the pain I’ve been bottling up to flow through.
Kitty nods, decisively. “Yes. Much worse. I should get you to the Med-lab ……”
“No!” I grab Kitty’s hand, staring at her in horror. “Ah can’t! That …….. that ‘thing’ is down there ……..”
Kitty visibly winces, instantly knowing what I’m referring to, but she pats my hand comfortingly. “No, it isn’t, Rogue. Henry’s moved it into his private lab. He’s going to test it for ……..” She breaks off as she suddenly realises what she was about to say and to whom. “Oh! I’m sorry, Rogue.”
“Don’t be,” I reply, stoically. That isn’t Logan down there. It’s just metal. Logan’s gone ……..
Tears spring, unbidden, to my eyes and Kitty draws me into a hug. Her own voice grows thick with unshed tears as she seeks to comfort me. “It’s okay, Rogue. Let it all out if it’ll help. I won’t leave you.”
Unfortunately, the tender moment is broken by me having to retch into the toilet once more and Kitty gets to her feet once I’m done, dragging me up with her.
“You’re going to the Med-lab, Rogue. Now!” There’s no room for argument in her tone and she actually manages to force me out into the bedroom before I balk at a sudden thought.
“But Jean …….” I gasp out.
Kitty, bless her, understands instantly. “Jean’s in the War Room with the Professor and Scott. They’ve been there almost 24/7, trying to find leads to Logan and Jubilee’s killers.”
Oh. The realisation almost makes me feel guilty for the thoughts I entertained earlier, but then I argue that if they’d been so diligent in the days following the first attack my lover and best friend would probably still be alive today.
Kitty ploughs on, oblivious to my momentary lapse. “Henry’s on Med-lab duty this morning. He’ll look after you.”
This, more than anything, convinces me to accompany my friend as she leads me across the room and out into the hallway. If I truly have food poisoning, I’d be a fool to ignore the warning signs and allow myself to get worse. And if I really want to leave the team, I can do so once I’m better.
And so, resigning myself into the hands of my team-mate, I allow her to lead me to the Med-lab ……..
Wolverine:
Three days.
It’s been three days since me an’ Jubilee were brought to this hellhole, yet I’ve already had to teach our guards a valuable lesson. Two broken arms, some smashed teeth an’ a guard in hospital after I bit his ear off has taught our captors that the Wolverine don’t make a good houseguest when he’s pissed.
They should never have tried to take the cub away from me.
The night followin’ my first dose o’ aH-serum, our captors upped the level o’ the suppressant bein’ pumped into our cell. Once again, I was sleepin’ on the floor at the side of our cot but, with me out for the count, it was easy for ‘em to steal in an’ take her away. I awoke to an empty cell an’ the meanest temper since Scooter accidentally kneed me in the balls durin’ a trainin’ session. When a guard came to leave food, I played possum, allowin’ him to draw near before surgin’ to my feet an’ takin’ him down with a solid punch to the jaw. I may not be able to employ my claws, but the cuffs make effective weapons in their own right and, with the weight o’ my metal skeleton behind my fist, it only takes one well-placed punch to lay a guy out for the count.
I was high-tailin’ it for the cell door before he’d even hit the floor ……..
O’ course, like the cowardly jackals they are, the guards always hunt in packs an’, before I knew it, I was elbow deep in army types, fists flyin’ an’ all manner o’ insults bein’ traded left, right an’ center. I managed to get the drop on several of ‘em – hence the aforementioned injuries – until some bright spark remembered that his pulse rifle was there for a reason an’ decided to use it.
It took four blasts to bring me to my knees.
The last one finished me off for several hours.
When I awoke for the second time that day – head throbbin’ in glorious technicolour pain - Jubilee was back in my cell. It turned out that we had Frost to thank for the kindness, but the deal comes with a price. Jubilee is allowed to remain with me where I can keep her safe, but I must be submissive to my captors’ wishes. The very thought brings bile to my throat – since the aH-serum was first administered, I’ve allowed myself to remain in a near feral state knowin’ that I’m that much harder to control an’ drug when the beast is to the fore. With the beast in control I am stronger an’ craftier – better equipped to protect both the cub an’ the man within. But my feral nature abhors bein’ dominated – as an Alpha my instinct is to subject all other males around me to my will, not the other way around. Bein’ confined an’ treated like a pet is drivin’ my animal side crazy, but I must endure it.
For both our sakes.
Puttin’ a man in hospital an’ injurin’ several others didn’t go down well with Roberts. He made sure I was punished for my escape attempt and withheld my next dose o’ the aH-serum. A few hours down the line, I was once again struck by the sickness although this time, with nothin’ in my belly, it involved mostly dry heavin’. Jubilee sat with me next to the toilet, tryin’ to hold back tears as I reached so deep within myself that it felt as though I was tryin’ to introduce my balls to the toilet bowl by way o’ my mouth. By the time I collapsed onto the cot I was exhausted an’ my stomach muscles ached from the constant spasms. Unconsciousness seemed like a blessed relief.
Roberts let the poisoning run its course until I dropped into a coma, finally releasin’ me from the fever that now wracked my body. At some point after this, Roberts finally allowed the aH-serum to be administered an’ I awoke several hours later with a fully restored healin’ factor to find Jubilee perched on the end o’ the cot, cryin’ on Frost’s shoulder. As he became aware o’ the low growl rumblin’ in my throat, he gently pushed her back, stood slowly so as not to alarm me an’ walked to the door, pausin’ on the way to reach down an’ pat my shoulder. I resisted the urge to snap at his hand, knowin’ that it wouldn’t be wise to antagonise the only friend we have in his god-forsaken place. But I couldn’t resist lettin’ the growl intensify as he slipped quickly through the cell door an’ locked it behind him, jus’ to warn him off touchin’ the cub again.
The cub. Strange how my feral side views her that way. At sixteen years old an’ unmated, she would be more appropriately termed a kitling. But I can’t help rememberin’ the world weary fourteen year old first introduced to the team three years ago. Orphaned several years previously, she had been moved from one foster home to another, never really findin’ a place to fit in, until she took matters into her own hands an’ decided to live on the streets. Three o’ the female team members found her runnin’ wild in an LA shoppin’ mall a few months later, makin’ a livin’ by entertainin’ shoppers with her fireworks. It was probably only the promise o’ free food an’ lodgin’ that prompted her to return to the mansion an’ give up a life that would most likely have led to prostitution, drugs an’ worse. Once settled, she set about makin’ life for the residents an’ staff as interestin’ as possible. She was loud, prone to pranks, an’ had the worse dress sense o’ anyone of her age I have ever seen. But she was also fiercely loyal to her friends an’ quickly became best friends to Rogue, becoming only the second person – beside myself – who wasn’t constantly freaked out by my lover’s, as then, lethal skin. An’ it’s for this reason alone that I will defend an’ protect the girl with every iota o’ my strength. To the death, if need be.
She’s watchin’ me now, eyes followin’ my movements as I prowl the confines of our cell. I hate bein’ caged – I pace the walls the way a tiger paces the bars of his enclosure at the zoo. It’s called Zoo Syndrome – a kind of brain damage. Take the tiger from its enclosure an’ put it in a larger one, an’ it will continue to pace out the same length of space as it had before. The man that I am knows what I’m doing an’ tries to stop it, but as the beast I am too far gone to listen. I’m filled with nervous energy which I need to expend any way I can. I can’t stand still.
Jubilee has drawn her feet up onto the bed – her arms are wrapped around her legs an’ her chin is restin’ on her knees as she tracks my movements. Her eyes are still puffy an’ red from all the cryin’ she did earlier - convinced she was the one at fault for my punishment, she was all but inconsolable when I finally regained consciousness. It took me a while to reassure her that Roberts would have withheld the aH-serum anyway, with or without her involvement. Jubilee was simply the tool he used to show his mastery of me. A man like Roberts likes the feel of his own self-importance.
“You’re really making me feel dizzy, y’know?” Jubilee places one foot on the floor an’ leans back against the wall, raisin’ an eyebrow. I favour her with a sideways glance but continue pacin’ without breakin’ stride. As strange as it may seem, I actually find her presence comfortin’. Females always seem to have that effect on me. I can be so deep into a berserker rage that I’ve lost all sense o’ self, yet all it takes is for a single female to enter the fray an’ I’ll pop right outta it as pretty as you please.
Darndest thing, ain’t it?
So, here I am, with a sixteen year old minor sharin’ a cell barely big enough for one an’ if that wouldn’t set child services screamin’ for the hills I don’t know what else would. O’ course, if they were here, I’d be the least o’ their worries, what with Roberts an’ his rapin’ cronies all provin’ a far greater danger to the girl than I ever could. Here, I can keep her safe – out there, anything could happen.
Jubilee slides down the wall to lay her head on the tatty pillow, tuckin’ her legs up. Her scent shifts abruptly, bringin’ to my nose the unmistakable tang o’ salty tears an’ I guess she’s gearin’ up for another round o’ cryin’. Christ! I’ve had enough o’ the cub’s tears in the past few hours to last me a lifetime. I never woulda figured the kid for a bawler – I thought she had more backbone than this. If we’re gonna get outta this hellhole alive, she’s gonna haveta liven up an’ stay sharp. Wallowin’ in self pity will only dull her sense o’ self preservation an’ get her killed.
I start towards the cot with the intention o’ knockin’ some sense into the kid with a few well chosen words, but a sound pulls me up short. Head raised, I turn towards the door, fully alert as my suppressant dulled senses strain to catch a scent or another sound. Jubilee is not slow to notice my stance an’ she sits up on the cot, her face turned anxiously in my direction.
“Wolvie? What is it? Is someone coming?”
“Shh!” I hiss sharply an’ move towards the door, peerin’ through the bars to the hallway beyond. Durin’ my brief break for freedom, I discovered that our cell is not alone – there are others, at least eight, the doors all set slightly off-center to each other so that the occupants of one cell can’t look directly across the hallway into another. Whether they are occupied or not is anyone’s guess – with my senses so off kilter I’m not pickin’ up any scents, but at least it proves one thing; Roberts an’ his men are perfectly willin’ an’ fully prepared to capture other mutants in order to achieve their aims.
The cub begins to inch off the cot an’ I hold out a cuffed hand to motion her back. Someone is comin’ – I can hear the sound o’ scufflin’ feet quite plainly now an’ a moment later Jubilee hears it too – she slides off the cot an’ places her back to the wall, eyes focused on the bars of our cell, warily. Once again, her scent shifts. She’s scared, but she’s determined not to let the bastards get the drop on her again. Good. It finally looks as though all the defence trainin’ I hammered into the students is startin’ to kick in. I was beginnin’ to think I’d wasted my time.
A couple o’ guards come into view down the hallway. One of ‘em strides forward an’ rakes the barrel o’ his rifle across the bars, makin’ me pull back my hand sharply before he catches my fingers. The guard – Crowe, I think – laughs cruelly at my expense an’ I pull my lips back into a rabid snarl, actually havin’ the satisfaction o’ seein’ his face pale before he remembers that I am safely locked away. To cover his embarrassment, he levels his pulse rifle at me, his finger tightenin’ on the trigger.
“Whassamatta, Wolverine? You want some more o’ this? You wanna fry like a crispy critter?”
The cub gasps, knowin’ Crowe is perfectly willin’ to carry out his threat, but like the stubborn bastard that I am, I refuse to back off. My eyes lock onto his and the low growl I allow to rumble forth is nothin’ short of a challenge. I’m defyin’ Crowe to shoot me in cold blood an’ he knows it.
A hand suddenly alights on the guard’s shoulder an’ he looks away, breakin’ the stalemate. Another guard moves into view – Jenson – usherin’ Crowe along. “Come on, Crowe, move it. Quit antagonising the Wolverine an’ shift outta the way.”
Crowe does so with obvious reluctance, flashin’ me a look o’ pure hatred before saunterin’ off down the hallway, feignin’ disinterest. I inhale deeply, markin’ his scent. He’s trouble that one – if he comes prowlin’ around I wanna be forewarned.
Another group of guards hove into view. Most are unknown to me, although I recognise one or two from our fracas the other day. However, it’s not the guards that hold my interest, but the semi-conscious figure they are draggin’ between them. Young, in his early twenties maybe, with a shock o’ blonde hair, he looks as though he’s just gone ten rounds with the Hulk. A livid black eye mars his pretty features an’ blood is oozin’ from a split lip. An’ judgin’ by his laboured breathin’, he’s got a couple o’ busted ribs too. There’s nothin’ to indicate whether his injuries were caused by our guards or not, but they’re certainly not bein’ gentle as they drag him along, his feet trippin’ on the smooth tiled floor.
As they pass our cell, his eyes roll painfully towards mine, then drop to the floor in absolute defeat. Actin’ out o’ pure instinct, I inhale deeply, taggin’ his scent an’ almost chokin’ as it catches at the back o’ my throat, the rush o’ familiarity takin’ me unawares. I know that scent! I’m sure of it! But it seems …….. off …….. somehow. As though …….. altered.
By the time I have recovered from my surprise, the guards have dragged the kid into a cell across the hallway. I hear the heavy thud of his body hittin’ the floor. Disgusted, I turn away from the bars, ignorin’ the jeers of the guards as they lock his cell an’ retrace their steps, pausin’ only to throw some half-hearted insults through the bars of our cell. The cub’s eyes meet mine as I stalk to the far wall an’ hunker down against it, tryin’ to recall the boy’s scent an’ figure out why it feels so damn familiar to me.
“Wolvie?” the girl asks, quietly. “What was all that about?”
I snort through my nose, annoyed with my inability to pin down his scent.
“We got company,” I reply, simply.