Missing: Month Three

Fight or flight. It's an inborn response to negative stimuli that every living, breathing creature possesses, and Rogue is no different. Day in, day out, she's been strapped down, drugged up, and forced to endure. Her choice to fight, or to flee, taken from her. The occupants of her mind - her own personality the smallest droplet in the maelstrom - rally against the injustice for her, where she cannot.

They thrust her limbs out and forward for her, before the next syringe can be twisted into her injection port. A fist that she doesn't consciously form lands with intent against the square-faced jaw of the man in a lab coat trying to hold her down. Her tongue flicking out to catch the sticky spurt of blood that splatters her face in the wake of the punch. A whispered, purring endearment tickles the back of her mind - telling her she did good - a moment before a hostile internal takeover sends her sprawling to the ground; a tray of med-equipment clattering on the tile as she falls.

She can feel them, the most recently acquired personalities, volleying for control - not understanding how the hierarchy is supposed to work. The count inside of her has finally reached an amount far too numerous for her to be able to contain any longer, and so she can do nothing but twitch, and wait for them to figure it out themselves.

Her fingers itch around phantom flames, aching for a burn that she can't create; the corner of her mouth pulls up into a sneer that she knows is pure St. John, and several vitriolic phrases pour out of her mouth, with smatterings of Creole profanities that would make her Mama blush. There are tears pooling in her eyes as someone in her mind screams to be let out. To be let go. To be free.

She has no words of comfort left to offer.

She is hauled, bodily from off the floor, and tossed onto the slab. The bulb overhead bursting in time with the pain shooting through her skull. Through the din in her head, she can just make out Carol screaming at her to stop pussying out, and fight.

"I can't."

Whether the denial is in her head, or out loud, Rogue has no idea. Not that it makes any difference at this point. Slick tracks coat her cheeks as the tears that aren't hers fall in torrents. Someone in her mind tries to make her stand, but finds their attempts foiled by the cuffs that have been slammed closed around her ankles and wrists. Her sweat slicked limbs twist against the restraints. Futile efforts that do nothing but sap her of what precious energy she has left. A howl of frustration fills her lungs, and then the room, bouncing off the walls and reverberating down into her bones.

The man with perfect teeth leans over her, a burst of purple and blue decorating his cheek in the shape of her knuckles. Minty-fresh breath skating across her face, her lips, in panting huffs; broken blood vessels interrupting the white of his eyes, carrying the first hint of malice she has seen in them so far.

There is a harsh, angered edge to his voice when he speaks, one gloved hand pressing down on her shoulder in a manner that is far from soothing. "Calm down, Ms. D'Ancanto. This won't hurt a bit, and I promise you will feel better when it's over."

She shakes her head no, the fiery rage of everyone inside of her making itself known as a persistent drumming throb in her gray matter. But she can't stop him from twisting the syringe onto the port - exhausted as she already is from the drugs they always keep circulating in her system - and depressing the plunger. Barking out a command to those around him as he does, one that she can't hear.

They say that there's a moment, just before the world comes crashing down, when a person's whole life flashes before their eyes. When that moment happens to Rogue, there are more than twenty lives sharing the space of a few seconds.

The man with the perfect teeth is wrong. It hurts like hell.

~~~+~~~

What little grip Logan has on his humanity is slipping away with each passing day. He can feel it easing away from him, like a dream losing coherency in the dawning light of day. The urge, the desire, to bury his fists, claws and all, into anything - anyone - growing in appeal, hour by hour. But he manages to refrain. Barely.

And even then, he knows that he is only doing so for Marie. For the sweet, lingering ghost of her that skirts around him everywhere he goes. Reminding him that there is a purpose to what he does, a reason. Tells him that this is a fight he can win. That he can find her. That he can find her, and when does he's never letting her out of his fucking sight again. And he can't do any of that by losing his cool and fucking up the mission to rescue her before the plane has even left the ground.

But, damn, it's hard to do when the damn Boy Scout is waggling a finger at him like he's a four-year caught sneaking candy. "You will follow protocol, and you will listen to me, or you won't step foot on the jet. Is that clear?"

The growl, dug up deep from the recesses of his soul - anger and intimidation, and filled with every ounce of animal instinct he has - succeeds in doing exactly nothing. The other man gives him a patient look, mixed with annoyance. Classic One-Eye. So he tries English instead to get his point across, with just a little a flash of claw - they're always pushing at the surface these days anyway. "Just try keeping me off the thing, Bub, and see what happens."

"This is not up for debate, Logan." A sigh, and a hand ruffled through perfectly coiffed hair tells Logan that, at the very least, the man in front of him gives a shit. That maybe he gets where Logan is coming from, and despite himself, Logan hates him a little less. "Look, you and I both know that Rogue wouldn't want you putting her safety before that of the children. We will do everything in our power to find her, and get her out - if she is there - but there are young children there too, Logan. We know that for a fact. And they have to come first."

The claws return to their sheaths, in time with the popping of his jaw. The Wolverine in him is desperate to be let loose. Desperate to rend and tear and carve through everything keeping him from his goal. He's never been a patient man, but if nothing else, these past few months have taught him how easy those urges are to put a leash on.

It just takes the mention of her name.

"Is. That. Clear?"

There are no eyes to make contact with, just that stretch of red that reflects Logan's own gaze back at him. He stares into it anyway, speaking as much for his own benefit as for Scooter's. "Crystal."

The word is sour on his tongue, but a minute later he is on the jet and hurtling through the sky at a speed that makes his stomach twist uncomfortably, and that's all that matters.

~~~+~~~

The walls of her new cell are padded. A present after her last treatment, the one that left her a lump of unblinking confusion. But they don't need to be. Bashing her head against the walls would require an amount of willingness to interact with the outside world that she just can't muster right now.

Not when every last vestige of energy she has is being spent on searching the recesses of her mind. Digging, and prodding, and scraping at the corners. Trying to find what she's lost.

Why won't you answer?

It's cold in her cell, and colder in her mind. A blank canvas that was once a chaotic work of art, wiped clean from spilled turpentine, leaving tracks of color at the edge.

Say something. I know you're there.

But it's a lie. She doesn't know any such thing. There are only ghosts - echoes of friends - she can see them when she closes her eyes, but their voices are gone. And she can't recreate them from memory, no matter how hard she tries. And the silence is maddening.

Answer me.

She's rocking back and forth, arms wrapped tightly around her in-drawn knees. A familiar position for her and countless inmates of mental facilities the world over. She wonders if that's all she is now. No longer the girl with the poisonous skin. No longer on track to be the government's perfect weapon. A no-mess solution to their attempts to create a super solider using scalpels and gene therapy. Why bother to go through all that trouble, when they can just have her soak it all up like a sponge?

Please?

Which begs the question, what are they going to do with her now? Now that they've managed to break her in a way that none of the forced absorptions ever did?

What good is she to them anymore?

There's no way they are just going to let her go. Even she isn't crazy enough to think that. The thought brings a worrying niggle to the back of her mind that chills her like nothing else. And with the thought of actually dying in here more likely than ever, she could really use a friend.

Someone. Anyone.

But there is nothing there. Nothing to be found. Nothing for her to grab a hold of; she's swimming in the dark, and has no idea which way is up.

Answer me, please! "Please..."

Anna Marie D'Ancanto you stop that right this minute! I will not have any child of mind carrying about in such a manner.

"Mama?" Her voice, dry and brittle and oh-so-pathetic sounding to her own ears, is swallowed up by the padding on the walls. Dying a quick, echo-less death. There is no response. It wouldn't be reasonable for there to be one.

It's not her Mama after all, not really. Rogue's drained a lot of people in her life, but not her mother. Never her. Which means it's just a memory. Not real. Not someone to talk to. Not someone who can help. Who can hold her and soothe her, and make everything all right. With a kiss to her forehead, and promises of pleasant dreams.

She just really wishes it was.

Because the silence; the expansive, empty hall of her mind, hurts.

Everything hurts.

She drags blunt nails up her arm, digs them in as much as she can, hoping the physical pain may detract from the emotional. A sick little balm to her floundering soul.

It's no real surprise when it doesn't work.

~~~+~~~

Logan's never been here before. Of that he is certain. But there is something so eerily familiar about the enclave that his nerves, hair-trigger as they are, immediately stand up and take notice. Hackles raised, and claws out. Flashes of distant memories peek through the empty black that makes up so much of the real estate in his head. Scents, and sounds. Images that have haunted him through countless nightmares, brought to the fore-front. Battling for supremacy in his mind.

But he presses them make, knocks them into submission. He knows already, that these walls belong to the same organization that robbed him of his life before. Knows that as recently as four months ago, they made a play to get him back. But any wonder he might have once possessed is gone. Burnt to a cinder; the ashes of it replaced by one, bright-burning flame.

Find her.

Fifteen minutes later, the alarms are blaring, and there is a trail of destruction left in his wake that has the Wolverine howling in pleasure inside Logan's mind, as he marches in mock military cadence before the bolted interior door leading to the next sub-level. Sometimes, it seems like he wastes years of his fucking life waiting for locked doors to open.

But this time - this time he knows there'll be a pay off. It only took one footfall into the place, and one whiff of the recirculated air pumping through the vents, to bring the distilled scent of Marie to his nose. Logan had retreated in that split-second, and let his more feral counterpart take the reins - he didn't have a choice, really. Roaring through the facility - all offices and labs so far, no cells - and hacking through anything that stood in his way while he tried to track the scent. Both disturbed and exhilarated by the way it seemed to permeate everything around him.

He can't find her. He has to find her. He will find her. Because this time, she's here.

She's here.

There is blood congealing on his clothes, and he can't seem to stop the low growl rumbling in his chest, or the retract-release retract-release motion of his claws that he makes with each step. The searing pain just enough to keep him from losing it entirely. Helps to remind him that he's human, and not a beast. As do the hairs on the back of his neck, electrified rods, standing to attention at the force of Jeannie's stare.

He's grateful it's Jean at his back right now, and not Scooter. (The multi-prong attack might leave the disjointed team more vulnerable, but the more ground they can cover in as short a time as possible, the better.) She may have been paired with him to keep him in check (no matter how wild he might get, he isn't about to gut someone who is already unconscious, and Jeannie has made knocking people out with just her brain an art form over the years), but at least with Jeannie he doesn't have to listen to mid-mission lectures about the appropriate use of his claws, while he's barely capable of forming complete sentences.

She'll wait until later.

"Shadowcat, need an ETA on these locks." The crackling sound of Summers's tense voice rolls through the piece in Logan's ear. A frustration that Logan feels echoed in his gut, obvious in the other man's tone.

"Just a second, I've almost-" The girl pauses, clacking sounds filtering over the comm link at speeds Logan would find impressive in any other situation, but finds unbearably slow in the current one. "Got 'em!"

So she says, but the door in front of Logan remains stubbornly closed. He's about ready to dig his way through the fucker. No high-voltage wiring this time at least. "Try again, Kid."

"Sorry. I didn't mean the doors. I meant the prisoner files. They're brought them here. John and the others. There are..." More clicking reverberates though the speaker, Logan's level of irritation increasing with each key stroke. The sounds stop abruptly, the silence filled with a gasp. "Oh God."

"Shadowcat? What's wrong? Report."

Logan can hear the girl swallow, thick, and wet. Like something nasty has lodged itself in her throat and she's about to choke. But at least she's still breathing. He likes the girl, but he ain't about to go back and help her. Not when he's this close. But when she speaks, she's all business. Whatever caught her off guard, she's pushing it aside for now.

"There are thirty-two people in containment. Bobb - Iceman, Colossus - the majority of them are in your wing. When I unlock the doors you're going to want to head to the right first. The cell block on that side is full. Security feed shows at least three guards on either side. Be careful, there's...there are a lot of kids in there.

"Wolverine, you and Dr. Grey are gonna encounter some resistance. Looks like the main laboratory is in front of you. Along with half the doctors and guards left in the place."

She stops, and takes a deep shuddering breath. One that puts Logan on edge. "And...I've got Rogue's files, too. She's here."

His growled "where" can't be called human, but she seems to get the message. "Other side of the facility. Cyclops, you and Jubes are closest to her position. Head down the main corridor. The second door on the left will lead you to her ward. She's - she's in solitary. Minimal guard coverage. I'm accessing the locking mechanisms now, and...got it. You should all be clear."

Logan has no idea how much time passes between when she gives the go ahead, and when he is consciously aware of his actions again. By the time the white noise in his head is replaced with the sound of Scott's call for attention, he just knows that he is swimming in the scent of sweet copper, and that there is a dead man who reeks of Marie - her blood, her pain, her confusion...her fear - falling to his feet, three puncture wounds dicing up his insides. Colgate white teeth gleaming in the fluorescent lights. Jeannie situated a safe distance away, her hands held up in defense. A look of understanding on her face.

"Cyclops to Wolverine. I've got her, Logan. I've got her."

Logan could wait until the facility is secure, the lock down complete, to meet Cyclops on the jet. To lay panicked, desperate eyes upon Marie. He could.

But he has never been a patient man.

~~~+~~~

After: Day 179

The steady push-pull of air through her lungs - breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out - is soothing to Rogue in a way she never would have thought possible. Meditation had always been Logan's thing, and even with a copy of him residing in her skull, she'd never quite been able to get the hang of it. The noise inside always overwhelming the calm on the out. She'd given it up as a control technique almost from the beginning, instead appealing to Logan for assistance in methods of relieving stress, when control seemed to lofty of a goal. Danger room sessions became the norm for her after that.

But now, she finds locating the peaceful center needed for a successful meditation session downright easy. Her mind has reached a saturation point with its occupants, and they are all as in need of calm as she is these days. Something more than what fitful rest punctuated with recurring nightmares can provide. Eager to find a balance where they can all coexist. Equals in her mind, with Rogue maintaining control of her body. As diplomatic of a compromise as they have been able to manage.

Most days, and this one is no different, she finds herself out on the grounds well before dawn - in a spot secreted away from the more well-traveled portions of the lush gardens adorning the estate. Where quiet contemplation will not be interrupted by kids barreling through flung open doors, bodies revved up on sugar and life, and she can ease back into herself one breath at a time

Logan is never there when she begins, but he is always there when she finishes. Heat radiating out from where his own folded limbs press against the sharp points of her knees. Lotus to lotus. A mirror image that isn't. Whether he waits for her arrival, watching from the edge for her breathing to even out so that he can join her unseen, or simply moves at his own pace and slips in when she is well past noticing, Rogue has no idea. But she finds comfort in his presence - in his proximity - all the same.

For months, the routine has been in place, but it is one that she doesn't mind. There is relief in this singular activity that she can count on every day.

And every day, as she reaches the end of her session - the curve of her spine softening and her legs falling further open into a butterfly stance as she allows the sounds of the world around her to perforate her solitary bubble - he asks the same question.

"Are you ready?"

In the past her answer has always been the same. A bit of air sucked between her teeth, an unpleasant shudder that would race from the soles of her sock-covered feet to the exposed tips of her ears, and a solitary shake of her head. A glance to his face that would confirm no disappointment, only unending patience, as an upheld hand - skin pink with the rising sun - would lower carefully to his knee. She doesn't think she'll ever understand where he finds the reserves, but she is grateful they run so deep.

But today, today it is different. Today the answer changes, slipping out from between her lips in a stolen moment of bravery, surprising her with its intensity.

"Yes."

And she is. She feels it deep down. The thrumming, buzzing sensation that has always accompanied her mutation - one that disappeared with a needle and a madman's smile all those months ago, only to return in a flood of pain and sensation weeks later - is nothing but the gentlest of hums at the moment. So light that she could mistake it for a trick of the misty morning spring air collecting on her skin. She's ready.

Once she doubted she ever would be. Planned to live the remainder of her life without contact - despite all her efforts to gain control. Didn't seem to be in the cards for her, not when she could barely keep from choking on fear at the thought of touching anyone ever again. But the bloom of panic that she expects to surface the moment she lifts her hand, and tugs the glove from it without looking at Logan, never arrives.

It's an explosion of color, the first touch without pain, without fear. When all she feels beneath her skin is slowly extending warmth, pulsing from where her hand touches his. Eyelids that had remained closed throughout his arrival, and the pressing of hands, peel open to stare. Fingers meet tip to tip, the pink flesh of his palm softer than it has any right to be against hers. Her long, thin digits dwarfed by his own, thicker ones.

She trips over a sigh, her breath catching for a moment as his hand slips to the side. Shifting her fingers open so that his can sneak into the opening they make. Pressure, soft but steady as he squeezes her, tugging gently for her attention. The space between them lessened by a fraction at the movement. Knee bumping knee.

Eyes that she knows are more green now than brown - a visible reminder of her experiences - shift their focus from joined hands, to travel up the length of his arm. Taking in the way his muscles bunch and flex beneath a too-tight t-shirt. Dark, curly hair lining the pathway, disappearing beneath the gray cotton. Her gaze pauses, lingering on the curve where his shoulder meets his neck; a vein made more prominent when a swallow swells his throat. The urge, the need, the want to ghost her bare fingers across that tempting swath of skin - to taste it with her lips and tongue - is swift and vibrant and surprising only in the sense that it does not scare her at all.

His thumb twitches in her grasp, sending a spark through her body that expresses itself in a shiver, and forces her eyes up to his. Finds him staring back, pupils dark, dilated. The hazel overtaken by black. A shadow of a smile alights on his mouth and is answered immediately by one of her own.

There are no comments from her internal peanut gallery, awed into silence. No racket or commotion to sully the moment. Just the chirping of a bird nearby, and a washing of relief through her soul.

His body unfolds from the ground, straightening to his full height, never releasing the hold on her hand. Tugs her to vertical, the space between them halved by the motion. Warm breath leaving his lungs to be caught in the current between their bodies and brought into hers. His free hand coming up to slide a stray wisp of white hair behind her ear.

"Well then, Darlin', I believe we got us a birthday to celebrate. Bit past due, but...better late than never." He glances out towards the newly risen sun, the harsh angle of his jaw looking beautiful to her in the growing light. "Probably a bit early now though, huh?."

The hint of disappointment in his voice makes her laugh. The sound growing as she finds herself unable to contain the bubble of joy that is filling her up. "Ya think?"

His eyes shoot back to hers, heat in his gaze as a playful growl reaches her ears. "Could toss ya on the bike now, if ya want. Drive 'til we find a place that's already open. Or ain't closed yet. But I thought ya might wanna wait 'til after dinner. Invite some friends along, or somethin'."

Her smile slips, just a little, surprised at his offer and unsure how to respond. Logan doesn't care for large group outings. It's a fact about him that is as ingrained into her as his love for cigars, and craving for the open road. But the tilt of his head, the steady tonal quality of his voice, even the slight tightening of his fingers against hers, all tell her that he means it. That she could invite Jubilee or Scott or Kitty or anyone else that she may call 'friend' along to wherever they end up. He wouldn't mind. Not if it'd make her happy.

She gives the idea some thought. Thinks of who she might want beside her to celebrate, aside from Logan. Who might be the right kind of company to celebrate a birthday that is six months past, and a new-found ability to touch that she isn't certain she wants the world at large to know about just yet.

She thinks of vanilla and brandy; of English fog and Louisiana heat; of long stretches of pavement and wide open sky; of electricity and fire. And she thinks: she has everyone she'd want with her, here already.

She gives his palm another squeeze - reveling in the feeling of his pulse pressed so tightly against hers, beating out together in an unmatched rhythm that feels just right - and beams her happiness, her contentment, at him in a wide grin.

"No, Sugah. No one else. Got everyone I need right here."

One eyebrow raises. Like she knew that it would. Always a skeptic. "Ya sure?"

The question, innocent as it may be - simple confirmation of a fact already addressed and stated - makes her pause. Two little syllables that can apply to so many facets of her life. She has no idea who she will be in a year, or five, or ten. No clue if this hard-fought for balance will tip to one side or another, if she will lose herself to the masses and crumble beneath the weight. But for the moment, she is in control, and there is no company better than Logan by her side. For now, that's enough.

"Yeah, Logan. I'm sure." The look he gives her is laced with doubt, and that just won't do. So she tugs on his hand, pulling him with her in the direction of the main drive, flashing him a wink and a smile. "Now, come on. I wanna go for a ride."

The corner of his mouth ticks upwards, a lopsided grin that she adores; his large hand still encasing her smaller one as he falls into step beside her. The heat of his body caressing her with each footfall.

"Think they still remember me at Mickey's?"

"Darlin', ain't no way they could forget."

~End