Rogue was on the floor of the cell, legs pulled up against her.
She stared at the men standing outside the sound-proof glass walls, her heart beating so fast she thought it was going to explode. The three in black leather uniforms each had their arms folded across their chest, standing in front of an older bald man who she assumed was in charge. Based on the hard expression on his face, he wasn’t too happy with whatever it was they were saying. The big blue furry one had an earnest look on his face as he spoke, making the bald man nod his head in quick understanding while the one with the red visor must have been adding his own comments because the same man would every so often glance at his direction in acknowledgment. She couldn’t hear their conversation, but it was obvious the overly side-burned one was the angriest of them, the muscles of his back tense, his entire body tight and still. She felt herself drawn to him, and was surprised when he suddenly turned to look at her.
His concerned frown wasn’t what she expected.
She looked away quickly and hugged her knees more tightly to her. How could that guy be breathing, let alone standing, after what she did to him? She practically blew him apart; the condition of his destroyed uniform was evidence enough that he should be dead and yet, there he was, wound-free. She stared at her hands, relieved that she was no longer able to draw on that Cajun’s mutation. If she had known how powerful his mutation was, she would have never touched him, she had been completely unprepared for the strength of it. An ugly wash of guilt came over her. She hadn’t anticipated him returning her kiss, it made the connection between them rip open and she took far more from him than she had intended. She closed her eyes to hold back the tears that flooded them, recalling how he had stared at her, genuinely shocked that she had hurt him. He had been in excruciating pain before she let him go, and when that guy with the claws stepped towards her instead of back like his friends, she had lashed out at him more from fear than anything else. She swallowed down the bile that rose up in her throat at the memory.
He should be in pieces.
She placed a hand on the side of her face, testing it for a soreness that should have been there. His punch had hurt. There should be some pain at least, but all she felt was the coolness of her skin. From the corner of her eye, Rogue could see that the strange haired man was still staring at her, taking in every move she was making so she turned her back to him, uncomfortable under the weight of his stare. She leaned her forehead against the wall of the small cell.
Rogue was so confused.
Where was she? Who were these men? Where was her mother? Where was Irene? Were they okay? Why were they attacked? Who was that strange mutant fighting alongside her mother? How did she end up back in her bedroom in Natchez? Rising panic began to shudder through her and Rogue squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to take a deep breath.
Okay, Miss Anna Marie Darkholme. Calm down. Let’s try this again.
She focused.
I was running out of a dark alley, feeling scared. And guilty.
But why?
Cody. Ah almost killed Cody.
Anguish flood through her – but the memory stood out on its own - by itself - with nothing following it and it felt very, very old. Why were her memories so disjointed? How was she in Momma’s arms sobbing one minute after the ambulance took her boyfriend away, to her suddenly being in some alleyway in New York City running like her life depended on it? What happened in between? Why was she in New York? What was she doing there? How did she get there?
Alaska.
She was trying to get to Alaska. She remembered making it past the Canadian border and finally reaching Laughlin City, a place that turned out to be a tiny town in the middle of Alberta instead of the bustling metropolis she had been hoping for.
Eight months.
She had been on the road for eight, long, lonely, scary, horrible months…
Don’t think about that. Don’t.
Rogue began to rub circles overtop her knees with open palms, fingers spread out like starfish, her hands shaking. She soothed herself, willing away the images, huffing air in and out of her mouth, reminding herself that she didn’t have to look; she didn’t have to remember what she didn’t want to.
I walked into that bar – there was some commotion going on in the back inside some kind of cage – god, I was so hungry - and then…and then…
…she was back home, waking up to find her home under attack.
No. That didn’t make sense. Something was wrong. Something was missing. A lot was missing.
Rogue caught her reflection against the glass, touching the image in front of her with her fingers, matching the tips to their mirrored counterparts. She wasn’t surprised that she didn’t look sixteen years old. In fact, she didn’t feel like a teenager at all. She pulled at the streak of long white hair at the front of her head with her still shaking fingers.
And where the hell did this come from?
Just hearing her own thoughts was beginning to freak her out. What happened to all the voices in her head? Where did they all go? The constant low lying buzz that had always hovered at her consciousness was completely gone – no random shouts, no repeated recriminations, no vicious accusations from the crowd of personalities that she had added to exponentially over the course of her months on the run- even Cody’s voice was gone. She closed her eyes and listened.
~ Don’t be so afraid, petit. ~
There he was. Everyone was gone except for him. Rogue caught her breath, hearing his deep, unfamiliar masculine voice. From the moment she had woken up, the Cajun tried to talk to her, tried to convince her to listen to him. At first he yelled at her when she ignored him, they always did, but she easily shut him behind the wall she had built to keep all the personalities at bay. Now he was being very cautious, pushing forward slowly to keep her attention.
~ Remy can help you. ~
Rogue whimpered suddenly, grabbing at her tangled hair. He was one of them. He didn’t want to help her, he wanted to hurt her. They always wanted to hurt her.
~ Non, my love. S’no true. ~
What? Was this guy crazy? He was probably dead because of her, and he was calling her his “love”? There was a moment’s silence before she heard him again.
~ Can’t t’ink of a better way to go, cher. ~
Her hands stopped shaking. He was actually flirting with her?
~ Come on, Rogue. Look at de memories Remy has of you. ~
She found herself hesitating. She was about to shut him away again but she realized with not a little amount of shock, that he wasn’t upset with her. Why wasn’t he angry? They were always angry, they always hated her. Why was he being so…nice?
She continued to pull at her hair, needing the constant movement of her hands. Maybe his memories could at least explain why he seemed to know her – why the others seemed to know her. Maybe she could find out what they wanted from her.
~ Trust me, bebe. ~ His voice became tender, sincere.
His tone of familiarity made her angry. No. She wouldn’t trust him. The Rogue didn’t trust anyone, but she decided to look into his memories. She needed some answers.
Taking a deep breath, she reached inside her mind. She clumsily knocked aside images of what looked like New Orleans - a woman with blonde hair - a strange pallid-skinned man with a red diamond set on his forehead – and many, many women in many, many compromising positions. She could have sworn she heard him laugh in amusement to her embarrassed gasp, but when she stopped to listen, she was met with silence.
Blushing, she continued, finding a lot of memories that meant absolutely nothing to her until she finally found an image of a woman that looked like her. As soon as she focused on it, the others immediately fell away back into the recesses of her mind.
She saw the woman with a group of young children in a playroom, obviously in charge of them. She had the same hair as her but it was shorter, the white stripe cut into bangs. She seemed annoyed with the Cajun, but there was affection in her eyes when she shooed him away. The image faded away to another and the same woman was smiling and laughing with him, clearly enjoying his company outside a huge, ivy-covered mansion. They were chasing each other through piles of leaves that had fallen from large maple trees that ringed the estate, him easily catching her and throwing her repeatedly into the orange and yellow foliage.
No, not a mansion. A school. A school for mutant children.
More memories wrapped around her consciousness, coming hard and fast now. They were part of a team, called the X-Men. Images of some of the mutants that she fought with earlier came into focus, now, interacting with her, clearly caring for her. They were her friends. Good friends.
No, they were more than that. They were her family.
One image rushed forward, fervent and vivid. She flushed in reaction to the harsh sexual attraction that coursed through her, seeing him look at the woman with deep wanting. Her breath hitched, seeing him place a sheer scarf across her face in a darkened church and stunned, she saw him kiss her.
Remy Etienne LeBeau had loved her.
~ Dis one has missed you, petit. ~ His voice was soft. Sad.
She swallowed hard, feeling his pain.
But that was impossible. That woman who skated away from him after telling him it was over between them couldn’t be her. She had never seen him before tonight. She had never seen any of these people before tonight. Shouldn’t she have the same memories as him if that woman really was her? Shouldn’t she be able to remember at least something?
Another image flashed in front of her and she felt his jealousy wash over her, hot and fierce.
The Cajun was kissing her under a Christmas tree and was keeping his eyes on someone. Wolverine. So that was his name. This Wolverine was watching them, and he looked upset. The woman looked upset as well, pulling away from the Cajun and storming from the room to go outside. She looked more than upset. She looked furious.
~ Ignore dat, cher. ~ Remy sounded angry.
Images flew at her – Wolverine pushing her behind him when the Cajun tried to kiss her – watching the Wolverine carrying her away, fainted in his arms – watching the Wolverine and her sitting at a table from across a cafeteria-like room – watching the Wolverine chase after her when she had went outside after Remy kissed her under that Christmas tree – Remy blasting the Wolverine through a wall of windows – Remy blaming the Wolverine for him losing her…
His emotions became too intense, overwhelming her, and she pushed his memories away from her consciousness with a barely suppressed cry. She returned to rubbing her knees again, breathing faster, lightheaded and nauseous.
She couldn’t connect to anything, couldn’t identify with the woman in his memories. She couldn’t make any sense of what she just saw and to what she could remember on her own. The woman in his memories looked to be the same age as she was now, but how was that possible when the Cajun’s memories were almost ten years old? He looked older now, yet that man he called the Wolverine looked the same age as he did in the Cajun’s memories as well.
It didn’t make sense. It didn’t.
She grabbed her head again, her mind reeling from all the inconsistencies. Remy pushed forward, trying to comfort her but she pushed him away behind the wall she had erected, his protests muffled and undecipherable once more.
She started shaking again.
Where are you, Momma? Ah need you.
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