bat·ter·y
noun: bat·tery 'ba-t(ə-)rē
1. a container used as a source of power; a means to store energy.
2. an offensive touching or use of force on a person without the person's consent
I never saw it coming.
The night the mansion was attacked, there was no moon. They planned it that way, of course; when the power was cut, everything went pitch black. We couldn't even see our hands in front of our faces.
Fumbling through the dark, hearing only the sound of our own breathing, we didn't know whether to panic or not. That was before the screaming began.
Shattered glass, swift footsteps, dart guns fired; the sickening sound of bodies dropping to the floor. Chaos and terror, so thick in the air you could choke on it. It was like the first time the mansion was attacked, years ago, only it wasn't; it was infinitely worse. Last time they didn't have the sentinels. Last time we had Logan.
A few made it out and lived to tell about it, but many were not so lucky. Anyone who tried to cross the lawn was gunned down by the sentinels, no warning and no attempt to capture.
I felt my way along the hallway, searching for that secret passage that we escaped through last time. But it was too dark, and it was too late for that.
Where is Bobby? I hope he makes it out alive. I wish Logan was here. Those were my last thoughts as I pulled the dart from my neck and the floor rose to meet me.
I think of them now as I lay here on the cold metal slab, looking up at masked faces and harsh lights. I'm scared. I can feel the anesthetic moving through my veins, and I don't know which is worse, to stay awake and feel everything, or sleep and suffer the after effects later, knowing when you wake up that horrible things have been done to you.
The very first time they cut me, I didn't make a sound. Skin samples they took. It hurt so bad, the scalpel slicing into my pale, baby-soft skin. But I was proud of myself, not giving the bastards the satisfaction of hearing me cry out.
I only realized later on that it didn't matter one way or another; the doctors don't feel remorse or take delight in your pain down here. There is a disgusting kind of fascination, yet cold neutrality towards mutants that makes you feel like you're not even human; you are merely a subject of science. If they anesthetize you, it's not for your sake, as if to spare you the pain or anything. It's merely a matter of convenience for them. They might be performing a procedure that requires accuracy, for example, and the restraints aren't enough to keep you from squirming. Rumor has it, though, that some of them will put you under if the screaming gets too noisy; but again, it all comes down to convenience for them.
The anesthetic is taking effect; my thoughts are all starting to swirl together. I'm scared. I hope Bobby is alive. I wish Logan was here.
~~~
The walls are white. The bed is white. My clothes, their clothes, everything, white. No, not everything. Sometimes there are shades of blue and grey; powder blue, slate blue, steel blue...cyan, silver, pewter, ash...
I've become a connoisseur of colors, especially blue and grey. Even white has a color cast if you look for it. When you never get to see anything else, you learn to appreciate every nuance, every subtle tone and gradation. Fifty Shades of Grey has got nothing on me.
Blood red, now there's a treat. Maybe I'll get to see that today, if I can stay conscious. God, listen to me. I think I'm starting to lose my mind.
They'll be coming for me soon; I can tell because I smell like antiseptic.
There are two warning signs in this place that tell you it's going to be a very bad day for you. One, is when you're stripped down, thrown into a shower stall and hosed down with an antiseptic solution. That usually means one thing: you're going to the operating room, and you're going to get cut. If you're lucky, they'll give you anesthetic and knock you out once you're on the slab; if you're not, well...that's what the restraints are for.
The other time you know it's going to be a bad day is when your meal comes with a "special brownie", as we like to call it down here. We all know what it really is; they like to play it off like it's some kind of reward for good behavior or a luxury they've bestowed upon us, but we know better. Loaded with a special cocktail of sedatives made just for mutants, those sweet little squares let us keep our powers functional, let the scientists control us and run their experiments with our suppression collars off, but at the same time they make us too stupid to form enough independent thought to fight back or escape.
The first time I ate a special brownie, not knowing what it was, they made me kill another prisoner with my skin. A 16 year old girl, who happened to live three doors down from me in the mansion, before this hellish nightmare all began. Now she lives inside my head.
You can refuse to eat the special brownie, of course, but that doesn't mean that you've gotten away with something. You can do things the easy way or the hard way around here, but one way or another, you're going to cooperate. Go ahead and skip the special brownie; they'll just send a few guards to waltz right into your cell, beat the crap out of you, and stick you with a needle. That special brownie does start looking like a luxury after going through the alternative a few times. Most of the prisoners just eat it without question now. I don't.
Maybe it's the Logan in me, or hell, maybe it's all Rogue; but somehow it just feels wrong to go down without a fight. I've always had a fighting spirit, but I have Logan to thank for the defiant growl that comes out of my throat when the guards come for me.
Logan. I wonder where he is now; last I heard, he was wandering the Canadian wilderness, still running from ghosts. There was a rumor that he might have gone to Japan after that, but who knows.
I miss him so much. Does he think of me? Probably not. The last time I saw him was years ago, just after the battle at Alcatraz; I had just returned to the mansion after taking the cure, but he was getting ready to leave again. Lost in himself, drowning in grief, I don't even think he was going to say goodbye to me; if I hadn't come to his room first before going to see Bobby, I would have missed him altogether.
I remember standing in his doorway, watching him pack his bag for a good minute before I said anything. I wanted so badly for him to turn around and smile at me. Greet me with a handshake, a hug...a kiss. Tell me he missed me while I was gone. Ask me to go with him, wherever that was, because I belonged to him, not Bobby. I knew he wouldn't.
He sensed that I was there of course, though he kept his back to me. I wondered for a moment if he was mad at me for not being there at the battle. For selfishly throwing away my gift while the X-men fought against all odds.
"Hey, Logan," I said quietly. "I'm back." And touchable, I wanted to say. He finally turned around to face me, and that's when I knew he wasn't angry with me. In fact, it wasn't me at all that he was thinking about.
"Hey, kid." He tried to put on a good face, but the smile I had been hoping for never came. Instead he just looked...haunted. I knew the reason why.
I heard about it everywhere inside the mansion in hushed whispers and sympathetic tones when I got back. He killed her. Beautiful, kind, softspoken Jean had a side to her that Logan never knew existed. Sweet, graceful, angelic Jean took a bellyful of adamantium and died in the arms of the man who loved her.
Lucky Jean. If Logan could see me now, I would tell him. If he knew what I've had to endure down here, he would dry his eyes and be grateful that he spared her this hell. Jean was the lucky one.
I've always envied her, but never more so than now. At least she had people to mourn her loss; at least she got to be held by someone who loved her when she died.
I'm beginning to realize that's probably not in the cards for me.
For months, every time I laid on that operating table, every night I fell asleep in my cell, battered and violated, I wondered if tomorrow would be the day that Logan would come slashing through those walls to break me free. (C'mon, I'll take care of you.)
I try not to fantasize about that too much these days. It just reminds me of how forgotten I am. Logan went through hell and back, almost died, to save me once; maybe once was enough for him.
Sometimes I still indulge in hope, though, when the pain gets to be too much and I need something to hold onto, something to keep me breathing in and out. I pretend that Logan thinks of me once in a while, and smiles. (Hey kid, you miss me? Not really.) I like to imagine that somewhere out there, Bobby is alive; at least then I know that there is one person who loves me.
They're coming for me now. The guards enter my cell, three of them. They learned the hard way the very first time they came to take me, to never come alone; this little girl is a trained X-man--tougher than she looks, with a nasty temper and a few dirty fight moves hidden up her sleeve thanks to the Wolverine in her head. But three guards won't be necessary today. I don't feel like fighting any more.
~~~
My skin is frosting over, my lungs filling with ice crystals as I struggle for breath. I'm supposed to be in her room by now, but I'm here with you instead, and I don't want to leave. You feel so good in my arms, your skin, your lips so soft and warm on mine. Suddenly the power has been cut; everything is pitch black. Glass is breaking, people are screaming. We have to get out of here. Take my hand, you whisper. We're dropping down through the floor to the level below, then another, and then we're running, running down the secret passageway, guided only by the light of my cell phone. Out into the night air, we've made it past the sentinels. The mansion is under attack, but we're safe, we're together... Ice, running through my veins, filling my lungs - oh god, what's happening? My eyes fly open with a gasp. Someone stands over me - he looks just like Bobby. Is this a dream? Another familiar face approaches, and now it's a living nightmare. Magneto. I struggle helplessly against the restraints - is no place safe?
"Rogue--Rogue, it's ok; he's with me."
~~~
"Why would you listen to a copy of the album instead of the real thing?" I looked at my friend Sarah like she was crazy. I knew she loved that boy band, but geez. This was taking things a little too far.
"Because I don't want to ruin the original," she replied with a 'duh, isn't it obvious' tone of voice. "If I'm gonna wear something out, it'll just be the copy, and then if anything happens to it I can just toss it out. The original will always be safe and sound."
The memory comes unbidden as I hear the Professor explain the plan. I try to concentrate on his words, though I am still reeling. I can't believe Bobby is dead. I can't believe I'm sitting here, in the blackbird, when only an hour ago I was strapped down to a table, waiting to be cut. I can't believe that, of all people, the person who rescued me from that hell hole was Magneto. But that's not what has me reeling the most.
I can't bear to think of it, because it means that everything that I held onto all this time, everything that kept me hoping through the endless days, months, years, kept me breathing in and out when all I wanted was to die just so I could end the pain...it was all a lie.
I never saw it coming.
Bobby knew...he knew all this time where I was, and he didn't think of me until today. They didn't come for me because they wanted to rescue me. They came so that I could rescue them.
"Rogue," Professor says gently, pulling me back to the here and now. Right, the plan. Kitty is hurt, he tells me; I'll need to take her power, and keep Logan back in the past so that he can fix our future.
"Do you understand?" he asks me.
I understand. I'm beginning to understand all too well. I wish I didn't.
"You are our last hope, Rogue." Professor looks at me. His eyes are part apology, part supplication. I nod my head and numbly agree. I have a role to fulfill.
....
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