Fic: More Than A Rogue - (17/?) - Once a Rogue, always a Rogue
Overall summary: Sometimes we get the balance wrong. Life is not about knowing the answers, life is what happens while you're looking for them. And the bad decisions? The screw-ups? They're what keep it interesting.
Follows on from X3 - after the cure has failed - Rogue's POV
Genre: Action/Shipper/Angst/Humour fic... so basically everything.
Rating: Varies between chapters, but overall R - NC17
Disclaimer: Nope. Still don't own.
A/N: Nearly didn't get round to posting this one this weekend, but several cups of tea in a row & half a chocolate orange later... here it is. And... um... yeah. Please don't hunt me down with pitchforks.
Thank you empressnan & dutchxfan for keeping with this so far. Your help is much appreciated.
All previous chapters can be found here
Another day, another job. Isn’t that what I used to say?
It doesn’t have quite the same ring to it anymore.
I get up. I function. I eat, sleep, wash, travel, manage to drag myself out of the motel beds in the mornings, remind myself to breathe in and out, and even make a passable attempt at conversation. On occasions. Rare occasions.
Okay, so I’m not exactly good company. So what? It's not as if I’m here for my cutting wit and sharp retorts anyway.
The job’s lined up. Mystique’s done all the planning this time. She assures me it’s all calculated down to the last detail. Location, back-up, exit strategy, back-up exit strategy, you name it - she planned for it. No nasty soldier-shaped surprises this time.
We’re going for lab. It’s a first for us, and a little more uncomfortable... well for me anyway. I have stolen memories to deal with; personalities at the edge of my mind that shrink back at the mere thought... but apparently it’s not that sort of lab. They just test blood samples. DNA. Mystique even showed me proof.
If I didn’t know better I would think she’s attempting to be nice to me.
Heh.
If I didn’t know better.
If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s not to be so stupidly gullible.
It’s not the purpose of the place that interests us anyway. We’re aiming for some samples of the cure and a couple of mutant registration databases that could prove very expensive in the right hands. Or the wrong hands. Whatever.
Yeah... I know it’s not very imaginative, but it pays the bills.
Days slip by, rainy and wet, barely worth going outside for, but outside I have to go. I check out the area like I always do. Scout around. Get a feel for it. Walk until the drizzle soaks through my clothes and the ends of my jeans are heavy with greasy city sludge. I sip on scolding hot coffee in the diner across the street, watching the dribble of people drift past on their daily trudge for existence. They look about as excited by life as I am.
From the outside the target looks unremarkable. A tall, grey stone building, square and faceless, with black little windows that peer out grubbily on to dank side streets. It looks more like a dirty tenement than a hi-tech government lab, which makes me think that Mystique really did do her research on this one.
Whatever kind of place it is, the lab shifts are long. They only change every two days, so they must have sleeping quarters. Analysts and doctors come and go even less frequently. Security twice a day. The whole thing's like clockwork.
I learn their faces. Watch their patterns of movement and wonder who the hell they are. What events conspired in their life to make them take this job? In this scraggy concrete hell where people like me are tagged and studied. Does it bother them? Do they know what the data they produce is used for? My mind’s full of useless questions like that. Questions that won’t help me. Questions I can ponder for days. Which is fine, I guess, because the one thing I have at my disposal at the moment is time. I’m my own person again.
Yay me.
Isn’t it crappy how you can want something right up until you’ve got it. Then you realise that it wasn’t quite what you wanted at all. I wanted my freedom back, heh, well I’ve certainly got that. Ain't nobody gonna be swooping down to show me the error of my ways this time.
I wish I knew why that crushes me quite so much.
Is it so hard? To figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do with the time given? To know who you’re supposed to be? What happened to pre-destiny? And fate? And all the useful tools people use to give excuse to the direction their lives are taking. Why can’t someone just tell me who I am, put me in a neat little box, and be done with it?
...Okay... probably because I’d kick my way out of it screaming.
Ugh. But it’s exhausting. All this uncertainty and fleeting changes of mind. I want this... no, I want this. Maybe this. Or that. Or anything. Or whatever. Fuck knows. I’m tired of being a permanent drifter, okay? I’m. Tired. I just wish I knew, just for once, where I was supposed to fit in. Even if I didn’t want to fit there.
I push my cold coffee to the side and pay my bill, hunching my shoulders against the slanting rain before venturing outside again.
I wish I could stop thinking so hard as well. The whole thing makes my head hurt.
On my way back to the motel I find myself hovering before another phone-booth. It seems to happen a lot these days. Like it’s a connection with him I can’t quite sever. It’s one I can’t quite bring myself to use either, for all that I seem to know the location of every phone-booth this side of the city. Besides, what would I say? ‘You’re the one person in my entire screwed up life I care about enough to beat myself up over it? Please tell me I mean something to you too?’
I sigh as I walk on past. Head back to my motel room, where I listlessly dry my hair, then stretch out on my bed to stare at the cracks in the ceiling.
We time our entrance with the Tuesday evening lab shift change. Getting in is not a problem, it never has been. Mystique’s currently one of their top analysts, a clinical but slightly hassled looking Deborah Coats ... God knows what she did with the real Deborah. To be honest it’s not something I ask her. I don’t think I want to know the answer.
I’m her assistant. I try to look busy. Keep out the way and make no eye contact. What is it that Mystique likes to say? People only see what they want to see. So I try and make myself bland. Uninteresting. It's not exactly hard, which I suppose is a good thing. I’d be nervous if I didn’t feel quite so dead inside.
As we walk up to the building, I'm detached. The air is cold on my face but I don't really feel it, I just let it numb me as I mentally prepare myself. I flex my fingers, take a calm, controlled breath and... frown.
The scent of cigars hangs lightly in the air.
My next step waivers, a rush of memories flooding out everything else. My eyes instantly seek out the shadows around me. Then when that fails, the windows, the alleyways too. But nothing. There's nothing. Just me, Mystique and the quietness of the littered street.
Oh. And the balding guy leaning out the fire exit of the building opposite. Smoking.
Stupid.
I swallow. Really stupid. And yet suddenly I am nervous. My brain beginning to rush through a series of potential outcomes, none of them pleasant. Fuck. I'm scared! When did that happen? Why? It's so unexpected. The first emotion I feel for days other than self-pity, and it's this? God, if I didn't suddenly feel sick, I'd hate myself a little bit more for being so pathetic.
I try to clear my head, to refocus, but the pain of what happened last time I tried a stunt like this slices to the front of my mind. It grapples with my self-control and reminds me what real fear tastes like.
Mystique's voice, when it comes, makes me jump. "You going to hold up on me?"
Shit.
I take a moment, clench my fists, and give her the glare I wish I could direct at myself. "I'm fine."
"Good."
This isn't like last time. It isn't.
We push through the dirty revolving door and the first thing that hits me is the smell. Christ, they must really want to keep this place under wraps. It stinks of piss and stale dankness. The only thing that belies the image of damp rot is the micro-camera that focuses in on us from its graffitied corner, and even then the only reason I notice it is because I’ve seen the security plans. At the far end a neon light flickers in death throws over door. Beneath it a grizzled homeless man loiters on the bench, smoking a roll up like it’s his last, wrapped in filthy overcoat like some pseudo-regency throwback.
We show him our ID. He nods us through a side door on the left.
The inner hallways are well lit and cleaner, but the smell still hangs around. It sticks in my throat and I wonder how the hell anyone could actually bring themselves to work here. Not that there are exactly many people around. The reception desk arches away from the wall, all glass fronted and smart looking, but completely devoid of human life. Don’t suppose they get many visitors anyway. And it’s not the sort of place you’d employ a temp. In fact the whole floor seems to be empty.
I didn’t expect that. I expected... I don’t know. Open plan? Yeah, right. I’m obviously more than a little naive. They must all be in the labs on other levels. The only person in our line of sight is an armed guard who waits far too casually against the elevator shaft. Not a person to be crossed, I note.
Mystique sees it, too. Her shoulders stiffen, barely perceptibly, but there all the same.
As we approach his eyes flick down at our ID. "Sub-level six?"
Sub-level what?
That edge of fear is suddenly back. For a moment my heart races and my palms prickle with sweat. I don’t remember a level six? Was there one? What is this? Is it a trap?
But Mystique is unfazed. "Sub-level four," she replies without blinking. "We need access to labs seven and five as well."
Oh.
I force myself to remain calm. Outwardly at least. Of course there is no sub-level six. It was a test.
Stupid.
God, I’m not ready for this. Not after last time.
The guard studies us for a moment, then nods. Handing over a keycard, he presses the call button for the elevator and I try not to breathe a sigh of relief as I step inside.
The steel box slides and clunks us down to the underground levels, which open up like a maze of passageways. I follow, I don’t lead. We stick to the map that’s memorised in Mystique’s head, left, then right, then right again, through the door at the end. Lab five. There are no markings but I know were in the right place. The access alarms would have been triggered otherwise.
The door closes behind us with a soft click and the hum of a naked light bulb rings in my ears, the sudden brightness making me blink. Papers plaster the walls. Records. Disks. Data. It’s currently vacant of human life, but it’s certainly not unused. This must be their main record storage.
Mystique gives me a nod, indicates with one long, slim finger, that she’s moving on to lab seven, then disappears back out into the hallway. Leaving me alone.
I eye the strange looking lab equipment in the corner suspiciously. The restraints on the gurney are making me edgy. No matter how hard I use my powers of denial, they don’t quite fit into the picture of ‘not that sort of lab’. In fact they look very much like...
No.
I pull myself out of that thought before it goes any further. Now would not be a good time to freak out. Denial is good. Denial is very good.
The walls shake as a subway train rattles past nearby and for some reason that comforts me. Normal people, going about normal lives, not too far away. It reminds me I just have to get through this. That’s all. It’s a task like any other. It’s what I do now. Right?
Data recon.
I boot up the slightly tired looking PC and try not to think of everything I left behind.
As I work the passwords flow from my fingertips. Like Deborah, I don’t want to know where Mystique got them from. They’re just tools, I tell myself. Data’s easy to manipulate. You don’t need to fight it or beat information out of it. You don’t need to psychoanalyse it. You just need to access it, copy it and in this case-
...Oh, hello. What have we here?
Files flick up in front of me. Names, places, births, deaths. Blood types, ancestry. Locations. And they’re all faces I recognise. Not from the Mansion, no. But from the TV, from the news, from books, magazines. Influential people. Senators, leaders, magistrates, officials. Non-mutants... but with...
Christ.
They’re engineering us?
A thin sliver of dread trickles down my spine. No wonder people want this information so bad. I copy the last of the files over to my pen drive, remove the memory chip and hide it in the inside pocket of my jacket. You can never be too careful.
By the time Mystique returns, I’m more than ready to go. I follow her without hesitation. The thought of the military, or the government, or whoever the fuck really controls this lab, engineering mutations in people, specific mutations...weapons... it makes me very uneasy. The whole thing is far too much like Mag-
"Hold it."
The voice echoes loudly down the otherwise empty corridor and I freeze. Blood suddenly hammering through my ears.
It's another guard, and he gives us a suspicious once over. "Where are you going? You’re not supposed to be on shift till Thursday."
"I got called in early." Beside me Mystique’s calm. "Rick’s off sick."
In answer the man pulls a gun. No delays, no opportunities for escape. Nothing. He just flashes a tight smile. "Rick left three months ago. Hands up where I can see them."
Fuck.
My eyes narrow on the small piece of black metal as I try not to react. But it’s all too sudden, and my mind's spinning, I feel sick. Lights dancing in my field of vision as the walls lurch and sway and a rush of fear claws through me. Not again, it’s all I can think. Not again.
I hear Mystique’s weapon fire, I don’t see it. By that time I’m already half way down the corridor, even before I hear her command to run. Fuck. I nearly trip over my own feet as I scramble round a corner. Ahead of me it’s long and straight and there’s nowhere to go or hide even though I push at the doors lining the way, dammit one of them has to give! Fuck fuck fuck!
"In here!" A blue hand grabs my elbow and drags me through a different door. Mystique’s changed again. I know that’s not a good sign, but it all happened so quickly that my mind can’t quite keep up. As the door closes behind us I hold myself so still, silently listening, I don’t even breathe, ears straining for the sounds of others following until every nerve in my body screams.
But outside it remains quiet. There are no footsteps, not yet.
I try and take a moment to calm myself down. It doesn't help though, I don’t feel relieved, I feel drained. Faint. The adrenaline that’s pumping through me has made my knees so weak I can barely stand. Shit, I shouldn’t have come here. I should have kept away from her.
Mystique catches her breath and looks around. "We can’t stay here." In control as always. "We need to get back up to the higher levels." She rolls her shoulders, stretches her neck as she tilts it to one side. "We’ve got what we need anyway. You going to stay sane on me?"
Her words hardly register. My eyes finally begin to focus on the room around me...
"Rogue?"
Oh, God. This is not right. It’s not right.
"Rogue!"
Sterile refrigerators line the walls. Row after row. Their contents cut open, dissected. Frozen in their final state. Bodies. People. Faces. Men and women. Experiments.
This isn’t a lab. It’s an extermination camp.
"Listen to me." A hand yanks my face around. Yellow eyes glare forcefully into my own. "You are not going to lose it down here. You stay with me, and we get out. Okay?"
Okay?! No, it’s not fucking okay! There are so many of them! How can they be killed and ripped open and put on display as if they were nothing more than text books? These were people! They lived. They breathed. They had hopes and dreams and the same fucking rights as every other person on this planet.
"They have weapons, you get that?" Her voice is low, fast. "Dangerous weapons. They have cure guns, I’ve seen them. We need to get out."
Out? Who are these people? Who could do this? For a moment I just stare at her blankly, my mind still trying to comprehend the mess around it. It’s not real, it can’t be real, it’s like some horrible waking nightmare.
Then a noise clatters past the door and it jolts right through me down to the bone. I shake my head. I don’t think I can. Out? I don’t... I can’t do this. I sink down against the wall behind me, hands cold and weightless, legs shaking, collapsing like they’ve got no strength left. What is this place? Why did I come here?
"What are you doing? Get up!"
But I can’t. I can’t. Not again. I wrap my hands around my knees. Try to remember how to breathe, fight the tightening in my chest, stop my mind from closing down on itself completely. I don’t want to see these things. How can people do this? What kind of sick country do we live in?
"We need to get out!"
I rip my eyes away from the preserved carnage long enough to stare at her. She’s tense and angry, gaze always darting to the door, but she’s still so confident, so smug. So... This is her fault. It’s her fault I’m here.
"Come on!"
My mouth goes dry, tongue thick and heavy. "You said it was nothing more than a lab."
She rolls her eyes. "Grow up. Nothing’s nice. Nothing’s pretty. If you don’t want to end up like that," she slings her head in the direction of the nearest cool tank, "then I suggest you follow me."
It’s a command. Snapped out in impatience.
But I can’t do this anymore.
I shake my head, too fast, and the room spins. Part of me is aware that I’m panicking, big time, stomach threatening to heave, but I can’t do a damn thing about it. My hands are trembling. I grip at the worn denim of my jeans until my knuckles whiten and the creases bite into my palm, but I don't move. I can’t. Not now. Not with her. "You lied. I don’t... I can’t... I don’t trust you. You’ll... " Use me as a distraction. Sell me for your escape. Make me do this all over again next time. This is not me. It’s not me!
"Rogue..." This time my name’s a warning.
"I don’t trust you."
"Do you have a choice?"
"Leave me alone!"
"Now is not the time to-"
"LEAVE ME ALONE! You brought me to this place. You lied." The words hiss out of me. "Sterile chambers, you said. Microscopes. Blood samples. Not this. Nothing like this. This is barbaric."
"You need to-"
"NO! I don’t know what the fuck I need to do, but I do know that there is NO WAY IN HELL I’m going anywhere with YOU!"
She steps back a pace. A look of shock finally registering in the blue glow of her skin.
It doesn’t last long. Her lips soon press tighter together, expression clouding over with distaste. "Fine." She bites out the word like it’s a bitter taste in her mouth. "Suit yourself." The door swings slowly shut on its hinges behind her. Her bare feet leaving no sound of footsteps to echo down the hall.
Then I’m alone.
My pulse thuds heavily through my ears. God I feel sick.
The room hums around me and I try not to look at the bodies on display. My eyes won’t focus on them anyway, they slide away from me, and the overbearing stink of formaldehyde is making me dizzy. Somewhere a leaky faucet drips, and the light flickers as a trapped moth buzzes against the hot bulb.
Oh, God, I really do feel sick. My throat burns. I can taste it.
I shouldn’t have come here. I should have followed my instinct... Fuck it. ‘Should haves’ won’t help me now! I need to concentrate, need to survive. Not feel sorry for myself.
I take a deep gulping breath. Focus my thoughts.
Okay. Think, Rogue, think. You can do this. You know the floor plans as well as Mystique. There are fire stairs on the left-hand side of the building. If you can make it there...
A noise shatters out in the corridor scattering my thoughts and I jump so hard that I hit my head on the wall behind me, eyes swimming with the pain that lances through my skull.
Shouting. Oh God. Loud and close. Voices, male and female. Arguing. The dull, thick sound of bullets hitting the wall. Guns. I try to think but my mind won’t work fast enough. It scrabbles away from coherent thought, panic pounding through instead. They’re coming closer, so close, I can hear them...
I grope my way backwards until I’m hunched in a corner, as far away from the cool-tanks as I can manage, but it’s not going to be enough to hide me if they-
The door swings open, and I stifle a scream. Oh, fuck. FUCK.
Please don’t see me. Please. Just go away. Please.
The form silhouetted in the doorway casts its eyes over the room, and I know it notices me. Its shoulders stiffen, and as it comes closer I’m thinking this is it. This time it’s really it.
Then it speaks. And my mind goes completely blank.
"Out. Now."
The hand that reaches out is familiar, strong, and I blink.
This time I don’t understand. I really don’t.
Logan?
This is wrong. What is he doing here? There’s no way he could’ve known... is there? I suddenly feel like my world has slipped off the edge and I don’t know how to control it anymore. Was it Cerebro? The Professor? What does it mean? It’s off-track. It feels... Unless he knew what we were planning. Unless he really does...unless he... he must feel something, right? To do something like this? Right?
But there’s no time. No time to think. There are voices outside and they’re getting closer. Fuck.
"C’mon. All you have to do it take my hand."
Shit. He looks so familiar. So safe. So real. Breathing hard. Shoulders rising and falling like he’s fought his way through. Sweat on his X-men issue leathers. Is the team here? I don’t hear anyone else. Did he track me? Keep tabs on me? Did he know? Why would he do that... unless...
"C’mon."
I hesitate. Reach out. But then a noise clatters loudly out in the hallway and distracts him. He holds his hand up for silence and tilts his head to the side, listening. Quietly, the door still open, he steps back to have a look.
My heart lurches. "What?"
He shakes his head. "Nothin’ kid."
An ebb of relief floods through me. He called me kid. Familiar. "You sure?"
"It was just a-" his sentence ends in a choked gasp.
"What? What is it?" My words stumble out in a fumbled whisper. "What?"
He doesn’t answer. Fingers sliding against the doorframe as he looks down at himself, almost confused. A dribble of darkness trickling down from his chest.
No! NO! "Logan!"
I try and reach him, but I’m not quick enough. Hands reach through the doorway. They grab at him and I can’t stop them, he won’t let me. He pushes me away so that they don’t see me, and they pull him out. Out into the corridor where I can’t see him anymore. They take him. Steal him. Drag him down while he’s weak. I hear his body hitting the floor with a muffled thud and it happens so quick I don’t have time to process it. To do anything. My ears are ringing and I don’t have time. There’s no time!
Then I flinch, frozen in disbelief as I hear another shot. Followed by the unmistakeable hiss of a cure gun.