When I was a child and I couldn't get to sleep on dark nights with the wind howling and the shadows in my room seeming to rear up, ready to devour me, I would call out for my mother. She would always come to me and tell me stories to help me fall asleep again. As I lay here in this cold room, unable to move on a bed that offers no comfort, I remember my favorite story.

"There once was a princess whose only love was to dance among the stars which made up her home in the heavens. She would dance from star to star, touching the native peoples with her passion and her courage, her love for the universe and her unswerving devotion to dance. However, the princess could never stay long at any one star. She was always filled with sadness when she was forced to continue her dance, no matter how much it pleased her, for the people of each star quickly became her friends."

"Soon, although she did not wish it to, her sadness spread into her dance, and the people of the stars she danced on suffered greatly. The princess felt great anguish at this, and resolved to stop her self-pitying ways. It wasn't so easy, though. Each star she was compelled to leave for the next drove her to lower depths of despair and doubt. Soon, she had lost the will to dance, but her pattern was established and she could not stop."

"Then, one day, the princess danced to the star which our Earth revolves around. Here she found a people whose nature could be as dark as her own had become, if they let it. However, these people were happy, for the most part. Soon the princess discovered why. The people of Earth knew how to rejoice in the simple things which made them happy, how to search out love and cherish it above all else. Soon, the princess took to heart the lessons the people of Earth had been so eager to teach her. She fell in love with a young man from a small kingdom and they married. The princess's dance had ended, and with its ending her life began."

I whisper the story to myself as I look at the ceiling that glares at me. So white. Too white.

The story has begun to destroy the numbness I've felt inside for longer than I care to think. As that protective barrier cracks, my memories trickle through it. I try to force them back, but they keep coming and coming....

* * * * * * * * *

I sat beneath a tall elm tree and gazed out at the gardens, which were displaying all of the brilliant colors of fall. My fingers idly played with the chain that I always wore around my neck. The tags that laid between my breasts were both a comfort and a reminder of a touch I could never know without pain and sorrow accompanying it. Truly bittersweet. It was here that I allowed myself to become lost in thought for the first time in public, the first time during the light of day.

I'd been at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters for two months, yet I hardly knew any of my fellow students. I knew that it had seemed strange to everyone around me when, after such a promising start, I had taken to keeping myself as isolated as possible, to staying in my room with my headphones on and a book in my lap. Yeah, I heard all that straight from Cyke--even now I can't stop the Logan in me from thinking of him like that--when he was talking to Storm, although I'm sure that neither of them knew I was there, hidden two rows of books to the right of where they stood in the library.

I didn't want them to find out why I hid from the others. I knew that if they did, they'd make me stop. They wouldn't want me to cause myself so much distress, or so they'd put it. They just wouldn't understand. I was so sure of that.

Like I said, normally I only thought about this at night, with my face pressed into my pillow and repeating to myself that I was *not* going to cry. That day was different, though, I decided as I leaned against that tree. The night before, I'd almost been caught. I'd been indulging, not for more than a few minutes, when Kitty had rushed into the room I shared with her and Jubilee. I had barely enough time to open my eyes and paste on a smile before she asked what was wrong. I told her I had a headache, and she left it at that.

I was almost disappointed. Who knew being so close to being caught could be such a thrill? I had pressed my face into my pillow for a far different reason that night. I was exhilarated.
.
I knew that it was dangerous. I knew that, if I wasn't careful, I wouldn't be able to go back to being "me" one day. That didn't matter, though. Not when I could feel. Not when I could touch. And it seemed like such an easy answer to me at the time, despite the danger.

At least once a day, I lost myself in the memories.

Not my memories, of course. I had been so naive, so young, that I hadn't known how to value a touch before it was too late. I had never reveled in the smallest brush of skin upon skin, as I should have. Instead, I had wasted the precious little time I had.

I had several sets of memories to choose from. Back then there were only the three men. Who to choose? Who, indeed. That was always my first question. Some nights, actually, many nights in a row, it would be Logan’s past, or what he remembered of it and had given to me, that I would turn to. I craved the animalistic nature that could be mine only when I was immersed in his memories. What was the harm?

The night Kitty interrupted me had been a rare Eric night. He I tried to ignore at all costs, but there were times when I couldn't stand it anymore, and he would surface and his memories would engulf me. The pain of the camps, the feel of the dead bodies surrounding me as I moved through the camp’s halls to do the work assigned to me. The pleasure from the touch of the one person who had ever been able to affect his life in any positive way bound me to the Professor more each time I accessed Eric. These memories intoxicated me, dragging me under in a dizzying well of pure, raw emotion. Eric was never half this and half that. I'll give him that much.

Even rarer still were the times when I indulged in the sweet and still-tender memories of David. He'd been almost as bad as me, not understanding the potential in touch. That in itself was more than enough of a reason to avoid him except when I needed only to feel that I was being held gently and lovingly. It's strange, you know, to remember holding yourself, your hand running up and down your own bare arm. Yet it isn't your hand at all and you know that. Yes, very very strange. Not to mention very seductive in its own special way.

That's how I'd come to describe every memory gifted to me. Seductive. They called to me, beguiling me to live with touch through them. Who was I to say no? They pulled at me, not too strong, not strong enough to subvert how I really am. I was always so positive about that one. Isn't it nice to know that you can be wrong once in a while?

But back to that autumn afternoon. I leaned back against that elm tree and sighed happily, already feeling a chill of pleasure run down my spine at the thought of doing this so openly. I tried to decide whom to call up this time. Not Eric, no, I'd had enough of him the night before to last me for at least another week or so.

The feeling of cool metal in my hand made me look at it curiously. A spark caught fire in my mind when I saw my fist curled around the tags. I lovingly traced my thumb over the raised letters stamped into the metal.

"Wolverine," I whispered solemnly, not really reading the name so much as breathing it in. A small smile curled over my lips. "Logan."

The decision had been made. Not that I had really surprised myself, of course. I found myself coming back more and more often in those days to Logan and his memories. I believe that Jean saw some of this and interpreted as a crush. Little she knew.

Logan had been gone almost as long as I'd been at Professor Xavier's School, and I'd known him for an even shorter time. Not even a week, really, when all was said and done. However, he'd been the only one to touch me, skin to skin, without fear and thinking only to save me. Even the first time, that had been his main worry. Hell, why not? He'd just buried nine inches of adamantium in my chest. The second time had been a bit different, you see. He knew what he was doing. He didn't give a tinker's damn if he lived, so long as I didn't die. You want to think that turned my head a bit? That maybe that was the reason I'd chosen Logan's memories so many times? Fine, you be my guest, sugar. After all, who am I to argue with the truth?

But back to that day. Shit, I do tend to get sidetracked in my own memories. It was a good thing for me, or so I thought at the time, that when I let myself enter their memories, I could focus like a fucking priest during mass.

I apologize. Even as I'm remembering this, Logan's pull is strong. Do you really think I would use language like that? I'll try to tone down the Logan growling in my head right now at myself--now, ain't that just a pretty picture--and get on with the telling of it.

It was as if thinking of Logan as I leaned back against the rough bark of that tree triggered the memory I needed. It was one with a lot of skin involved. His usually were.

She was an ex-stripper who had moved to Vancouver to start up her own strip club. That wasn't where I met her, of course. Nope, that was in a little bar--and the Rogue in me prompts me to add "seedy" to that description--a few miles outside of the city. She was miles of bare leg and tits that practically fell out of a neckline so low I wondered why she bothered with the shirt at all, and I wanted her as soon as I laid eyes on her. Apparently, the feeling was mutual, 'cause when I was at the bar getting my first shot of whiskey I smelled a cloud of some musky, sexy perfume approaching. That's why her hand on my shoulder didn't get the attention of the metal in my hands.

Her name was Cindi. She said it in such a gaggingly cute voice that I almost lost all the interest I'd had before. Then she pressed herself against me in a way that just shouted, "I know how to make you scream," which, of course, I wanted to find out.

On the way back to my motel, she gave me head in my truck. It was a pretty damn good feeling, her mouth all hot and wet on me. Enough to make a man think of other hot and wet places he could be diving into.

We were inside my room and stripping each other in a frenzy to touch about two seconds after I unlocked my door. I soon had her bare breasts in my hands--wasn't that difficult, after all, since she'd been as near to hanging out of her shirt as she could get and still be considered decent by most standards--and that's when I started to feel that buzz that sex usually brought me. Damn, but it's a great buzz while it lasts.

We dropped to the floor, not even bothering with the bed just yet. I touched her between her legs, not very gently, and found that she was indeed as wet and hot there as her mouth had been only minutes before. I didn't keep up that touch for long. I couldn't. She was whispering naughty little things in my ear, what she wanted to do to me, what she wanted me to do to her. I couldn't resist it. I spread her legs wide--shit, did I mention that her legs were so fucking long and shaped in a way that would make a fucking corpse's mouth water?--and began to pump into her, hard and fast. She was screaming, begging me not to stop, begging me make her come. Damn, that was a good night for my ego.

"Rogue."

She was lying next to me in the bed, which we'd somehow managed to crawl into. Her hand was playing with the hair on my chest, circling, moving lower and lower until she wrapped her fingers around me and began to rub. Her smile was playful and fierce at once.

"Rogue, are you all right?"

I opened my eyes, recognizing that voice, praying to whatever power was out there that she hadn't seen, that she hadn't pried. Not that she had a habit of doing that, mind you, or that she could be that strong, but maybe this once...

"I'm fine," I said, making my voice as groggy-sounding as I could. There was no use in telling her the truth. Let her think I had had a bad dream or something.

"You sure?" Jean asked. Damn. She suspected something. Even then, I knew she'd be the one I needed to hide from the most.

I looked off into the distance, trying to think of what I could say that would shock her into silence. Something that would have the ring of truth to it, the kind of tone that would convince her that I was worried about something, or that I was unhappy. Not that I'd just been getting high on touch and the chance of being caught at it.

Jean's eyes were fixed on a point beneath my chin. I looked down, and it was only then that I realized that I still held Logan's tags tightly in my fist. I slipped the chain and its tags inside my shirt where it usually resided, and in that instant I knew exactly what I could say that would make her believe me. That would scare her, maybe even scare her away. Something she might not be willing to tell anyone else.

I began to speak, turning my head to gaze out over the School's lovely grounds, so bright with red and orange and yellow as I did so. The reds just reinforced what I was going to say.

"Do you know how lucky you are, Jean?" I asked, letting my voice get all hoarse and choked. "For a mutant, you're pretty normal. Your powers can be controlled. You don't kill, ever, unless there's no other choice, and then it's just the enemy you can destroy, so it's not all that bad. You can touch anybody, anything you want to. Your body isn't a prison that you'll never escape."

I could feel Jean staring at me, could almost feel the waves of shock emanating from the woman kneeling beside me in the thick grass. I knew she’d never heard such things from me, but I was beyond caring about Jean, caught up in the flood of emotions that had accompanied my words. Damn, I hadn't been prepared for that. Hadn't wanted it.

"You can let yourself care for someone. I can't because, sooner or later, I'll want the kind of tactile response that you'd expect to go along with affection, with love. A hug, a kiss, even just a hand squeezing mine with no glove to get in the way. I have to deny myself all of that, every day for the rest of my life. My skin would kill the ones I love the most, and I couldn't bear that."

Tears streamed down my cheeks, but I really didn't care. I didn't want to wipe them away at first. They were the only tears I'd cried in a long while. Maybe too long. Anyway, inspiration struck just then. I looked at Jean and lifted my right hand. I slowly pulled off my glove and lifted my bare fingers to my face. As I wiped the moisture away, I made the ultimate confession.

"I can kill with a touch," I whispered, so low that Jean had to lean forward a bit. "I can kill anyone--except me."

I struggled to my feet while Jean was absorbing this with the shock I had desired to make her feel. I pulled on my glove, looking down at her bent head. Without giving her a chance to speak, ignoring the hand she stretched out to me and her pleading eyes as I backed away, I left. Hurrying across the lawn to the School's back entrance, I only looked back once. Jean stood now, and even from a distance of more than a dozen feet, I could see the anguish in her eyes.

* * * * * * * * *

Thus was the beginning of my dance. I didn't recognize it as such, of course. Not yet. Not for a good long time. And that realization almost came too late, anyway.

This room is so small. I know that even though I can barely move my head from side to side. The pain is horrible, splitting my body in two. Why can't they make it stop?

I'm beyond coherency, I think. Hell, I've probably been that way for a while now. Since I've been here, in this damn room, at least. Maybe before. I'm having a hard time letting myself remember. And I'm trying to keep my memories, the ones I said were trickling in earlier, from flooding me with chaos. So, I'm gonna have to talk about this, aren't I? Just to straighten things out.

Who gives a flying fuck if they hear, either? Haven't they been trying to get me to do just this for too long? Maybe they didn't want to hear the truth then. Maybe I didn't want to tell them. That's changing now.

I won't be like this forever, damn it.

* * * * * * * *

The covert glances followed me wherever I went at first, eyes full of concern that might have touched me once, if I hadn't been sure that their concern would be the downfall of my trips into the memories. I even felt the urge, once in a while, to go to Jean or Professor Xavier and ask them to help me. Somehow, I always managed to squash that down into the darkest recesses of my mind. I needed the touch too badly to allow myself to ruin it.

I did, however, decide on a subtle change in my strategy. No more would I hide away for a chance to experience the touch while alone. Even though I earned the reputation of a dreamer, a person who will sit and stare into space almost mindlessly for more than ten minutes while the rest of the group laughed and had a good time, soon I became someone more than the loner girl whom no one was sure they wanted to get to know.

I made friends. Kitty and Jubilee, my roommates, were more than willing to admit me to their closely linked friendship once I demonstrated the desire to be a part of it. Their gossip became mine, and their larger circle of friends soon embraced me. Bobby, the boy I’d been too embarrassed to talk to after the whole Statue of Liberty incident, became another close friend. Surprisingly, he knew what I was going through, in a way. It shocked me when he told me how his mutation caused anything in the vicinity to freeze when he was experiencing emotion of any sort unless he kept strict and sometimes painful control over his abilities. This had made him reluctant to seek out personal relationships that had any chance of making him lose control of the power. So, no romance for Bobby either.

There were those who saw our long walks in the forest near the mansion and the occasional movie we saw together as something more. We agreed to let the others believe what they would, each of us for our own reasons. Only Jubilee and Kitty knew the truth, and for once they kept a juicy piece of insider info to themselves. I’ll always be grateful for that.

The “relationship” Bobby and I had convinced the adults that I was doing all right, finally. They stopped watching my every move as if they were scared I’d live out the threat to myself that I’d voiced to Jean.

I worked hard to make it to the top of my class. That June I graduated from Xavier's School and decided, albeit with a lot of coaxing, to begin training to join the X-Men. What I could offer them besides some rather good fighting skills, I didn't know. But I wanted to try. It was the most intense emotion I felt outside of the memories, the need to destroy any hint of the "other side", the mutants who were willing even to sacrifice their own to prevent mutant oppression.

Yes, that's right. I kept slipping into the memories at every opportunity. The thought of touch was too tempting for me, especially as I was mingling more and more with my fellow mutants. It was apparent in their eyes, in the way there was always at least a few inches of space between me and just about everyone else, that everyone except those who understood me the most were shying away from any inadvertent touch. Damn them, didn't they realize that was why I wore at least three layers of clothes in a house that was heated very ably against the cold winter air outside? It wasn't as if I was running around in a bikini and trying to throw myself on innocent bystanders!

I took my mind off of this by training to the point of physical exhaustion, socializing when I had to, hanging out with Jubilee, Kitty, Bobby, and the jokers St. John and Remy, and letting myself get caught up in memories at every opportunity. No, this wasn't a good sign, I know. My dependency on the memories to survive from day to day without breaking grew, and yet I wasn’t able to stop it, didn’t even want to, then.

I believe that at times they noticed that something was definitely wrong, but even to Professor X there wasn't an obvious cause. I think that he put my listlessness down to stressing myself too much with training in the Danger Room. He ordered me to spend less time there, to try and relax. That meant only one thing to me: more time in the memories.

It took me seven months to reach a level at which Scott--and I was calling him Scott or Cyclops more now, instead of Mr. Summers or Cyke, as I would whenever the Logan in me was given an extra bit of freedom--deemed me fit to go on my first "practice" mission. It was a bleak January day, just perfect for Storm to call up as much snow and hail as she might need without draining herself. The rest of us were just going to be diversions, while Storm hit the enemy with all of the force of ten blizzards combined into one.

That was the plan.

Of course, you can’t always follow a plan through to the letter. Hell, that’s as rare as a snowstorm in Hawaii, I bet! And this one was no exception to that rule.

We arrived at the site where a bunch of Brotherhood assholes were reported to be beating on an anti-mutant group. The place was at the docks of New York City's worst slums, a set of dingy, empty buildings that had seen better days maybe a hundred years before--if they were lucky. The anti-muties didn't seem too happy to see us, either. At least, they weren't very grateful-looking as they ran off with their hides more or less intact while we X-Men--took me a while to get used to phrasing it that way--went about the business of kicking some major ass.

Only it didn't turn out quite that way.

The first time I realized something was wrong was when I took some time from punching and kicking and avoiding skin to do a head count of the Brotherhood mutants. Let me tell you, I listened very hard throughout the entire mission briefing. I didn't even give into the pull of memories for a single second. So I know that the number I came up with was not what we had been expecting.

There were thirty-five of them, approximately.

Thirty-five against four aren't good odds during the best of times. It seemed like every time I knocked out a member of the Brotherhood, three more took his or her place. It was infuriating. That's probably why I didn't notice the hand coming towards my face until it was too late. The bare hand.

Her touch didn't last for more than a few seconds. I doubt that the mutant whose body that hand was attached to stayed in a coma for much longer than a few weeks. But it was long enough for me to gain the ability to see in the dark and breathe under water for about a week or so. It was long enough for me to gain her memories.

There were a lot to choose from. Let's just say that this Nightstalker, as she liked to call herself, had been one frisky woman in bed. Her flirting capabilities outside of the bedroom weren't too shoddy, either.

It was the first time I'd had the memories of a woman, a female mutant, to access as I pleased. It was a treat that I didn't want to give up. I even forestalled Logan memories to be able to feel the touch any woman might receive.

And, thanks to the night vision which NightStalker had possessed most of her life, I got some really interesting and edifying memories from her. I never knew it could be that big.

Well, anyway, it was in those few moments when her hand met my cheek and stuck, before I managed to pry her loose, that I realized something. Something which would bring me close to the breaking point, closer than I'd been before.

I could get new memories of touch--during our fights. I couldn’t go back to what I had been, a girl caught up in a prison that happened to be her own body. I needed to grow up somehow, be more than I had been since childhood.

Sweetness and innocence would no longer be the key for survival. This I knew. The world was too dangerous, especially for mutants. I had to be strong and tough, more than I had ever been before.

If Jubilee and Kitty noticed the change and disapproved, neither ever mentioned it. Instead, Jubilee kind of grinned whenever I told off Scott or Jean or ‘Ro and Kitty just looked away. I’ve never been sure exactly what she thought about it all.

Bobby drew away from me a little when I began to assert the person I wanted to become. He got used to it, I think, but we were never as close again. That suited me fine, and even though to the adults it seemed as if we had “broken up”, they didn’t appear too concerned about it.

In my opinion, at that time, distance was a blessing because it gave me more and more time to live through the lives I was stealing, piece by piece.

Because, you know, Nightstalker wasn’t the first to donate her memories to my special cause. She also wasn’t the last.

* * * * * * * *

Perhaps that was the end of what I had been before I knew what the X-Men were, even before I knew what I was. I know that it was the end of anything about me that had been childlike and innocent. I could never go back.

And my dancing went on.

One, two, three, four.

Four bright lights shining above my head. They are my focus, my anchor in the relentless, torrential river of my own memories.

If their memories had behaved as my memories now are, I would have been so frightened that I would've begged the Professor for help much earlier on.

Much earlier.

* * * * * * * * *

My second battle was easier than the first. Strange, isn't that? In a fair world, I could have progressed in steps from slightly difficult to very dangerous. Of course, no one ever said it's a fair world, did they?

We were sent to rescue a group of six newly-emerged mutants from a mob which was chasing them through the streets of Chicago. The last of the scared, confused adolescents was boarding the Blackbird with Jean and Storm guiding them while I stood outside for defense just in case, when three members of the Brotherhood showed up at a run. I guess they figured they'd try and recruit a few young, impressionable mutants who wouldn't know how evil their intentions were. Too bad they were late and that this time they were the ones who were outnumbered.

We weren't looking for a fight with the Brotherhood just then. It was pretty damn inconvenient, if you ask me, for them to show up when we were in the middle of a rescue mission with a mob probably only minutes from finding out our location. So, I did the only thing I could to do at the moment, up against the three of them by myself.

The man who was obviously their group's leader came at me fast. I stripped off my glove and ran to meet him. I vaguely remember hearing Jean yell for me to stop, but I couldn't. My blood was pounding, and I could almost feel my skin itching in anticipation of what I knew I was about to do.

He swung at me with a large fist that resembled a rock. I grinned, ducked, and reached up to touch his bare face with my bare right hand.

I held on only long enough to watch his eyes roll back into his head. Pulling away wasn't too difficult, actually. What he was, his mind and what could be called his soul, repulsed me. I stood there breathing heavily as he crashed to the ground. My hands began to grow and harden, and I glared at his "friends" and sneered. They ran.

Okay, so maybe I looked strange swaggering into the Blackbird with fists twice the size which they normally were. Maybe my eyes were bright yellow instead of the brown they'd been moments earlier. But did that warrant the tirade which followed?

"Rogue! What the hell were you thinking?" Scott yelled at me from the pilot's seat. As soon as we were airborne he turned. I could tell from his clenched jaw that he was glaring at me, and that he was furious.

My guard was up immediately. "I saved our asses out there, that's what I'm thinking now! All they needed were some scare tactics used against 'em! Remember, the bright ones are sent to do the recruiting, Scott, or so you've told me countless times!" I yelled right back, trying to ignore how much my hands ached.

"Enough, both of you! Rogue, come here and let me take a look at your hands," Jean commanded from the doorway that lead to the Blackbird's Small medical unit. I reluctantly obeyed.

"That wasn't exactly a smart thing you did back there," Jean murmured as she examined my hands.

"I know, but I was the only one left to protect us all, and I was pretty sure it would work," I replied coolly, wincing a little when she pressed her latex-covered thumb into the back of my right hand.

"How sure?" she asked.

" 'Bout 95%," I said with a twist of my lips that might have been called a smile, if the person describing it was in a good mood and had nothing against me.

She sighed. "I have to admit, you did what I would have done, Rogue, but that doesn't mean I'm not worried about you," she told me quietly.

For the first time in a long while, I recalled our conversation of over a year ago. I suddenly didn't like thinking that I'd placed so much of a burden on Jean with a few pain-filled sentences. Then the part of me that derived its pleasure from the touch assured me that it was necessary. She would have found out, if I hadn’t kept my guard up and her safely out of the way. Still, I felt the need to reassure her somehow.

I covered her gloved hand with my bare one. "I hardly ever think about what my power can't do for me anymore," I told her. It was true. Instead, I thought only of memories in those days. The ones I had, and the ones I might be able to collect.

Jean looked at me, as if searching for something. Finally, her shoulders relaxed and she smiled slightly. "Thanks," was all she said. It was enough.

"Your bones and musculature have been elarged and hardened, as you can see. I'm a little concerned about the flow of blood to and from your hands, but we'll monitor you closely until the mutation begins to fade. Don't worry, it shouldn't be too long," Jean said at a normal volume as she ushered me into the main section of the Blackbird. I nodded like this had been our conversation all along.

Neither Scott nor Storm talked to me on the way back to the mansion. I didn't really mind. I was busy, actually, trying to press down the new memories, which were incredibly dark and full of anger, pain and loneliness. Those feelings were so close to my own, the only differences in the twisted state of the new feelings, the pleasure that the pain had brought the man whose name I knew, after thinking about it for barely a second, was Suicide. Well, yeah, he'd sure been that.

I heard him calling my name as soon as the Blackbird landed gently in the hangar.

I wasn't about to argue. I suddenly wanted away from the people I'd let get so close as to call them "friends," even though we weren't friends in the usual sense. So I rushed out of the hangar and took the elevator to the upper level, where the X-Men's headquarters ended and the mansion which was a school began.

He was sitting behind his desk, wearing that calm look which had always made me wish I could infuriate him, just once. I wondered if he and Jean had been talking telepathically about me. They probably were. I never asked, not during that interview, not afterwards. I never will.

"Rogue, please sit down," Professor Xavier said heavily. He leaned forward and folded his hands on top of his desk.

The Eric in me recognized this gesture was one he made when he was about to give one of his "I'm not trying to tell you what to do, but..." lectures. I groaned inwardly, as quietly in my mind as I possibly could, and settled into a chair facing him.

"Thank you. Now, Rogue, I'd like to say first that I'm very worried for you. You are still underweight, no doubt from training too hard and missing a meal or two a day. That's not healthy for you, and you know it. However, I've begun to think that you aren't merely physically unwell, especially after Jean's report to me earlier...Rogue, what were you thinking?" he asked me, unconsciously echoing Scott's question from earlier but in a softer, kinder voice.

I stared down at my hands, then I answered, "I knew that we had to stop them. I was sure that scare tactics were all that was needed, and I was right. The other two ran. The third member of their little party will probably wake up in a few days--unless that mob got to him?" The thought hadn't occurred to me, and it made my voice sharper than I had intended to think that Suicide might not survive. Strange, isn't it, what having someone in your head will make you feel? Protectiveness towards that guy was the last thing that had been on my mind an hour before, but now I was worried that he might be killed by that damn mob.

"No, his Brothers managed to get him to safety. But, Rogue, what if you hadn't succeeded? What if they had ganged up on you? You're not invulnerable, you know. Logan is. You are not him, no matter how much of his personality you may have absorbed," the Professor said, his small smile acknowledging the faint traces of Logan which could sometimes be seen in my behavior.

I seriously thought about this for a minute before replying. "If those kids had made it here safely, Professor, then it would have been worth it. As long as we're playing 'what if' here, well, then what if those goons had managed to get on the Blackbird? More than my life was at stake, sir," I said slowly.

Professor Xavier nodded. "I see that you realized that, instinctually perhaps, and that you acted on it. I can't say that I approve wholely of what you did, but I understand, and I'm very proud of you," he told me.

I felt a burning sensation in my eyes. For the first time in a long while I was close to tears. I let my eyes shut and sat there for a moment, then I opened them and smiled at him. "Thank you, Professor."

"You may go get some rest now, Rogue. You've earned it," he told me.

I smiled and stood up, leaving silently and in a much better state of mind than I'd been in on entering that office.

And when I got to my room, I laid down on my bed and accessed the new memories. Maybe there was something worth my time in them . . .

* * * * * * * * *

Five, six, seven, eight.

I count them over and over as I lay here and review my life thus far. At the time I have just described, my downward spiral, my dance of self-destruction, was almost complete. I know that I am as near to normal as I have ever been right now, so I can say this with confidence.

That wasn't the end, though. No, my final steps were close, but this time, no cigar.

I can feel that the end of my journey through my life's record in my mind is near. The events of the year following my reckless but ultimately successful actions in Chicago blur in my mind's eye, blending together into a swirling vortex. It's hard to keep track of things like what I got for my nineteenth birthday or who taught me that really cool kick that I used against that fire breather in Massachusets when I'm trying to sort through things to get to the present.

The most recent of my memories shine brightly in my mind's eye now. Damn it all, I don't want to see this! But they're pulling me, making me see, making me feel what I just wanted to shut away, no matter that there was some good mixed with the bad…

* * * * * * * *

I gained access to the memories of thirty new mutants in the space of one year. Sounds like it should be shocking, doesn’t it? And wouldn’t it have been difficult, hiding those things from my teammates, my mentor, and my friends?

Surprisingly, it wasn’t. They accepted the “necessity” of my frequent usage of my powers. And my adversaries made it all the more easy. Some would come at me and grab at my bare face or exposed neck. A few times I encountered mutants who lived in the sections of New York City that were less than exceptional. Each time, no matter what their gender, I seduced them, then pulled back to enrage them and make them attack me. Everyone was convinced that I was just too young-looking and that I appeared to be too much of a target. And it wasn’t my fault that the evil ones had torn my clothing and grabbed at bare skin, now was it?

The one the one who saw through my façade of cheerful, if slightly dreamy, friend and dutiful X-Man was the new woman who had come to live at the mansion, one Carol Danvers. Although she and I quickly became friends as we both had the tendency to wander alone in the gardens late at night and didn’t mind each other’s company, I realized quickly that she was too much of a kindred spirit. Raised in England and taught there by a counterpart group of the X-Men that one of Xavier’s associates had started about ten years before, Carol used all of her abilities to get what she needed, to do the job, despite the costs. Several times she and the Professor had gone head-to-head about this, but always they’d reached a wary agreement. He wouldn’t question her methods as long as she didn’t kill or seriously harm anyone else, barring threat to her own life, of course.

Carol became part of our group, and the rest of us got to know some more about Xavier’s ventures in Europe. Apparently, his network was more widespread than any of us, including the original X-Men, had been aware of. It spanned three continents and was growing, Xavier using all of his many useful connections and all of the ambition in his heart to coordinate things so that his ideal might be reached, so that human and mutant could live side by side.

I wouldn’t access any memories near Carol if I could help it. Although I knew better, sometimes it seemed as if she could read my mind. That wasn’t her power, though, so I shook off the silly feelings and moved on. Besides, I soon had a much bigger problem to deal with.

They were called Sentinels, and they were some badass mothafuckers.

Sorry, there he goes again, taking over my descriptions and adding his own flavor to 'em. Let's see, where was I?

Oh, yeah, the Sentinels. They were frightening in a way which was unique, different from anything we had experienced so far. Created by the evil Bolivar Trask, who immediately sold every mechanical monster he sold to the Humanity First groups around the nation.

Did I mention how Trask was one of our favorite people? Yeah, right up there with Erik Lenscherr, founder of the Brotherhood. Lovely people you can meet in our line of work.

So, the Sentinels became our most difficult opponents. And their numbers seemed endless. Of course, they were machines which could be reproduced at their masters' will, so that made sense. They just never seemed to stop coming, though.

We made mistakes at first, when it came to dealing with them. I don't know how the Professor got the money to pay the city of Pittsburgh for the way our getting rid of our newest enemies in that first fight demolished half a block of warehouses. Thankfully, most of them had been abandoned--and not yet occupied by the homeless. Most of them, anyway. Then there was the day that a group of Sentinels was reported trying to round up some of the Morlocks of New York City's underground. Nah, I don't think the mayor was too happy with us after that one. Wall Street will never be the same.

I should add here that I didn't like fighting the Sentinels much, on a personal level. I didn't get to do much besides keep the Blackbird warm while the others went out and fought. When I did get a chance to join in the fun, it was mainly to guide mutants we were rescuing to the plane. I couldn't touch the victims of the Sentinels. And the Sentinels were made of metal and mechanical parts, which meant there were no memories for me to pick up with "accidental" brushes of skin against skin. Damn them.

I hate an enemy I can't fight against. I hate an enemy I can't fight against and whom I can't touch even more. It's sad, thinking of how desperate I was for touch, for memories then.

It was our fifth battle with the Sentinels when things took a surprising and painful turn for the worst. Surprising for everyone else and incredibly painful for me, anyway. I, as was becoming standard procedure during our battles with the metal monsters, was manning the Blackbird. I was even pouting a little because everyone else got to go out and beat up the damn things and I had to stay behind. Yeah, I know, pretty childish, huh?

Cyclops and Carol were doing the most damage to the Sentinels. I was pretty proud of 'em, even while I was busy being envious. The whole team worked in sync with each other; Jean, Storm and Iceman providing the support and adding the final touches to finish off the baddies. Gotta love teamwork, even if you're just observing it.

However, probably because of her abilities, which included invulnerability, Carol wasn't being as careful as she should have been. She hacked off one Sentinel's head with the severed arm plate of another, and it was her own damn bad luck that the head fell on her. Of course, that alone wouldn't have been enough to hurt her much. That invulnerability I mentioned. But under the head and over her was the arm plate, and its sharp edge shoved its way into her chest.

I still don’t know why it was able to do that in the first place. Normally, even a sharpen knife couldn’t pierce Carol’s skin. She had demonstrated that to us the first day she had arrived at the mansion. My current theory is that the metal was electrically charged by the cables that had been severed with that head. Really, though, there’s no way to be sure why it happened.

Even as I watched and went numb with shock, I knew that she wouldn't have a chance in hell. Invulnerability doesn't cover internal organs being spilled onto the ground.

Thankfully, the other X-Men noticed what had happened right away. Jean and Storm gathered her up using the technique they had perfected since the Statue of Liberty incident, which I tried to forget as much as I could while retaining Logan's strong presence in my head. They carried her with them as they ran to the Blackbird, Cyclops and Iceman following and providing cover.

I could tell from the blank hopelessness I saw in Jean's eyes as she tried to staunch the flow of Carol's blood--so red, so damn red--that there was nothing that would save her. I gave up the pilot's seat to Scott so that I could go kneel beside where Carol lay bleeding her life out onto the Blackbird's previously pristine metal floors.

"Damn," I whispered sadly, looking into the fading blue of her eyes. She had been one of the few who had never flinched away from an accidental brush of my cloth-covered skin against her, sometimes even touching me voluntarily, a squeeze of her hand on my shoulder, a slight hug when I did something well on a mission. In a way, she was as close to an older sister as I think I'm ever going to get.

Even then, I was thinking of her in the past tense, and I hated myself for it, too. I stared down at her, tears gathering in my eyes, uncertain of what to say to her in those last moments.

When she saw me, though, Carol's eyes lit up. "Let me...live through...you," she whispered weakly, blood bubbling up out of her mouth with every word, with every breath.

I knew what she was asking. I wanted to shrink away from her. There was something different here, something that wasn't me brushing a bare hand against an enemy's bare skin during battle to gain memories. What she asked spoke of love, of kinship that I hadn't dared hope for. It terrified me.

So I did the only thing I could do. Tears streaming down my face, I leaned down and hugged her, letting my bare, tearstained cheek press against her blood-spattered face.

There was something different to the pull this time. It came more quickly, with a snap that made me want to pull away. Almost. And the feeling of Carol rushing into me wasn't anything like what I had experienced before. It was like she was running for her life, seeking a hiding place from the darkness that was ready to swallow her up. Her energy filled my body, and my veins felt like they were close to bursting.

Finally, the pull stopped. I sat up and stared into her glassy eyes, knowing that she was truly dead now. My tears had stopped, though, because she was with me. Her mind bolstered mine, reassured me, and she offered me all that she had had.

It was more than I'd ever absorbed before. So it makes sense that I passed out. It also makes sense that I started babbling in my unconscious state. You don't believe me, you try having a buncha people in your head and then get a big rush of person that is almost as strong as the "you" inside your mind. Then you try telling me that a gal talking while unconscious is unusual. Just try.

They played me a recording of what I said when I woke up. I should have known that they taped every mission. Some sort of idea for using the records for training. Damn them.

I s'pose you want to hear it. Fine. Be my guest. I just want to warn you, though, that it wasn't pretty. Not at all.

"Rogue!" That was Jean, screaming my name as she caught me.

"My god, why--"

"Carol asked her to." The soft voice of Storm interrupting Scott's shocked outburst.

"I couldn't die." That's when I started babbling. The only thing you could call it. "None of us have deserved to be here before. Only me, and Logan, you know. We're the ones who cared for her. She's our family. The others...dammit, I should have realized. You should have realized. Why didn't you, Jean? She's all torn up inside and there's nothing I can do. I'll have to become part of her or I'll be as bad as the ones who haven't yet. Even Erik's managed to integrate himself here. But not the ones who..." The Carol in me, fading out as she came to understand that I probably wouldn't have wanted her to say anything.

"They what, Carol? Who are you talking about? Rogue wouldn't touch anyone unless there was extreme danger to us. So what the hell are you talking about?" Bobby, trying to act all big and manly. Okay, maybe he was by then, but not so I ever noticed in a female sort of way.

"Hush, Bobby. Neither Rogue or Carol in her mind need the third degree right now." Scott, calm again.

"But you want to know, don't you? You rat-bastards wanna know what this little bitch did to us. Well, I'll tell ya. She raped us. Or good enough. She's been running around touchin' mutants in battle for the last year, getting away with their memories. Bet ya sorry fuckers don't know why she's doing it, either. Maybe I'll tell ya." Don't ask me. One of the mutants I've absorbed lately. I can't even tell you now which one.

"Oh?" Jean wouldn't ask anymore than that.

"Yeah. Bitch deserves ta be ratted on. See, the girl got it inta her head that she could experience touch through the memories of the peeps she took power from. None of us have faded much, what with her riflin' through our memories looking for the good stuff at least twice, sometimes as much as ten times a day. The girl just goes off into a trance and lets loose on the little images in her mind. She's gotten pretty good at it. A while back she got the bright idea that some of the enemy would have some memories that might take lookin' into. Guess she got tired of the same old, same old, even Logan's very fascinating sex life. But ya don't wanna know about that. So she's got us rattlin' around in here, and she tries to pretend that we don't exist except to drag memories out of. But this new bitch she let in is gonna change that. I can tell." The voice, mine and not mine, was smug.

"Pardon me, my friends. I let one of her victims take control for a moment to let you see what she has become. I suspected, but I had no proof. Who was I to object to her almost constant meditation? She kept her distance from me, though, as much as she could and still call me friend. It was as if she knew that I was close to discovering the truth. So it wasn't until now that I was sure. You must help her, Jean. You, and the Professor, you are the only ones who can help her. Except--" Carol's voice coming from my mouth stopped, as if she didn't want to complete that thought.

"Except who, Carol? Rogue? Oh, god, is this confusing." Jean only mutters to herself when she's really frustrated.

"I shouldn't say. He's been gone for so long. His presence in her mind has lessened with each person she has violated. Truly, though, Jean, she never hurt any of them." Carol's plea for Jean's, for the team's understanding was a ruse. I could tell from her tone. She was trying to protect me, I believe. Protect my feelings, even after all she had found out about me. "They only remain in her mind because she holds so tight to their memories. If she'd let go...if there were just some way for her to touch...I don't know what to do!" I believe that was me, but I still can't be sure. “Perhaps there is a way…but I will have to look deeper, become more a part of her before I can say for certain.”

"We'll help her," Jean promised.

"Thank you." Carol or me. At that point it was like our voices were merging.

There was silence in the plane after that, a silence that reigned over practically everyone until I woke up in the Medlab.

That's when all hell broke loose. If I thought that everyone had been angry with me over the incident with Suicide and a few others after that, it was nothing compared to what they felt now that they knew, really knew, what I'd been doing to myself for the past few years.

I started crying at some point in the various tirades lashed out at me. I remember screaming above their voices, "I'm sorry! I just didn't want to be alone! I wanted to touch."

They were all quiet again, and then Storm did something that I will always be grateful to her for. She came over and wrapped her arms around me. Okay, yeah, she still looked pretty damn mad, but she was offering me her comfort and support anyway.

"We're going to have to work with you to get over your addiction, Rogue. It's going to be painful, but we have to," the Professor said as his chair rolled over so that he looked up directly into my eyes.

I nodded, my head throbbing and my eyes sore from crying. I wanted it all to end, finally. The memories weren't worth it any more. I began to see what they were. A way of hiding from the world, of keeping myself apart even when I thought I wanted to get closer to people. They were my excuses to stay out of the big game called life.

And I was sick of them.

Jean ordered me to lie back down and try to get some real rest. I obeyed because I was too sick at heart not to. As I slipped off into sleep I heard something that, had I been less exhausted, would have had me bounding out of the bed and running outta that mansion quick as you please.

"I'm going to use Cerebro to locate Logan. Then we must call him here."

Well, damn.

* * * * * * * *

My dance through the stars is done. Now, all I have to do is try to find some happiness and peace in my own life. Which, you know, is pretty hard considering the fact that the Professor just informed me that Logan's on his way and I really don't know what the hell to think about that.

But I do know that I'm gonna be okay. Someday.