Preview

Taking the cure was almost the hardest thing Marie had ever done. The hardest came soon after, when she left the X-men to build a life for herself in the "baseline" world. But years later, when her mutation returns—along with some unwelcome and unethical scientists—she to turn to the X-Men once more.

That is, if they can find her.

Story is told through present scenes, heavily interspersed with flashbacks. Never really done those before, so bear with me.

Housekeeping:

This is my first X-men story, and only my second fanfic ever. In the interests of not writing the world's second rambliest fanfic (see my first, still unfinished after three damned years) I will try to keep this one shorter. For now, the rating is an T for strong language. I am an unabashed Rogan shipper, and an equally unabashed lover of angst, hurt, comfort, etc., so eventually that should come around.

Disclaimer: I don't own the X-men. If only I did! I'd need a larger bed. Anyway, all's I have is too much time and a too-active imagination. No profits to be made here, kthxbye.

Chapter 1

There were many horrible things Marie was experiencing at present: the lack of steady and nourishing meals; the clinical detachment and occasional contempt of the lab techs and orderlies; the restraints; and inevitably the painful experiments, but the absolute worst part of her captivity was the sheer boredom.

The room decor—white on white—was uninspiring. Of course there were no windows, so she had no way of seeing what was beyond the lab building, or what the weather was like, or even if it was day or night. There were neither books nor magazines nor televisions in her room. All that existed were Marie's own memories to help pass the time. And she was not at all sure that this was a comfort.

Twice a day, an orderly came with a tray of food. Once in the morning, and then once again in the evening, after the long day of testing and poking and prodding and interviews and observations. But by that point, Marie was usually exhausted, both mentally and physically, and sometimes the residual pain was too difficult for her to try to force down food. The orderlies, the lab techs, the doctors, none of them ever spoke to her, or even looked at her directly, if they could possibly help it. She was either "it" or "Patient 129"-no doubt some sort of obvious way to try to break down her sense of humanity or self-worth, but Marie was having none of that. Each time they referred to her as it, she would begin an inner litany. Her. She. Rogue. Anna Marie D'Ancanto. Anna Marie Lewin. She called to mind every possible self-referential pronoun or proper noun she had ever employed in her life when she heard the word "it." As for when she heard the words Patient 129, she always thought the same thing: Did 128 patients come before me? How do I help them? That last bit was definitely something Rogue would have thought. Rogue was dead, but her spirit lived on.

Marie knew, of course, that there was no helping any other patient so long as she could not help herself. And the only way she could figure to do that was to keep herself sane.

Sometimes, one of the orderlies was particularly rough when they strapped her onto the table; the restraints were so tight that Marie knew there would be marks and bruises later. There was never a word of rebuke from any of the nurses. The first time this happened, Marie immediately knew how it was going to be. She was an expendable; no need to be gentle. The second time this happened, Marie forced herself to go into her mind and think about another time, another lab.

The Worthington Satellite Laboratory in New York City was as welcoming as it could be, given the circumstances: a line of mutants that the reporters were saying would take three days to clear up, and a spate of protestors on both sides of the "Mutant Question", as well as a bevy of police cars and a private army of well-armed security guards. A noticeable number of white-coated people moved through the line of mutants, welcoming, reassuring, explaining, offering what hospitality they could: a bottle of water, a blanket, information on The Cure.

When Marie, along with the rest of the mutants in her "sector" of the line, were finally ushered into the building and then the lab, she was impressed even further. Ten hospital beds; two orderlies per bed, re-sheeting it for its latest patient. A doctor and a nurse by each bed, and –here was the strangest thing—what appeared to be a chaplain. Beside the chaplain was a well-dressed, kind-faced woman.

They were there, one of the doctors explained, to give advice and counseling and comfort.

Were they being cured or killed? Rogue had a moment to wonder this before the chaplain and counselor began to move through the crowd of mutants. Two of mutants—both of them with non-visible mutations-appeared to change their mind, and were allowed to leave the room, and presumably, the building.

The chaplain, seeing Rogue's youth and apprehensive expression, explained it. Worthington Labs was in full support of the philosophy that mutants were humans, and entitled to the same kindness and dignity of any patient with any illness. And like any human, they had the right to decide how and if to treat it. He then accompanied her to the hospital bed. Did she have a place to return to? Did she feel comfortable? Was there anything he could get her?

Rogue may have been about to lose her mutation, but not her courage. She had thanked the kindly priest, and told him to tend to the others. If she was going to go through with this, she was going to do it on her own.

No, her current accommodations and treatment were a far cry from the Worthington Labs of her memory. She had no idea even where she was, or at whose hands she was suffering, but she had a very hard time believing that it had anything to do with the bleeding-heart compassion she had come to associate with the original engineers of The Cure. There was none of that here.

When had she given up on her resolution not to scream? She couldn't remember, but it didn't matter. Now she couldn't scream—in addition to the restraints, they had inserted a leather strap into her mouth. One of the few compassionate lab techs had explained that it was to protect her tongue when she seized, but Marie knew better. She had gone through three seizures before she had finally given into the urge to scream her rage and pain, and it was only then that they had gagged her. They just didn't want to hear her voice as it tore through the lab.

So her cries were high-pitched, muffled, and entirely in vain. Still, the head doctor felt the need to speak loudly. "Increase the dosage."

None of the other doctors questioned this order, other than, "By how much?"

"Another three units."

The cure—the first time she was given it—had been a little uncomfortable. Not, like, agonizing, but certainly a bit painful. The make-up of each and every one of her cells was changing, as well as the bone marrow that produced the mutated DNA. And then, of course, beyond the cause, there was the symptom: her skin. For a fleeting moment, it had felt on fire, as though a poison were rushing over it. And then, just as quickly, it has subsided to a vague itching, and then nothing.

The doctor who had injected the syringe had been careful, even gentle. He had watched her with anxious eyes as The Cure had done its work. And when she reached out and laid a bare hand on his arm, he hadn't flinched.

Now, though, the syringe was unceremoniously jabbed into her arm, and Marie turned her head about, looking from one face to the other, searching for anything beyond clinical curiosity. She stopped this search abruptly as the pain ripped through her, worse than ever, and she tried to scream again. The strangled cry simply seemed to erupt within her throat, and after a moment, she stopped. It would tax her strength, and she needed as much of that as possible—this rational thought slammed to an abrupt halt as a fresh wave of pain clawed at her, as though it were trying to shred her skin to pieces. And before her horrified eyes, that was what appeared to be happening; her skin appeared to be moving, changing colors, rippling and pulling away from itself at the pores, as though in protest of the chemicals and hormones that were now trying to overpower it.

Watching this, Marie was overcome with wonder. It was as though her body knew what was best for her; it was working to protect itself and her from this altered "Cure", and it was working to reject it. And finally observing this, she finally admitted a terrible thing and acknowledged a terrible fact she had denied for four years. If I'd have known The Cure would bring me this much grief, I never would have taken it.

It was a thought of despair, and it was the last thought she had before she lost consciousness.

Even in the beginning, The Cure hadn't helped her that much, anyway.

She should have known it would drive them away, those mutants who had come to accept her more than her own Southern kin every had.

Bobby was the first disappointment. Scarcely had she returned to the Manor when he began to distance himself, to the point where, after three days, he was practically hiding. It was only after she overheard Logan—Logan, of all mutants—giving him a talking-to that she had realized a nasty fact. Bobby didn't want to be with her any more.

"She's different," Bobby had told Logan.

"No shit, she's different." Logan hadn't sounded thrilled to be having that conversation. "But you gonna start doing the same thing to her that the 'normal' humans did to us? Is Rogue less than you because she ain't got her mutation any longer?"

"I don't know." Bobby had shifted uncomfortably. "I just know that things are different with her and me now. I can touch her—but it freaks me out to think that she was willing to take The Cure."

Logan had muttered something about hormonal, wishywashy boys. And then said, "You know what, bub? Why the hell we even talkin' about this? You kids are too young to know what you want, let alone be touchin' each other, anyway."

"You're only half right, Logan." Marie had stepped forward then. "Bobby sure as hell is too young to know what he wants. But me? I've still got half-a-dozen people rattling around in this head, including a Machiavellian Holocaust survivor, and an probably ageless man with feral inclinations and a penchant for rough sex all over the place. So I think I've got the age card covered."

She had swept past them grandly then, and Bobby had reached out to grab her arm. Logan had grunted in disapproval, but before he could say or do anything else, Rogue had jerked away from Bobby. "Don't touch me."

Irony.

When neither of them came chasing after her, she knew exactly how life would be here with the mutants from now on.

Some were more understanding than others—but not the ones she needed. The younger students were, by and large, the same as ever. Piotr was kind, as was Kurt. Kitty and Jubes had made noises of sympathy, but even as they had commiserated with Rogue, she could feel the distance growing between them.

As for Logan, his reaction had been typical. Of course, he had known what she had intended, so had more warning than some of the others. He had merely given her an assessing look, as though trying to gauge whether or not she was satisfied with her decision. And then had held out his bare hand for her to shake. She had taken it, and was unsurprised by the power and the firm grip behind it. His only words were, "We could have used you out there at Alcatraz."

So Logan was disappointed, too, but for entirely different reasons. As a soldier, as a leader of soldiers, he was disappointed that one of his troops had gone AWOL. And other than the talk he had had with Bobby, he proceeded to ignore the situation, ignore her, as though she were just another student. It was as though, in giving up mutant status, she no longer held any interest or worth beyond that of any other of the 5 billion non-mutants of the world.

It had been then that Marie had stopped thinking of herself as Rogue.

"Think we have to call it a day. Take it back to its room for observation."

Two orderlies settled the unconscious form of Marie into the gurney, trying their best not to touch any of her bare skin. Whenever they injected her with various trial versions of The New Cure, they never knew how long it would last. So far, the Original Cure had stuck the longest, but that wasn't saying much.

For now, though, her skin was not deadly. This was the most important part of the trials, observing how long the "Cures" worked, how her body reacted, what side effects there were. How long it took her to regain consciousness. How much stronger her mutation became when it resurfaced. But the orderlies began to relax a little. Their movements got a little looser, a little less tense. And as they wheeled her gurney down the bare, white corridor, one of them in particular seemed to be quite content to be making more physical contact than was strictly necessary.

The lead doctor of the Rememdium Initiative, Dr. Lucas Dipierri, followed after the gurney. Accompanying him was his lead lab assistant—and sometimes lover— Sara Almquist. She was dictating into a tape recorder as they walked. "Patient 129 was injected with nine units of Trial Cure 42 between the hours of eleven hundred and sixteen hundred; the final dosage of units seven, eight, and nine caused her to lose consciousness approximately ninety seconds after injection. Subject has yet to regain consciousness, but all vital signs are steady."

They stopped in the doorway of its room, watching as the orderlies transferred it from the gurney back to its bed. The orderlies then glanced over to Dr. Dipierri, who gave a nod of assent and watched as they fastened the restraints.

"It's the first time you've restrained it in its room," Sara observed. "Any particular reason?"

He continued watching the orderlies. "We've never dosed it this much before. Side effects could include hallucinations or attempts at self-harm."

She nodded. Together they watched as Orderly Nelson finished tightening the straps to Patient 129's wrists, and then began to work his hand up from its wrist, to its shoulder, and then down its shoulder, disappearing under the flimsy hospital gown.

"You never allowed any inappropriate contact with the other patients." Sara uttered this as a statement, but there was a question behind it.

"Contact was never one of the key issues with the others," the doctor answered. "But it is with this one. And we need a way to tell if the cure is taking with it. Orderly Nelson is the perfect way to continue the experiment—with his somewhat dubious appetites, and equally dubious intelligence, he's always willing to see how far he can take it with Patient 129 before the mutation kicks back in. And he always comes back for more."

As it to underscore his point, Orderly Nelson gave a painful yelp and jerked his hand away from the offending breast.

"Does this man have no concept of conditioned response?" Sara demanded incredulously. Without waiting for an answer, she lifted the tape recorder, hit a button, and resumed narrating in an impossibly professional voice. "Patient 129 exhibited resistance to Trial Cure 42 approximately ten minutes after injection."

The first time Marie began to manifest resistance to The Cure, it was less than a week after she had returned to the Manor. It had begun as a faint itching of the skin, a faint pain similar to the one she had experienced when she had taken The Cure. She didn't want to think about it; didn't want to acknowledge what it meant. So she firmly closed her mind to it.

Just as well, for things weren't getting any better for her at Mutant Manor. Her situation was one of increasing isolation, and strangely, she felt lonelier than she had since her mutation had first manifested. It began to occur to her that once more, she was no longer surrounded by her own.

In the end, the most help and sympathy Marie had gotten had been from a most unexpected source.

A few days after her encounter with Logan, she received a summons to Ororo Munroe's office. Instinctively, Marie wanted to drag her feet, delay it as long as possible, but she had accepted that adult decisions led to adult consequences. Time to face the music.

Tentatively, she knocked on the door to Storm's office, and it opened immediately to reveal the tall, elegant woman. At her shoulder was kindly but unnerving Kurt. "Rogue, come in."

She went in, and sat down in the chair that Kurt pulled out for her. She looked expectantly at Storm.

After a moment, the woman spoke. "How are you doing?" Her voice seemed gentle enough.

Marie shrugged. "Okay, I guess." The eloquence with which she had defended her decision to the others now seemed to abandon her entirely. "Trying to adjust."

"I imagine so." Storm glanced at Kurt. "We've been...trying to think of ways to help you."

Marie waited, outwardly composed, but inwardly terrified. The time of reckoning had come. She had no family to take her in in the larger world, no savings, and now, no mutation to justify her existence here at the Manor. She was a stray, now more than ever.

"Professor Xavier..." Storm paused, remembering her teacher and mentor. "He cared for every human, both mutant and baseline, who passed through the doors of this building. Each student he took in—especially the ones with no family—he established a trust for them."

"A trust?" Marie had heard of them, but had no experience. Trusts were for people with family. Family who cared.

"An educational trust, to see them through their college years. Enough usually to go a small private college, or a larger public university." Storm smiled encouragingly. "Not all of the students who have passed through this door wanted to continue living first and foremost as mutants. So Professor Xavier did what he could to help them through the larger world."

Marie remained silent.

Storm and Kurt glanced at each other. And then Storm spoke again. "So what do you think? Small college, big university?"

"You kicking me out?" Marie's voice was not challenging, only resigned.

It was Kurt who spoke. "Nein, Fräulein," he assured her. "We want you should have the best life you can live. With people who will love and accept you for who you are."

In the end, mutants and baselines were more alike than they wished to acknowledge. Each stuck to their own, and shunned The Others.

With the help of Storm and Hank, when he could visit, and with the emotional support of Kurt, Marie began to make the preparations to depart. Applications, essays, references, interviews—it took all of this, plus the right amount of money, and the pulling of a few strings, and soon enough, they had her placed in a huge, anonymous Midwestern university. By this time, it was late July; only a month to go before her permanent departure from the mutant world.

Marie's isolation continued, so there were few people she could try to touch. On occasion, Storm would place her hand on her shoulder, or Kurt would give her a comforting hug. Hank shook her hand every time he returned to the Manor. And none of them were the worse for this contact. It wasn't until one day, when Logan happened across Marie in the garden, sobbing out her grief over her impending leave-taking, that she realized the truth.

The campus was nigh on empty; Storm had taken the year-long boarders—AKA "the orphans"—into the city the into the City for some field trip. Kurt was in the chapel, praying away as he so often did. So Marie had gone down to the gardens. She would be sorry to leave here; the flowers were oddly comforting. None of them had ever wilted when she touched them. And then, she was crying.

She had been at it for a good five or ten minutes when the sound of approaching footsteps fell upon her ears. She paused in mid-sob, but by then it was too late. She could tell it was Logan, and he had probably heard her all the way from the house.

"Kid, you okay?" He set a half-empty bottle of beer on the grass and knelt down in front of her. "What's wrong?"

This gruff kindness, after all the indifference she had encountered from almost everyone, was the last straw, and Marie could only bury her head in her hands and sob harder.

"Hey." Logan pried her hands away from her face and chaffed them, more gently than she would have thought him capable. "What's wrong, Rogue?"

"Don't call me that!" she screeched.

She felt it then, right before she jerked her hands out of his. She felt the surge of power rush through herand then felt the horrible, familiar tug. And then his thoughts and personality were entering her mind, just like it had always happened. The pain of it slammed into Logan, and he dropped back like a stone, looking more shocked than anything. They hadn't held on long enough for there to be any lasting damage, and his healing factor was already kicking in. It didn't fix his surprise, however. "What the hell just happened...?"

"My mutation..." Marie whispered this. "It's coming back. I think it must...must get triggered when I get upset..."

"Kid, what the hell just happened?" Logan demanded again. He was struggling to sit up. "Rogue?"

In hindsight, they both knew that the rage, the speed, the strength were just manifestations of Logan's own personality, running feral through her head. But at that moment, such knowledge helped neither of them. Snarling, Marie leaped towards him, snatching his abandoned beer bottle and cracking it against a rock. The bottle shattered, just as she had hoped, leaving a satisfyingly wicked shard in her hand. Moving with blinding speed, she was on top of him before he could get to his feet, and held the glass shard to his throat. "Don't you breathe a fucking word of this to anyone."

It was a ridiculous threat, and they both knew it. Even as he watched, the rage died out of Marie's eyes, replaced by equal parts fear and confusion. As quickly as she had jumped him, she retreated. He knew that she was terrified, not just of herself, but of him. "Kid-" He manged to get to his feet, and started towards her.

"Don't touch me! Don't say anything!" she cried, backing away a few feet. It was then that she saw the thing in his eyes that she had never hoped to see again. She saw pity.

Marie turned tail and ran.

Late that night, after Storm had returned from the City, Marie stole into her office and had a lengthy meeting with her.

The next morning, she was gone. And because it was the last thing Marie ever asked of him, Logan never said a word about that afternoon to anyone. Until now.