lucetilogs | Post-Event Reaction Log!

[Her claws cut through his flesh like tissue paper--

Blood is thick in the air like smoke--

--scream louder, frail, I like it--

--"MUTTER!"--

--The light in the rat's beady eyes faded as she squeezed it's throat - don't forget to drain the blood - she'd actually eat meat tonight--

They were pouring metal inside her, metal inside her that boiled, slicing her open and pouring metal inside her, coating her bones and she was choking--

"Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeed!"--

Rogue screamed again.

Loud, high pitched, pained - and terrified.]

[His first instinct is to go right on in without granted permission. She's his--

What? His what, after all?

And then she screams again. He ignores the nagging hesitancy. Screw it. He's going in.]

[They've come for her because of what she is and they're tying her down to a stake, lighting her on fire, fire, they're going to burn her--

Beast, there's a beast, crawling out from inside her -- you'd better run--

Someone is screaming, oh God, shit, did she just kill a kid--

Who am I?

There's a car, brand new and red, and it goes fast and it's all for her--

--no, she'd carjacked it, hadn't she? Driven it into a mud ditch because it served that bitch right--

--the walls were falling in on her, she was trapped, trapped and there was no light and no air and they were crushing her--

When the door opens, Rogue (normal hair, short and around her face) is on her knees on the bed, her bare hands bracing her face, rocking back and forth. She doesn't scream again - her eyes are tightly shut - and her breathing is harsh and labored.]

[Involuntary flashbacks to the first time she zapped someone flood his mind--she'd been so scared that time, too--not real, not real. But it feels like it was real, and seeing her like this is a lot to handle.

He swallows against a dry throat, crouching near her, but not touching.]

Rogue? Rogue. Talk to me. Come on--can you hear me? Stay with me. Rogue.

[His voice is steady, but only just, laced with something familiar that shouldn't be.]

[She doesn't hear him come in. She's lost in--

Vietnam, or was it Russia? It didn't matter because all she had to do was kill--

God, she was starving, God - God, HA, there was no G--

"Rogue?"

She'd set the bomb in place perfectly. Maximum fallout. It was a pity that she wouldn't be around to hear the parents scream--

Scream louder, frail, the more you struggle the more fun--

--her claws ripping into flesh--

"Rogue."

It was her birthday, she was sixteen. She and Tony would have waffles for breakfast--

It was her birthday, she was twelve. Her mama had hugged her and made pancakes, and said they had something important to talk about--

"Talk to me."

Ready - set - down - hike!

Why was she a girl, she wasn't a girl - that pretty one in class who never smiled--

Class, what class, she'd never been to school - she was taught by private tutors, nothing but the best --

No

"Come on--can you hear me?"

Burning, they were burning her, going to kill the demon--

You'll need to wear gloves until we can find the cure--

It's a rare skin disease--

Some kind of genetic mutation--

God, are they trying to kill her? What had she done?

"Stay with me."

Searching the desert for him - she won't give up, she has to try and find him, she has to make it right--

Reaching out her hand - she can help, she can help her - and then rage and then pushing--

Pepper and Rhodey and Jarvis--

Kitty and Kurt and Scott - Logan. Remy.

Mystique.

Obi--

Tony.

Irene.

Marion.

"Rogue."

She made an abrupt high-pitched noise.

The Rogue I know--

Damn straight, Logan.

And started to fight back.]

[He watches her closely, not even blinking. Not for a second thinking of leaving her side now. It's clear that the struggle she's going through is intense--worse than anything he remembered from his--memories.

But she would pull through. He knew she would. She was...]

Come on, you've got to remember. Remember who you are. Fight it, Rogue. Come on. You can pull through this.

[She was one of the strongest people he knew. Fake memories or not, that was still true.]

[Rogue wasn't afraid of pain.

She couldn't afford to be.

Pain was the only thing she was allowed to feel.

"Come on, you've got to remember."

And she tore through Marion's memories like wrapping paper, shredding them mercilessly from herself--

laughter and security and wealth beyond measure, testing and pain and his constant presence, father and daughter and DNA testing proving them strangers, meaning nothing, - "You're a Stark now. Wear it proudly." - and SHIELD--

"Remember who you are."

And she dove deeper, into the parts which hurt. Rogue knew pain. She could wrap herself in it like a blanket--

What do you mean, you're going away? Your aunt Irene is blind, you have to take care of her, it's a rare skin disease, why does he keep staring at me like that, dance with me, what's going on? Why am I a girl?, they are trying to kill me, you'll be safe here -- Mystique

Oh, she didn't want to remember. But she threw herself into those most painful memories - I adopted you when you were four! - into her mother's love and betrayal, into Risty and Scott and the mansion exploding and Area 51 and Apocalypse and that push.

Kurt is too comforting a memory. It confuses her, for a moment, and she has to shove it back. But that brush of tenderness, of love, gives her the strength to finish the job - in hopes that there someday might be something other than pain.

"Fight it, Rogue."

It feels like years. But--

"Anna Marie--"

"It's Rogue now, Mama."

--she remembers who she is.

And the psyches, every single one of them, are faded and small in comparison - she's dealt with them before, she knows them, she knows this pain.

And she shuts them back behind her wall. It's not quiet. It's never quiet inside her mind. But she's herself again.

Rogue falls forward, abruptly too week to even sit up straight, the psychic battle having taken all she has. Her hands snap out to catch herself in a reflexive action before she can hit the bed with her face--

disgusting--
--selfish
Monster
"You shut it, or I'll come back there."

--and she's panting with effort.]

[...She's done it. She broken through the noise. And good god, it looks like it's taken a lot out of her.

He'll give her a moment, just letting her catch her breath. The concern is clear on his face, but what the hell could he do to make this better? He couldn't. Just like all those times he'd tried to fix her--

And then she'd found her own way of fulfillment with SHIELD, and things had been good after she found him in the desert.

But none of this ever even happened.]

...Hey, can you hear me now? Tell me what you need. Come on.

[Rogue was left with a raging migraine, an upset stomach, and--

Oh Gawd, what happened?]

Think I'm gonna be sick.

[You'd best get a bowl or move or something, Tony.]

[That's clear enough. He bolts toward the bathroom, grabs a bucket he's fairly certain has never, ever been used for its intended purpose of cleaning, and dodges back towards her room.

Does he make it in time?]

[Let's go with yes. Though by the time he's back she's managed to struggle her way to the edge of the bed, paler than the white of the sheets, almost gray, with her head between her knees--

Bowl, okay, good.

Rogue is violently sick, and when she's through the headache remains, though her stomach is slightly calmer. She reaches up to wipe at her mouth with a trembling pale hand, still not looking at him.]

Sorry.

[For... Gawd. Everything.]

[His muscles relax ever-so-slightly. This wasn't going to be pretty. But at least she was...okay. As okay as she could be at this point, anyway.

...Dammit. He rubs at his eyes.]

Don't be. You don't have anything to be sorry for.

[She makes a small noncommittal sound that could mean anything from "Dude, I just threw up in your spare room," to "Sure, it's not like I just thought I was your daughter or anything - I'm sure you loved being related to a stranger, a mutant, and a crazy monster"]

I'll get out of your hair in a minute.

[You know, as soon as I can see straight.

She still doesn't quite dare raise her head.]

[Like any of that was her fault. Goddamn Malnosso. Goddammit.

'You don't have to' is he instinctive response. But where that instinct is coming from is what makes him hesitate.

So he settles on a variation, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, watching the window.]

And go where? It's still the middle of the night.

[She jerks an arm in what's meant to be a dismissive wave.]

I'll figure somethin' out.

[I may not be a Stark, but my brain's not broken.]

And pass out in the middle of the road? Yeah, no. You can stay here until you're not sick and fatigued.

[Still. Watching that window. Trying not to think too much (which of course means he's overthinking everything).]

Not gonna pass out.

[Passing out would be a mercy.

Or it would leave me waking up tearing into someone with my teeth, whatever...

She moves to plant pale hands on either side of her to brace herself to stand, though she still doesn't look up, doesn't look at him.]

You're not exactly convincing me, here.

[Plus he's got to protect--no, dammit, that wasn't--

--watch out for a friend. A. Friend.]

Damnit, Tony, I know you don't want to see me right now anymore than I wanna be seen. Just let me do what we both want an' get the hell out without makin' a federal case out of it.

[That is sad far too wearily to be considered angry.]

Look--[He should let her do what she wants.

But dammit, he can't help but worry.]

If you're going home, I'm at least walking you there.

Kinda defeats the purpose, don't it?

[Deal with it. Lingering impulses or not, he's going to see her safely to her destination.]

You'll be 'out of my hair' all the same. I just don't want you to make yourself worse in the process.

[A soft snort.

'Make herself worse.'

Ha.]

I mean it.

[Still watching the window.]

[She sighed. After all, his concern was legitimate. The last time she'd lost control...]

Promise I won't go blowin' up any buildings.

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