Something Beyond Seeing: Chapters 1-5

by MizzMarvel

Characters are not mine. But when I take over Marvel...that's a different story.

Chapter Two: Out of the Haze

When Rogue sees the big metal spheres waiting for them in the yard, she freezes, terrified. She can't quite recall what they're for, but she knows she doesn't want to get near them. Her feet are planted firmly on the ground in resistance, but Pietro is stronger than her. He pulls Rogue with him, and faster than fast he picks her up and places her inside one of them. The top closes, enveloping her in total darkness. The transition from blinding white to utter blackness is startling; she faints.

***

She regains consciousness as the top opens, but keeps her eyes shut, playing possum. There are a few short words, commands, in a voice she recognizes but a language that puzzles her, and then big, gentle hands reach into the sphere and lift her out of it. Rogue is held carefully in some unknown strong arms, like one would hold a baby, cradled against a broad chest. She can't resist quickly peeking.

He's definitely a large man, but his face betrays him; he's really just a boy still. In the instant she lets her eyes open, all she can discipher of him is pale skin and dark eyes and hair, but even in that second he catches her. His eyes meet hers, and he bites his lip. She pretends to still be unconscious again, despite knowing for sure that he knows otherwise, but remarkably, he says nothing of it. Slowly, the boy-man carries her across the room.

"What, she's FAINTED?" The same voice, now in English and somewhat disgusted. "The other ones made the trip."

Other ones? The Us.

"She's not as strong as them," another voice, Pietro this time, responds. It's not a disagreement so much as a suggestion.

"Perhaps." Who is it? Rogue knows this voice, but can't place it.

"How do we get the collar off her?" Pietro asks.

"We don't. That dampens her abilities; with it on, she can't use her powers and she can't threaten the rest of us."

"But..." If he was meaning to argue, Pietro doesn't finish.

"Rogue will go upstairs, in the empty room. The others, downstairs." Then more words in a mysterious language, and whoever is carrying her begins to walk again.

Oh, of course, she thinks. Of course I know who that is.

Magneto.

***

Sunshine pouring out of her small window and into her lap. Later, there will be the moon and stars, then sunrise again. It's beautiful. Days have gone by, three of them (she can tell by the movements of the light or lack thereof in the sky) and Rogue has been remembering. It's much easier, it seems, to remember things in the bed of a musty room with natural light than one that constantly blinds and dazes. She recalls everything now, and it feels like tears choking her heart.

Rogue runs her hand over her short hair over and over again, fascinated and perversed by the prickly sensation. She's never had to grow it from scratch before, not since she was a baby; she'll never take it for granted again.

There's a knock at the door. There's no doubt who it is. It's only ever one person.

"Come in," she calls softly.

The door opens and Mr. McCoy, awkward with his huge shoulders and lumbering steps, comes in.

"Hello, Rogue," he says, and smiles weakly. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Yeah, mah head doesn't hurt so much an' stuff."

He nods. "That's good. Then maybe today you can get up and around. Get the jist of things..." Mr. McCoy frowns slightly and looks down at the floor. "Since we're going to be here for a while."

"Do ya know anything 'bout what's goin' on?" She is desperate for answers.

He sighs. "Well, we're on Genosha, a large European island, but I really don't know anything about it other than that. Geography isn't my subject, you see. This place is just a house, a large one. I suppose we're in the country, since there are no other homes nearby. Magneto has it protected with an invisible forcefield." Mr. McCoy grins sheepishly. "I know because I made a break for it the first chance I got. It really stung, too. But otherwise, I think we're pretty much free to go around as we please."

"Who else is here?"

"You, Evan, Fred, and myself. Magneto and Pietro, of course, but they're usually in the basement with Sabertooth working on something. There are also the three other boys, his new team, and they seem to just putter around the premises all day. I haven't talked to them, but Spyke and Blob seem to have made friends with one."

"So the boys are all right."

"Evan was very weak, like you, at first. I think you two seemed like less of a threat to the doctors, so they extracted more blood from you than Fred or me. But he's fine now, yes."

Rogue shakes her head, clearing her thoughts. "Ah can't believe this. It's so...weird."

He laughs bitterly. "You're telling me." He pats her hand and starts towards the door. "I'm going downstairs to see what else I can find out. Try and see if you can make it to dinner, okay? It'll be in a few hours." Then Mr. McCoy is gone again.

She sighs. It's weird.

***

The sun is a little closer to setting when Rogue finally wills herself out of bed. In the tiny closet, she finds some clothes, dark in color and rather too large for her, but she puts them on anyway; they're soft on her skin. The metal collar that inhibits her mutant powers feels chunky and conspicuous, loose and impossible to hide.

She stares at the door for a few minutes, nervous. She had forgotten to ask Mr. McCoy how long they'd been captured, but apparently it was long enough to make her feel uneasy about venturing beyond her small enclosure.

I've fought mutants jerks and giant robots, danced in front of the school in a play, she thought. I can do this. I can go outside.

She walks to the door, puts her hand on the knob, takes a deep breath, opens it, and steps outside.

"Hey," says the boy standing in the doorway directly in front of hers. "Welcome."

Chapter Three: First Contact

 Rogue examines the boy silently for a few moments before answering, "Hey."

Except for his shockingly bright red hair, he looks like a straw, extremely thin and somewhat tall. Even his face is long, with a pointed chin that he has raised, pointed at the girl before him. Leaning against the doorway, his arms are crossed and his eyes are filled with laughter. But she remembers him from before, with his fire, when his eyes were full of perverse adoration for the flames. She won't go near him.

"We never thought you'd be comin' out," he says. Interestingly, he has an Australian accent. "We have a pool goin', in fact, on when we'd see you. Hey, what time is it?" He looks down at his wristwatch, apparently not really expecting an answer from her. "Gear! I won it! That means I get five pounds."

Rogue is silent, studying him warily.

"Oh, I'm St. John, by the way." He pronounces it "Sin Jin."

She doesn't answer.

"Huh. Not much of a conversationalist, I guess." He runs his hand across his hair before going on, "Well, okay. It's all right if you don't like me. But steer clear of Gambit. All he ever talks about is scoring with sheilas an' stuff. You maybe shouldn't trust him."

"But I can trust YOU?" Rogue finally asks sarcastically.

St. John grins wryly. "So NOW she speaks. Well..." He shifts his weight nervously and stares at his feet, suddenly uncomfortable. "Well, you don't need to worry about me. I'm not...I'm not really into GIRLS. Y'know?"

Under normal circumstances, she probably wouldn't quite believe such a claim from a guy she just met, especially a guy who hasn't been around girls for a while and has something to gain from a female trusting him. But there's something in the way he carries himself, his stance, that tells her that St. John has known a certain kind of persecution before, a kind that has nothing to do with his being a mutant.

"But don't tell the other guys, okay? I don't want them to think..." The desperate fear that flashes in his eyes confirms it for her.

"Don't worry 'bout it," she says.

A look of relief washes over his face, and his shoulders relax. "Thanks. And look, I'm sorry I just started in on you the first second you stepped out. It's just that I'm SO hungry for an intelligent convo, y'know? The boss an' his kid are always downstairs, Sabertooth scares the bejeezus out of me, Gambit's an ass, and the big guy can't even speak English. So then YOU guys show up, and the REALLY big guy - y'know, Freddy - an' Spyke kind of drifted over to Gambit right off (an' no offense, but they don't really seem the brightest bulbs anyway), an' the Beast is sort of standoffish, on his own. You're my last hope. I've been basically silent for the last couple of weeks or so, so now I'm just talking and talking and talking to you, an'...an' I guess I should stop now." He scratches his head.

Inwardly, she smiles. "It's okay. Ah haven't really had anyone ta talk ta in a while either."

"Yeah, you were in that Sentinel place. For, like, a month."

"A month? Seriously?"

"Since we fought, right? That was a little over a month ago."

She has to place a hand against the wall, since she's suddenly dizzy. "A month. A whole month?" A chunk of her life has gone by, and she can't remember almost any of it. The thought occurs to her that anything could have happened to her, been done to her, during that time...it's terrifying.

"Yes. Are you all right?" St. John cocks his head, a look of mild concern gracing his features.

"Ah'm...yeah. Ah'm okay."

"Uh, you sure? I could help you to your - "

"NO! No, ah'm fine!" Rogue pictures him laughing with his fire, the mad glint in his eyes. She can't afford to trust him.

"Well, um, jeez. Okay." His eyes widen slightly. "It's dinner time now. Could you go for some dinner? Would that be favorable with you?" Despite her outburst, there's still humor in his voice.

"Dinner?" Involuntarily, her stomach rumbles. Loudly.

"Heh. I guess so. C'mon." He walks down the hall, and she can hear him go down some stairs.

She follows. He's right, after all.

***

"Okay," St. John says when they're in the kitchen. "Here's the deal. The meals are pretty simple 'round these parts." He stands next to a large microwave on a counter and pats it amiably. "This fella is our best friend. He cooks all the meals, see, since no o' us have any skills in the kitchen. And this lady..." St. John steps over to a huge metal refrigerator and opens the freezer compartment. "Is another fine mate. Full of tasty things." The freezer is packed with frozen meals, jammed from top to bottom. "I think tonight I'll partake of...Salisbury Steak. Mmm, in delicious liquidy stuff, too. Is it gravy or just brown water? The mystery makes my palate tingle in anticipation." He turns back to Rogue and grins a bit. "How about you? What's your pleasure?"

"Um, ah dunno. Ah'm not, eh, well versed with frozen food."

"I see. Well then, I would suggest the fried chicken dinner. A classic, it is." He takes a box from the middle of the stack, slams the door shut, and rips the package open. "Put it in the micro, press a few buttons..." He follows his own instructions. "An' dinner in a minute."

"All the food's this kinda stuff?"

"Oh, no, of course not. For breakfast we eat cold cereal."

"God..."

"No, I don't think so. If He were involved, I think the food'd be better."

Rogue represses a smirk. There's something about St. John, who's tapping the counter in mock anticipation, that she likes. If things were different and he were maybe a new student at the Institute, she'd be the one showing him the ropes, the one trying desperately to make him feel at home despite how uncomfortable he may feel. Maybe she'd invite him to sit with her and Risty at lunch when he started school, being a fellow misfit and all. But that isn't the case at all.

You can't trust him, she thinks. So don't. He's part of Magneto's team.

The microwave dings. St. John reaches in and carefully takes out the plastic plate. "Lovely. Now do mine."

"Huh?"

"I cooked yours, so you cook mine. Fair is fair, sheila."

"Fine." In a few seconds, St. John's steak is steadily being nuked.

"You're a natural. You'll eat just fine here."

"Good to know."

From outside the kitchen, footsteps slowly make their way towards the door. Rogue's eyes widen, and she nervously grips the edge of the counter. Who is it this time? Someone else to deal with now. She turns to watch the door.

"Eh, don't worry about it," St. John remarks lightly, eyes never leaving the microwave's timer. "It's only the Russian."

Chapter Four: Slight Discomfort

  The Russian is the boy who had so gently carried her from a metal sphere several days before. When he walks into the kitchen, he halts for a moment, apparently not expecting anyone to be there, and stares at Rogue and St. John placidly. His gaze lingers on her for a few seconds longer than comfortable before making his way to one of the wooden cabinets. He opens it, and pulls out a box of Cheerios.

"Funny guy," St. John continues, still watching his food cook. "He eats cereal for every meal. You'd think a guy his size'd need more calories." The microwave dings. "Ah, dinner!" He eagerly pulls out the tray.

"What's his real name?" Rogue asks, trying not to watch him as he poured his cereal into a bowl.

"Magneto calls him Colossus." At the sound of his codename, the Russian looks up at the two, puzzled and waiting. St. John shakes his head apologetically and adds, "It's nothin', mate. Sorry." He shrugs. The Russian nods slowly, and heads for the refrigerator for milk.

"But what's his name? His real name, ah mean?"

"I dunno."

She frowns. "Ya 'dunno'? He's yer teammate an' ya don't even know his name?"

He sighs. "He doesn't speak ENGLISH. The only one of us who can talk to him is Magneto, an' even he's limited to basic commands. 'Sides, the Russian keeps to 'imself. He hasn't volunteered any info, y'know?"

"Ah can't believe that," Rogue says, watching the bigger boy pour milk into his bowl. "He musta tried ta say SUMTHIN' 'bout himself." He returns the carton to its place.

"Well..." St. John answers, mirth entering his voice again. "I've been talkin' to YOU for a while now, an' I don't even know YOUR name."

Her face reddens, and without her usual mask of pale foundation, she knows it's obvious.

"Ah'm Rogue."

"All right, then, Rogue. You didn't even realize you hadn't told me, didja? Well, maybe neither does he. Only I can't ever so gently point that out to 'im like I did to you."

The Russian, with his bowl of Cheerios, leaves the kitchen as silently as he'd entered it, uninterested in whatever they might be saying.

"He's got a good idea," St. John goes on. "Let's eat these things before they congeal into a glob of fat an' water." He holds his tray of microwaved Salisbury steak, and raises an eyebrow. "Comin'? Everyone usually eats in the quote-unquote 'dinin' room'."

She picks up her own tray. "Ah guess so." What else can she do, after all?

He walks out of the kitchen. She follows.

***

The dining room, as it is called, is essentially a room with a big oak table and some chairs. Nothing fancy and no frills; it couldn't be any more different from the Mansion's dining room, with ornate carvings in the furniture and a chandelier dangling from the ceiling. When the two enter, it's already occupied - the Russian is eating his Cheerios dinner by himself at the far end of the table, and Evan, Fred, and another young man sitting and talking, the remnants of their meals pushed aside. The instant she sets foot inside, in fact, the new mystery boy stands up and addresses them:

"Who dis?" he asks playfully, a sly smile on his lips.

He's the one who, during the conflict, had handed her a playing card. He had surprised her, then dumbfounded her when he did not attack, handing her the King of Hearts with a silent smirk. All that, the combination of it with his mute charm, had transfixed her to the point that she barely realized in time that the card was going to explode in her grasp. The memory of it embarrasses her, and she has to will herself not to blush again.

St. John frowns slightly, but says, "This is Rogue. Rogue, this is, eh, Remy...Gambit." He emphasizes the codename, obviously trying to remind her of his earlier warning.

Remy's eyes narrow slightly, but his smile remains the same. "M' pleasure."

"Yeah," she replies dully.

He waves a hand in the direction of the table. "Sit."

So Rogue and St. John sit. Remy does the same.

"You feeling better, Rogue?" Evan asks, the first time she's heard him speak in a while. She's grateful for his familiar face, though he's different, still. His hair has begun to grow out of its fancy cut and golden dye, black at the roots. He's also wearing a collar like hers.

She nods. "A little." She pushes around the mashed potatoes on her tray with her fork.

"Well, petite, ya LOOKIN' fine." Remy's words have a taint of suggestiveness in their sympathy, but she decides to ignore it.

"Where's Mr. McCoy?" she asks Evan.

"Outside, but I don't know why. He already ate, I guess."

"Yeah, heh heh," Fred chimes in. "The force field thing already fried him once." Like, Evan his hair has grown out, now somewhat resembling a crew cut.

"We can go outside, though? We don't hafta ask?"

Remy shakes his head. "Naw. Ya jus' go."

Rogue stands up. "Ah'm goin' outside, then."

St. John looks up from his food. "Outside? But...jeez. I mean, I think you should eat. Y'know?"

"Hey, she a big girl, mon ami. She wanna go, she goes," the Cajun tells him, the grin still there, but eyes narrowed further, almost accusingly.

St. John rolls his eyes. "Whatever."

But Rogue's already gone.

***

The second she's out, Rogue takes a deep breath and outstretches her arms, relieved at the wide expanse of space and quiet. Mr. McCoy is nowhere in sight, but that doesn't matter. She really just wanted to get away from the sudden onslaught of human contact anyway.

The sky now only holds a few random spatterings of pink, and crescent moon shines peacefully down on the large yard outside the house. She turns slowly all the way around, taking in her surroundings for the first time. The house, it turns out, it a rather large one of Victorian style, in need of a paint job. She wonders why Magneto would choose such a place as his head quarters, then realizes that it's an excellent cover; after a castle in Europe and a huge metal dome in the Sahara, who'd suspect him to be in such a humble place? The yard itself consists of a somewhat shaggy lawn, some wild flowers here and there, and a few big trees. There's a scent in the air, a pleasant one, but she can't place it...

"That's the sea you smell," a voice from behind her confirms.

Rogue turns to see who it is, but she really doesn't have to. Pietro, so thin and obviously tired. Her Someone.

"If you were to walk up the hill," he continues, pointing off in a direction. "You'd see it a bit. It's pretty nice." He's silent for a moment, then goes on, watching her intently, "You're okay?"

She nods and fingers her collar self-consciously. "Yes."

"Good, 'cause when you...when I first saw you, you were kinda out of it." Pietro looks away. "I was worried."

She doesn't answer.

"I...I want you to know..." He shakes his head. "I should go. I only came out here for a quick break." And then he's off again.

Though he's going too fast to actually watch him, Rogue stares off in the direction he left.

Why, she thinks sadly. Why'd you set us up?

Chapter Five: Eyes of Fire

When Rogue awakes the next morning, the house is still and quiet. She is also hungry, having skipped dinner the night before. As noiselessly as possible, she slips out of bed and pulls on the clothes she finds in her closet. Outside, she sees when she glances out the window, a thick fog from the sea has rolled in and covers the yard and garden.

Wearing no shoes, she leaves her room, tiptoeing past St. John's closed door and down the stairs. There is a slight panic when she is faced with two identical doors, and realizes that she's not sure which one leads to the kitchen; she doesn't want to stumble into one of the boys' bedrooms or anything, after all. After a minute or so of mental debate, she decides on door number two and is pleased to find she chose correctly. She pours herself a bowl of cereal (Raisin Bran) and makes her way into the dining room.

He's sitting in there already, at this early hour. The Russian, with his bowl of cereal. At the sound of her entering, he looks up, but quickly breaks eye contact, staring down into his breakfast. She sits down at the front of the table, the farthest away she can be from him without actually leaving the room. If the Russian's offended by this, he makes no sign of it.

Eating her food, Rogue tries not to think of anything. She's trying not to think of what happened a month ago, and the betrayal of one of her best friends. She's trying not to think of the time she can barely remember, her shorn hair, the metal collar around her neck that makes her feel like an animal, Mr. McCoy alone and distant somewhere outside. She tries not to think about anything, and it's working. When her bowl is empty, Rogue continues to sit, watching listlessly into it as if all the answers will appear there is she waits long enough.

She has no idea how long she's been sitting there with the spoon gripped loosely in her hand, when she feels a touch on her shoulder, light as the wind. Involuntarily, Rogue flinches and jumps, twisting instantly around to see who it is. It is the Russian, his face serene and understanding. He scoops her bowl into his big hand and goes into the kitchen, a mute act of kindness.

Seconds pass before Rogue finds her voice. "Thanks," she whispers, but it's too late for him to hear.

***

After a while, Rogue goes back up to her room without ever having seen anyone else. But spending the day staring out of her window doesn't make the time speed by faster. She watches the fog disperse, the sun rise higher in the sky, and from time to time Mr. McCoy lurking in the yard. She counts the cracks in the ceiling and the individual floorboards, rifles through the few drawers and the closet. Sometime after noon, she sees things with a sudden clarity.

I will go out of my mind, she realizes. If I do this for even one minute longer.

Still not knowing anyone else's whereabouts, she once again opens her door, but this time does not go down the stairs. Instead, she walks straight ahead across the hall and, hesitating slightly, knocks on the door.

"Come in," St. John calls from inside.

Before she can decide to otherwise, Rogue barges into his room and asks, "What do ya guys do ta make the days go bah?"

He's stretched across his bed fully clothed, feet dangling over the side. When she speaks, he looks up from the thick book balanced in his hands and grins.

"Well, look who it is! Y'know, in your absence I've awarded ya the title of Miss Congeniality. Your crown's in the mail. But you asked a question...well, I don't know what the others do, the boys, I mean. Maybe they help Gambit pick off his body lice. But I, well, I read. And try to write from time to time."

"Try ta?"

"I'm not very successful, you see."

"But ya read?" Trying to seem as casual as possible, Rogue rocks slightly on her heels and pretends to inspect a poster of Sydney, Australia thumb-tacked to the wall.

"Sure."

"And...and, ya have books?"

St. John laughs. "Oh, so THAT'S what ya want, then? And here I was thinking you over here to admire my gorgeous late-adolescent body. Well, I'm somewhat relieved, for, eh, certain reasons."

Rogue's mouth twitches into a small, uneasy smile. "Actually, ah was figurin' that ah could do both at the same time."

He's obviously delighted. "A sense of humor, and a good one! Rogue, you've just become my best friend."

But suddenly she's reminded again of his other side, the glee in his eyes at the sight of his own flame, and she's scared, not only at the possible danger he presents, but the fact that she likes him in spite of this. Really, she shouldn't be enjoying the company of ANY if these people other than her own team mates; it would almost be like another betrayal if she did. But Mr. McCoy told her that they'd be there for a while, who knows how long, and to distance herself from everyone just isn't possible. Even a so-called "loner" like herself needs friends. She just has to trust them, though. That's the difficult part.

I can't dance around this forever, she thinks.

"St. John," she says softly. "Ah remember our, uh, our conflict...ya make fire, dontcha?"

His face suddenly becomes sober and uneasy. "Yeah."

"An' yer different with the fire."

He looks away. "Yeah."

"Tell me 'bout it."

St. John sighs heavily. "It's hard."

"Life is hard."

He turns sharply and looks at her silently for a moment before replying, "I know. Okay, jeez. Well, I...I was always one o' those kinds who played with matches, y'know? Even though yer parents told ya not to? I just liked to watch the flames - they were so beautiful, absolutely relentless and uncontrollable. My fingers were always burned, but it was okay. It felt like a fair trade to me, beauty for pain."

St. John gets off his bed and stands near his window, back to Rogue, and continues, "Then I started to burn things. First paper, later other stuff...I liked to see 'em melt. But a couple of years ago, I burned down part of our garage on accident. It really was an accident! I got sent to shrinks an' stuff, to fix up my mind an' whatever made me like fire, an' eventually I was okay. When my...abilities manifested, though, I could make fire and control it! How ironic. Or unfortunate, I can never remember which. Well, to make an already long story short, it's kinda hard to keep myself under control when I'm surrounded in flames. Y'know? But that's why they call me Pyro." He turns back to her and his eyes are red-rimmed and anxious.

"But other than fightin'," Rogue says slowly. "Yer okay? Yer not like that?"

His laugh this time sounds like a hiccup. "Rogue, I really CAN cook. I just won't let m'self near the stove."

It's her turn to sigh this time. "St. John, ever since ah woke up a couple a days ago, ah've been tellin' mahself, don't trust anyone, don't trust anyone. In mah head, ah know ah'm right."

"Oh," he replies, all of his former humor vanished. "I get it."

Now she thinks, and she wants to think. She has to. She thinks of being alone in her room for days, with only Mr. McCoy coming up from time to time with a bowl of soup. She thinks of Evan and Fred somewhere in the house, knowing she's weak and scared, but not visiting her, not supporting her, not assuring her that they're with her. She thinks of the skinny redhead across the hall who managed to ignore her sullen distant behavior with a laugh, trying his best to show her the ropes and even protect her.

"But ah'm gonna anyway," Rogue goes on. "'Cause right now, yer mah best friend too."

He stands in shocked silence, before whispering, "Thank you."


To be continued...