Something to Remember Me By

by Meridian

Disclaimer: What's Marvel's is Marvel's, which is just about everyone mentioned here, including the narrator. Not for profit, written without permission, and all that jazz. Forgive me and don't sue, please. Just a humble request.

Archive: Um, Just e-mail me to tell me where, okey-day?

Feedback: YES! ANY KIND!

Rating: PG-13 (for cursing, minor violent overtones, nothing serious)

Note: This is my first X-fic that is not based either on AU (not really anyway) or the movieverse. It's an X-Men *comics* continuity-based fanfiction! I've been catching up for a while, and decided that the Revolution, which threw away one of my favorites, had to be stopped...or at least updated. So here's a short about one of the missing X-Men, and that's it. Story goes up through about UXM #387 I believe, but basically it's post-Revolution and that's what matters.

There's a picture on the bureau. No doubt there are a whole bunch of standard white briefs in the top drawer, right next to the bleached-white socks, maybe some precious articles he figured no one would consider worth stealing at the cost of having to dig through his underwear. I don't know why anyone would care, but then again, I come from a dirty place, so underwear doesn't scare me. Not much of anything does.

Anyway, like I said, there's a picture on the bureau. I bet she left it there on purpose. The man is dead, and he ain't coming back. I don't give a damn what the track record is for staying dead around here. Hell, I've come back once or twice myself, but this time, there is no coming back. He's not really dead, which makes it worse, if you care.

I don't.

The picture is just like any other you'd expect to find in a nice-nice frame. Memories are more real than pictures. He looks happy. I can't remember ever meeting him when he smiled like that. Then again, I didn't hang around him a whole lot. The glasses look awful. Good. I'm glad that he has to pay some kind of price for the rest of him. I'm not as bad as they think; I know beauty. He was beautiful, for an old guy anyway. The glasses, though...he deserves those for being beautiful.

I've decided that he's smiling at someone. Probably his wife. No one else ever made that guy smile, not so far as I ever saw. Again, not that I took special pains to notice, but he was just that way, or so I assumed for all of the short while I was here when he was. It just never mattered to me. Everyone I knew and cared for died or will die and I've learned not to become too attached. Since I had no reason to really care about him, why should anything about him matter?

I don't think anyone knows I'm here. They just dropped me like so much baggage. They don't think I'm alive, I suppose. That Logan character could sniff me out in a heartbeat. I've seen him around, so why doesn't he know I'm here? I guess no one comes over to this place anymore. It used to belong to the happy couple. The couple that's minus one right now.

They're all interested in these Neo people. I've been listening. I'm good at that. I got close enough to attract attention for sure, and no one even bothered to look for me. These guys are losing their edge. The Neo will win if they're not on their guard. Not that I mind. I have no problem with killers. I was one, and I still am. The X-crowd tried to drum it out of me. No such luck. I am who I am, and who I am is a mutant who knows how to kill. So sue me. Good luck, though. First lawyer I see gets spiked.

Why don't they know I'm alive? Why don't they care? Do they think Apocalypse walked off with me, too? I was there, damn it! I was there when the redhead let him literally waltz away with her beau. I was used, too. What happened to them that they never saw me? Clawing my way out of that goddamned desert was not fun. I won't go into details, but let's just say it woke the killer instinct rather easily. I bet they don't even remember leaving me. Probably think I threw a tantrum and ran away. Who am I, Rogue? Unlike *some* people, I don't run from my problems like a child. I've never run from anything...*anything.*

Here's a better question. Why the hell am I here if they don't want me? And of all places, *here*? This isn't my home. That picture on the bureau proves it. I've been staring at it for the past half hour now. That's creepy even for me. I can't help it though. Maybe I think I can see his eyes through the glasses. I'm surprised the red bitch hasn't turned the picture down. I bet she's too much of a chicken to even come back here. This was their home for so long, away from the others. A fortress of solitude, if you will excuse the cliché.

My fortress now, it would seem. I broke the mirrors to make myself feel more at home. I'm not sure I want the X-Men to see me like this anyway. They're going to be upset. I'm not Miss Pretty-Pretty anymore. I saw how they freaked out after Rogue absorbed that Skrull. Sure, they were suspicious that she was just a Skrull and not really Rogue. Sure, that was it. The fact she looked like a sewer gator had nothing to do with it.

I wonder what they'll do when they see me? Rip out my other heart, probably. I don't care. I never do.

Except about that picture. I want it. No one's around, no one ever comes over here anymore. Phoenix won't miss it. She doesn't miss it now, obviously, or she'd have claimed it. I wish I didn't want it, though. I don't need anything, and certainly not a picture of someone about whom I didn't give three shits.

I'm still staring at his glasses. I remember when Apocalypse possessed him. The visor was imbedded in his head. It was truly gruesome. Like me. I loved it. Maybe I should have asked him to pose so I could have that instead of this old photo. I'm taking it because I can and because I want it and because I said so, damn it.

I...I guess I want to be able to remind myself that I'm not the only one who's lost now. That I'm not alone. But I want more than that. I think I'm going to remind them that I'm still alive. Typical me-fashion, too. Wanna read my love letter to the X-phonies?


I'm especially proud for scratching it into the wall over the place where the photo was. Some of them won't get it. Phoenix will. I don't doubt that she'll know who wrote it, too. And she'll know what was in that frame...that nice, pretty frame that I smashed to pieces so I could have my picture. Not that I credit her with being smart or anything. Figuring out who smashed the mirrors and the picture frame won't take a telepath or even that stupid bloodhound Logan's nose.

Who else leaves bone daggers in the wall?