Title: Dance Among the Stars: Realization
Rating: PG-13 for violence, language, and slight
mention of *whisper* sex.
Summary: Rogue discovers something new.
Series: Dance Among the Stars #2
Category: Rogue POV, mostly. Not even much L/R right
now. It'll change, I promise.
Disclaimer: If I owned all of these people, do you
think this would be a mere fanfic? No, it'd be canon,
blazoned on the walls, etc etc etc. So, let's just say
that, since you haven't seen this on the big screen,
in an autorized book, or on TV, the characters in it
aren't mine. Of course, if you hadn't wanted me to
write about them, why the hell'd you let 'em clamor
about in my head for gods only know how long, making
me have to write this? Hmmmm?
Archive: WRFA, lists. Anywhere else, ask. You'll
receive. Trust me, I have no dignity.
Author's Notes: If anyone finds the idea of Rogue
deliberately taking bits and pieces from people to
feed her addiction, then maybe you ought not read.
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 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
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.
I knew that they were worried about me. The covert
glances, eyes full of concern which 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 made an effort to act more normally. Really I did. I
spent time with Kitty and Jubilee, actually managing
to enjoy myself sometimes. 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
perhaps the only 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 everyone else, that
even those who were supposed to be able to understand
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
I took my mind off of this by training to the point of
physical exhaustion, socializing when I had to, 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
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
It took me seven months to reach a level at which
Scott--and I was calling him Scott or Cyclops 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. That was the plan. 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, plans aren't always followed through to the
letter. Hell, they're rarely followed through like
that! And this one was no exception.
We arrived at the site where a bunch of Brotherhood
assholes were reported 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 to 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.
The touch didn't last for more than a second. 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
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
I could get new memories of touch--during our fights.
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
And my dancing went on.
You know what they say. Big claws, big....
~Sarah says from the Wolverine X-Fiction Site
It's the people who claim they're perfectly sane who really scare me.
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