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Somewhat Damaged 1/?

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  • Swampfoetus@aol.com
    Title: Somewhat Damaged 1/? Rating: R/NC-17 for self mutilation, violence, and later sexual themes Author: Cordelia, Punk Princess Summery: This follows the
    Message 1 of 1 , Feb 28, 2001
      Title: Somewhat Damaged 1/?

      Rating: R/NC-17 for self mutilation, violence, and later sexual themes

      Author: Cordelia, Punk Princess

      Summery: This follows the new "Evolution" series and is R/L friendly

      Dedication: To Dark Ferret who's story 'Basic Needs' is extrodanary and is
      highly recommended and also follows the Evolution time phase. Hurry up with
      the sequal gal!

      Disclaimer: I own nothing (gees I wish I owned Nothing Records, then I'd own
      Trent Reznor...mmm) Marval Comics, Stan Lee, WB production, and probably lots
      more people with more money than me all own the X-men and subsquent
      characters mentioned in this story, aside from the plot and additional
      characters that belong to me and only me. I claim ownership of Rogue's
      Curious George lunchbox. YES! That one's mine baby!

      Somewhat Damaged 1/?

      During her questioning, Joan of Arc told the English, 'I told them things
      that have happened and things that shall happen yet'. Rogue kept this in mind
      as she refolded the letter she'd received from Irene. Bending down to reach
      under the cot she considered a bed to withdrawl a metal lunchbox with Curious
      George gracing it's tin surface.

      Flipping the hasp, and lifting the lid to reveal a small wad of cash, an
      Altoid tin she knew held several brightly coloured pills and a small vile of
      liquid LSD, there was also a thin silver and saphaire ring that had once
      belonged to Irene. Placing the letter on top of the other contents, she
      closed the box and slid the tin back under the bed with a scrapping sound
      across the wooden floor of the studio apartment Ms. Darkholme had provided.

      She sat back on her haunches and rubbed chartruse coloured eyes rimmed in
      dark liner. She'd left Mississippi almost 5 months ago. And after several
      failed attempts at contacting her astranged guardian, she'd recieved a

      Rogue had found the letter from the blind precognative, really no more than a
      long series of jumbled rantings and cryptic messages, some in English others
      in French, more however in unrecognizable languges. The envolope was unmarred
      asides her own name in Irene's erratic handwritting. No postage stamp or
      processing mark, which meant either Irene herself or someone else in contact
      with her had placed the letter directly in her post box.

      Rogue rose wearily to her full hight, she was tired. Her blood moved like mud
      through her veins, pulling thick and slow through the delicate capillaries.
      She reached for the ciggerettes off the splintered vanity she'd found at a
      garage sale, placing the filter between rouged lips, but failed to locate a
      lighter that worked. Cursing she spat it out.

      Pressing the play button on her stereo, she tried to clear her mind as
      Maynard James Keenan whispered there was a shadow just behind him, she lay
      down on the bed peeling away her gloves with a sob as the fabric stuck to the
      healing cuts of her left forearm. Curling into a foetal position she let the
      slow crawl of skin tickle its way through her body, until she thought she
      could hear the worms squirm in the ground....


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