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Fic: DAS: Realization (1/1) Rogue

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  • Ally
    Title: Dance Among the Stars: Realization Author: Ally Email: roguegirl01@yahoo.com Rating: PG-13 for violence, language, and slight mention of *whisper* sex.
    Message 1 of 1 , Mar 2, 2001
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      Title: Dance Among the Stars: Realization
      Author: Ally
      Email: roguegirl01@...
      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
      things out.

      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
      without breaking.

      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
      shoddy, either.

      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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