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Fic: Falling Into the Sky 1/8 (Caligo), NC-17, Rogue

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  • Shaz
    Title: Falling Into the Sky 1/8 Series: Caligo Author: Shaz Nolan (ladycyke@hotmail.com) Rating: NC-17 (Drug use, sexual situations, language) Genre: first
    Message 1 of 1 , Jan 18, 2002
      Title: Falling Into the Sky 1/8
      Series: Caligo
      Author: Shaz Nolan (ladycyke@...)
      Rating: NC-17 (Drug use, sexual situations, language)
      Genre: first person POV, Rogue.
      Archive: list, sites with the previous Caligoverse fic.
      Feedback: Adored, but the flames will be sent to Pyro, care of the
      Brotherhood. Watch out for Raven.
      Disclaimers: The characters and universes from both X-Men and HOHH are
      neither mine, nor do I have any delusions of owning them. Caligo is an A/U
      of my own creation, and like Frankenstien's Creation, still after its
      master. Oy. No profit being made here; lawyers, please check your
      briefcases at the door.
      Timeline: In order: "Funky Old House," "Durga's Lament," "Falling Into the
      Sky." This picks up almost immediately after Durga's.

      A/N 1: Vic and Laure, my thanks for two great betas on a tough story to go
      through, and not just because my narrative can be rambling and strange. :)
      And to those that have been asking for more, this has actually been done for
      a little while, but sat on the HD for some... quality aging.

      A/N 2: This is not a happy story-- that's likely obvious. Caligoverse is
      not known for happy endings and happy rays of light. There are themes
      addressed in this story that may be disturbing and even offensive to some,
      and if you're one of those folks, turn back now. I'm not sugar-coating for
      the squeamish. But nor am I advocating. Drug use is a choice made by more
      than one, and many of those stories have their tragic elements. Rogue's no
      different. All the other potentially disturbing parts... are 'as is.' I
      may not coddle, but I don't go out of my way to offend, either.


      Where to start is an interesting question. In all honesty, I'd rather
      forget who I was, and who I used to know. But her. HER. It's all her

      Her name is Carol. Carol Danvers. Never met the woman before I ran into
      her on the street, never connected her to the people back in Westchester,
      but apparently there is--was-- a connection.

      Of course, that connection is now through me. She's dead, or I think she is
      anyways, and I've got her mind trapped in my mind.

      She's the one keeping me from shooting up a perfectly good hit of synthetic

      But really, that's just too simple to start off with. Lemme try this:

      Sometimes there are moments in your life where you watch your worlds collide
      together and then completely disappear.

      The black abyss that surrounds you afterwards is REALLY the pits.

      I was out of the hospital. One overnight there to make sure I didn't hurt
      anything else, and I got the stitches on my forehead that were as ugly as I
      thought they would be. God, how I avoided a mirror for as long as I could
      after I got home and saw my friends' crestfallen faces. They hugged me,
      Kitty even cried, and we all sat together in our misery, wondering how the
      other half of that demon's victims were faring.

      Funny how I still don't know whether or not Jean woke up.

      And then Logan left. At first I thought I was going with him, but the
      asshole changed his mind and left without a single world to anyone. I know
      he felt really bad over what that thing made him do, but still.


      And yet still I can't hate him. Can't blame him for my own fall. Can't
      blame him for the hasty departure I made under a cloak of
      need-to-find-myself a few days after I realised he wasn't coming back
      anytime soon.

      My protector. My one shot at something decent. And he left me with his own
      handiwork scarring my brow. I was either misled, or blessed by the worst
      luck ever.

      I wonder if he would care enough to come and save me from my own life. From
      Melissa and Carol, the pair of people that never truly leave me, their
      memories mixing with mine, making me wonder who was the Mississippi girl,
      who was the once-Avenger, and who was the television actress.

      I left because of Melissa, I left MYSELF because of Melissa. Packed up and
      left before anyone could stop me, before anyone could notice that "poor
      Marie" was sliding further and further down into the chasm that had been
      waiting for me when I woke up that first morning in my own bed, trying my
      damnedest not to scratch at the stitches.

      Marie lost her the hold on life when the tortured ghost came to reside in my
      head. Rogue, however...

      Rogue was the mask for the muddle of a mind I now had.

      So, I ran. Running is a strange thing. I've never really pieced it apart
      and examined the logic behind it, despite the fact that I left Meridian with
      a note for my parents apologising to them, and most of all, Cody.

      Ahem, David. I was the only one who ever called him Cody. He secretly
      hated his real name, much like I hate mine now. Like one of those memories
      I got from him, playing softball with his friends and his older brother
      shows up, yells for "David Lee Compton" to come back home for supper. He
      flinched so bad he missed and the ball hit him in the cheek and nearly broke
      his cheekbone.

      I have a lot of memories collected in my head now. Cody, Logan, Erik,
      Melissa, Carol. And when Marie's voice became too quiet, too drowned out by
      Erik's pain or Logan's anger, Melissa's fear or Carol's bitter shock, that's
      when I understood running. Not because I could recall Logan's thirteen hour
      bike ride through the Canadian Rockies, but because I had to run. Because
      of Rogue. She's the harbinger of all this... stuff.

      The last five months have just been sheer hell. If you'd gone through
      what I did, you'd want to be high too.

      But don't take my word for it.


      Something inside me snapped when I first packed my bag and bolted out the
      door. I had three hundred dollars in my pocket and the number of one of
      Xavier's credit cards, PIN and all, memorised. Enough clothes for a solid
      week of wearing, giving me enough time to track down a laundromat and burn a
      few quarters on getting things like undies and gloves clean as I traveled.
      The first hop, the one out of Westchester and into the heart of New York
      City, was with a cabbie who gave me a funny look because he picked me up in
      front of Xavier's school.

      I guess it's not a real big secret that everyone behind the gates is
      different from the rest of the world.

      Problem was, I didn't want to be like that anymore. I wanted to disappear,
      and you can't do that when someone stares at you because of where you're

      The cabbie dropped me off in Manhattan, charged me up the ass for a bumpy,
      swervy ride and left me alone in one of the biggest places I've ever been
      in. All those tall buildings, it's like you're some measly ant walking
      through a lawn, just scraping for a bite to eat and hoping not to get
      squished by some random shoe. I walked for blocks and blocks through slush
      laden streets, eventually to stop at the park and sit on a bench, staring at
      the Statue of Liberty just standing there out in the middle of all that

      Did she ever care that we did a hell of a demolition job on her head? The
      hole Cyke made in the crown/forehead looked fixed and the torch was back,
      but I bet the inside's still all thrashed. No visitors or anything, so they
      don't have to show to innocent people that something like a national symbol
      is vulnerable to the whims of a man who can manipulate metal so easily he
      could do it in his sleep.

      Ignorance is bliss.

      I sat on that bench for hours, just staring at her. Thinking about the
      people that'd be looking for me, wondering if they cared enough to come find
      me. Or maybe someone knew better, knew that I needed to step away and
      re-collect myself, and was letting me go.

      No, probably not. Give them a few days, they'll be worried.



      The hotel was shitty. Shitty enough that twenty-five bucks a night was the
      right amount for a girl too scarred to prostitute herself and too bitter in
      the eyes to be naive. The guy eyed me, halfway caught between sizing me up
      for a lay and considering me like he would a daughter, so I didn't meet his
      eyes. I couldn't. My clothes, though wrinkled, were good, proof that I came
      from a better life than he likely ever knew. I wore gloves even after I
      came in from the cold, which since I wasn't automatically lumped with the
      prostitutes in the lobby, was considered strange.

      Suspicious. Guy told me that I would pay for anything that I destroyed in
      the room.

      Maybe New York is used to having to see its mutant populace, to deal with
      them... but it doesn't mean they have to like us.

      But in that little hotel room, tiny and dingy, I met Roberto.

      Roberto was a pimp at some point in his life, but he had quit after one of
      his girls got knifed. I guess he liked her a lot and it broke his
      questionable heart to see her bleeding and raped in an alley.

      But then, like many scum, he turned to dealing. Drugs were his new
      underground commodity of choice, and when he met me and saw just how haunted
      my eyes were, he first offered a little human distraction, and then a little
      chemical distraction.

      I took the latter. I didn't need an ex-pimp dealer in my head along with
      the rest of the people in there.

      My only problem, outside of the ingrained Nancy Reagan campaign of "Just Say
      No," was money. Hitting a bank and playing traveling daughter to one
      Charles Xavier to get the funds for a bus ticket or some food to keep myself
      going was one thing, but withdrawing large batches of cash for an artificial

      Oh yeah, that would go over real well. Little lost Marie turning to drugs.
      I can hear it now-- not from Jean since she's probably down for the count
      still-- but Xavier or Scott? They'd rail at me like I was planning to rob
      the Vatican of its most valuable asset. Tell me I just needed time.
      Therapy. THEIR help.

      No, I don't think so. Logan was my anchor and he left. Guilty or not, he
      still left. He was the only one I could have moved on with there. No one
      else understood-- wanted to understand.

      I told Roberto I would pay him for one hit and then he could come back
      tomorrow if I didn't accidentally screw up and OD on the first try. IF I
      liked it. IF I got Melissa to stop screaming at night.

      And then I could argue with my remaining morality on how to extricate the
      funds from New York's premiere mutant.


      I put thirty dollars down on that pock-marked table for the first hit.
      Roberto took it, gave me an almost sympathetic look-- for the record, never
      trust a drug dealer, no matter how nice he seems-- and left. I repeated the
      brief instructions he gave on how to take this fabled illegal substance, and
      thereby prepared to let go of all the demons residing in my head.

      Oh, if only it had been regular heroin. I could have dealt with the brown
      colour and questionable mixture of other stuff like baking soda. I could
      have ignored the stains on white sheets. But no, Roberto gave me China
      White, part of the world's synthetic drug market, and got one simple girl
      from Mississippi hooked on shit that people in Los Angeles will shoot you

      I don't recall cooking up just like he told me, lighter grasped between
      fingers, or putting the needle in. But when Melissa stopped, really
      stopped, I felt it. Four hours of a clarity that a screaming actress had
      taken away. That Logan and Erik had ripped away from me with their
      undeniable masculinity. I was curled up on the dirty hotel room floor, but
      rather than flying on a rush that Roberto had promised, I was just-- clear.

      Clear as a fricking bell. I couldn't stand, much less pull off anything I
      had picked up in the Danger Room back home, but I could think. There was no
      colouring of the television shows by memories of some producer telling me to
      get the hell off the property or fucking the supporting actor. I didn't
      feel a flare of anger when I caught a glimpse of a Nazi flag on a Discovery
      Channel special, and I didn't have the need to snarl when the same program
      discussed medical experimentation.

      Somehow, I had found Marie again. My GOD, I had missed her.

      [cont'd in part 2]


      "Life? Life's pretty much a knife fight in a dirt covered bar; and if they
      get you down, you best get back up." "Last Call at the Broken Hammer,"
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