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[Rogue]

[ I wanted to explore the angsting emo Rogue a bit, and Pete volunteered to this angst-fest, the poor bloke.

Warning: Thread contains high amounts of wangsty angst on toast. With side-dish of wangst.

Disclaimer: Reading this thread might cause spontaneous combustion, cravings for hard liquor, sudden urges to listen to My Chemical Romance, brain hemorrhage and liability to wear pink, frilly underwear. You might also experience side effects including blurred vision, dizziness, nausea, vomiting, seizures and muscle weakness. Additionally, serious mental health problems, such as wanting to strangle Rogue have been reported upon reading this thread.

Seriously, you've been warned. It's not pretty. ]


London, late at night.

It was November already, and the summer was long gone. The beautiful, hot summer with its perfect days that stretching to eternity. The summer when her heart had broken beyond all repair. Rogue felt it should be raining. It should be raining blood, tears and anguish to resonate with the horrible emptiness inside of her. Maybe even little dead puppies with black, desolate eyes. That's how awful she was feeling. Dead. Puppies.

The concert had made her feel a little better. Seeing twenty thousand people wallow in the same pain and misery as she did and cry out their suffering together had been cathartic. But after the buzz died down, it was just her. Alone. All alone in this concrete jungle, where her lonely footsteps echoed from the tall, dark buildings. The streetlights had flickered on earlier and cast a pale, cold light on the cracked pavement here and there, but even that did not serve to illuminate, only to alleviate the shadows everywhere else. She wrapped her leather jacket tighter around herself. It really should have been raining. Who ever had heard of London in November when it wasn't raining? Damn british, always aiming to disappoint.

At the end of the street, after all the abandoned office buildings with dark windows like holes in a skull, was a warmer light, a red neon arrow blinking and pointing to a narrow stairway down. Flashing one letter at a time the sign spelled P-U-B under the arrow. The absence of human company felt suddenly unbearable and Rogue slid down the stairs, thrusting her hands deeper into her pockets. Even with her gloves on, she was paranoid of accidentally touching some cockney souse.

There was enough chains hanging from her leather outfit to tie up Sabertooth, and they chimed quietly when Rogue elbowed her way into the pub. Several of the drunkards lounging at the long bar turned to look and stare at her. The black kajal around her eyes was partially run from her earlier tears which made her look all the more at a wrong place. She ignored the stares, having used to it long time ago. Wherever she went, people were always oogling. The freak, the mutie, the untouchable girl. Everyone, everyone, kept their distance. Even Remy. Especially Remy. Oh, how her heart was aching.

The bartender kept bringing her rum when she requested. Which was often. But no amount of drink was going to drown the quiet voice inside her head telling her how terrible and bleak everything was. Remy would never love her. She would live her life alone, always alone. Not even a pet cat would be safe enough with her. Maybe she could get a goldfish. A little fishbowl to keep her company for the rest of her life. By then she was crying again.

After the first time the other boozers had the grace to leave her well alone. The way she had gone into a screaming rage fit when the first guy had tried to comfort her by planting his hand on her shoulder had taught them all a lesson. Crazy bitch.

[Pete Wisdom]

The battered wooden door to the pub swung back against its stops, the neon flashes of the outside lights spattering their glow through the stairwell doorway. A sudden hellfire-yellow flare broke the darkness as a match was struck against the metal no-smoking sign fixed to the doorjamb, and then came a red glow of a cigarette being coaxed into life with a long draw. The matchstick bounced into a puddle at the end of the stairwell with a hiss, and the smoking figure stepped in through the doorway wreathed in a plume of grey.

The door creaked shut on its spring behind the man in the rumpled black suit as he looked around the bar. All he saw was the usual crowd of Isle of Dogs pub drinkers: people on the dole gulping away their jobseekers allowance, burly-armed boozers from the nearly-abandoned dockyards resting up after a hard day's shift unloading crates. The yuppies and City-high-flyers that have been carving their own sanitised territories out of the urban decay nearby didn't come down here to places like this. They stay in their shiny All-Bar-Ones in the shadows of the Wharf Tower. Sod knows how the bloody X-Chick managed to find her way here, thought Pete to himself. But then again, who'd be able to stop her from going where she wanted to?

Pete walked over to the bar. He wasn't expecting yellow spandex, but the goth look was a passport to a world of pain in certain parts of the East End. The people here were sometimes kind, sometimes cruel, of many religions and many colours of skin, but none of them cosmopolitan. It took him a second and even a third glance to note the distinguishing stripe in her hair that marked Rogue out as his target. The bartender shot him a warning glance, flicking his eyes to Rogue and back to Pete. He had no desire for the girl to go off on another screaming fit, and the rest of the crowd, slightly intimidated and a little angry at her rejection of their own advances, might not have liked it either. "What'll it be?"

"Pint," replied Pete shortly, slapping a pair of the newfangled two-pound coins on the countertop, which the publican made disappear swiftly. The old-style handpumps creaked and hissed as Pete's beer was drawn and placed foaming on the soggy towel-strip atop the bar. He tilted his head to blow a plume of smoke up into the air, and took a pull at his drink. One of the bar's more macho regulars started to move from his position propping up the bar to make his try at the "goth-girl's" situation. Pete caught his eye. "I wouldn't, sunshine. Not for her health from you. Yours from hers." His voice was roughened by the cigarettes, and faintly mocking, but dangerous. The man reconsidered, pretending not to have heard, that all the time he was intending to go to the lav, and walked past Pete and off to the other side of the bar.

[Rogue]

A man entered the bar, adding the smoky scent of cigarettes to the already heavy mix of odors of the place. Alcohol, beer, sweat, the slippery tang of fish and sea. For Rogue, the smokey flavor was irresistible reminder of another man, far away in physical world but never far away in her thoughts. He and his smoke scented leather jacket. The one place she had felt safe and accepted, for those few brief moments of happiness. Until the cruel world ripped them apart and shattered her poor battered heart. She was missing Remy so much it hurt. And not the pleasant ache of having completed a long and vigorous exercise and having a moment of rest to enjoy the deserved aching. No, it was the burning agony of someone crushing your teeth into tiny shards that dig into your gums and then rip those shards off one by one. Without anesthetic. Or having your bones filled with molten iron. Which ever hurt most.

Even without looking Rogue could feel the man staring at her. Another one picking her out to be a freak. Her lips trembled. Did it always have to be this way? Why couldn't she find one place where she could be accepted? She turned her head just in time to see the meaningful glance between bartender, the guy in a suit and the way they both looked at her. Was it a warning? Did they have to warn people about her now? She sniffled. She should just go away, so far away no one would ever find her, where she could not hurt anyone. Maybe Antarctica. Maybe that kind of arctic coldness would finally freeze her heart and stop the bleeding. Her green eyes were getting distant and misted over as she was fantasizing about the lone, sad woman traveling the frozen wastes of the south.

She was brought out of the soggy reverie by the sound of a rough voice. "I wouldn't, sunshine. Not for her health from you. Yours from hers." She gasped in shock. Just when she had thought it could not get any worse, someone found another crack in her armor and delivered another dagger into her heart. Which was shattered to pieces, broken beyond repair and bleeding. Now I'm dangerous for his health. But I am, I am. So dangerous to anyone, ever'one. Just a merest touch an' I would ruin his life too. Even random strangers could now see how dangerous she was, how far away from rest of the humanity. How locked inside her own perilous skin, never able to reach out to another human being.

[Pete Wisdom]

After warning away the other man, Pete turned his attention back to the most important thing in the pub. His pint. Another couple of swallows later, the glass hit the ale-dampened wooden top of the bar with a clink of glass against the solid surface. He'd wondered what had brought one of the X-Men to London, but certainly hadn't thought it'd be some girl sobbing over a succession of glasses of rum. On the positive side, though, he concluded, there wasn't any sort of mutant, supervillainous, or otherworldly catastrophe unfolding right this second. Which was nice. He turned to look more carefully at his quarry, eying up the chain-festooed costume and the smeared makeup and tousled hair.

At least, he thought, the data putting the 'mysterious flying woman' in the vicinity of the 02 Arena had proved not to be another random UFO warning from the crazies who watched the skies. Sure, at least the vast CCTV system didn't come out of M13's budget, but the pencil-pushers back at Vauxhall House never seemed to understand that it wasn't just the gizmos that gave you a heads-up, it was the people paid to analyse the data.

"Bloody hell," he began, by way of pleasant opening up of conversation. "How long did it take you to get your face looking like a panda on drugs?" Ah, that Pete Wisdom charm. Ladykiller extraordinaire. "You look bloody terrible, petal."

[Rogue]

The man kept staring at her, like she was some exotic animal on display. Just missin' the bars to keep this here dangerous specimen at bay. How could it be let wander around freely, posin' danger to anybody it meets? She bared her teeth and knocked back her latest shot. Not that alcohol had much effect on her, she was near invulnerable to poisons. But the act of sitting in a dingy bar in some dark corner of London and drinking glass after glass of rum felt the right thing to do and fuel her despair.

"Bloody hell," he began, by way of pleasant opening up of conversation. "How long did it take you to get your face looking like a panda on drugs?" Ah, that Pete Wisdom charm. Ladykiller extraordinaire. "You look bloody terrible, petal."

What? The insults took her by surprise and for a moment Rogue did not know what to do. "Who are you?" She then managed to splutter out. Of course he would insult her, what else was she expecting, she berated herself. I am not goin' to confess havin' cried my eyes out an' that's why lookin' like I do. But he's right. I look right awful. With or without make-up. It's no wonder Remy would not want anythin' to do with me anymore. How could anyone want someone as ugly as me? Rogue touched her hair and looked even more miserable. She hated her hair and the terrible stripe that would always mark her as outcast. Skunkhair. Because nobody likes skunks either. Ever'one hates skunks.

[Pete Wisdom]

Okay, looks like we've got some serious angst going on here... or some colonial's trying to relive the grand old days of punk. Pete took another drag on his cigarette, puffing out the smoke into the room, though out of begrudged courtesy, avoided blowing it at his drinking 'companion'. The rest of the bar had come to ignore them, and the bartender was down the other end, serving some of the less than salubrious clientele. Even less salubrious than Pete.

"Who are you?" She then managed to splutter out.

"My name's Wisdom," he replied, "long way to come from the states to old London town, just to put a dent in the city's rum supply." He looked over Rogue's features a bit more carefully. Strength there, and determination, but all subsumed in misery and old fears and recent disappointments. He grimaced slightly. Hopefully this super-girl won't go off on a rum-fuelled super-rampage. And if she did, dunno as how we'd be able to keep it too quiet, either. "What happened to get you out here dressed like Gothirella, queen of the emo-kids, bawling over booze, huh?"

[Rogue]

The man was smoking and Rogue couldn't help herself but watch the way his lips caressed the filter of the cigarette and how he then blew the smoke out softly. Not quite the way Remy did, but still. The longing banged in her chest, and she found herself actually listening what the man had to say.

"My name's Wisdom," he replied, "long way to come from the states to old London town, just to put a dent in the city's rum supply."

Rogue frowned. How did he know where she was from? Was there danger? She squeezed her hands into fists, but he did not seem actually threatening, if you forgot about the verbal insults at least. Wisdom? I've heard that there name before. She narrowed her eyes, annoyed at being pulled out of her misery. Wisdom, Wisdom, who was he?

... Kitty.

He was Kitty's boyfriend.

He was Kitty's ex-boyfriend.

"What happened to get you out here dressed like gothirella, queen of the emo-kids, bawling over booze, huh?"

Rogue was still not over the fact that he was talking with Kitty's ex and just stared at the man. So that was what he looked like. "You're Kitty's ex." Another one with a broken heart and broken dreams. She wondered if Kitty's leaving had left as big a hole into his chest as Remy's leaving had left in hers. Did he too cry himself to sleep, hugging a pillow and pretending it wasn't now, but then.

[Pete Wisdom]

Figures she'd know her. The X-men stick together. I guess that's how they manage so much property damage. Pete watched as the natural caution of the mutant caused Rogue's hackles to rise, and then slightly relax. His own expression had narrowed at the mention of Shadowcat, shadows of old memories hiding behind his eyes.

"You're Kitty's ex."

"Pryde? Yeah," replied Pete offhandedly, although the undertone in his own voice left no misunderstanding that this was, if not a touchy subject, at least one to be wary about. "That was a long time ago."

Not that long ago. You just don't want to think about it all that much.

"Still, means you know me, I guess. And I know you. Maybe we should grab a booth. It'd be quieter. And it'd help with the fact that you stand out like a sodding sore thumb." He shook his head, then motioned to one of the more private side-tables. No bugger plays the subtle game anymore. It's all spandex and superpowers.

[Rogue]

Kitty's name gave a reaction that Rogue could recognize even if not master herself yet. Mention Remy to her and all her feelings would come stumbling out in huge tangle, and her unrequited miserable lovestruck position would be painfully clear to anyone at earshot. But Pete, he recovered fast. Casually. Like it didn't really matter to him. Nothing loves company as much as misery and Rogue wanted to see if poking this wound she'd get a reaction. Soon.

"Still, means you know me, I guess. And I know you. Maybe we should grab a booth. It'd be quieter. And it'd help with the fact that you stand out like a sodding sore thumb."

"What do y'all want from me?" Rogue was still cautious, but her hurt was audible in her voice. Sodding sore thumb, that was her. "Too ashamed to be seen with me, y'all?" She raised her glass and gestured to the bartender with it. Still, she would be lying if she said that this small familiar - by a longshot - face hadn't made her feel slightly better. I am so damn lonely that even a friend's ex feels like a friend. Even an foul-mouthed asshole of an ex. Once her glass was refilled again, she turned her body to face Pete. Even a foul-mouthed asshole who used to date a friend is better than bein' alone, right?

[Pete Wisdom]

Pete watched as the bartender poured the amber fluid into Rogue's glass, making a sign for his own to be refilled as well. The publican hadn't seemed too hesitant to serve her, despite the line of empty glasses that showed the problems of trying to get drunk with a supercharged metabolism. Must suck to be such an expensive drinker. He motioned to the stripe-haired woman to follow him to one of the booths, and sat himself down on the stained fabric bench. After taking another pull from his drink, he placed the pintglass down on the cigarette-burned and drink-circle marked wooden table, and stubbed out his cigarette, immediately lighting another with another flick of sulphurous matchlight.

"What do y'all want from me?" Rogue was still cautious, but her hurt was audible in her voice. Sodding sore thumb, that was her. "Too ashamed to be seen with me, y'all?

He avoided the first part of her question, explaining the second. "Well, you look like you're on the pull for Edward Scissorhands, you aren't getting pissed after downing two pirate's worth of booze, and your accent sounds like you should be gargling mint juleps with each bloody word. You stand out. That's not so good for people like you." He motioned again to the seat, and offered a grain of comfort. "People like us. Sit down."

[Rogue]

Hesitantly Rogue followed the man to the side table. What's the harm in that? She could not think of any reason why some mysterious villain would use this approach to capture her, nor why would any worthwhile villain want anything from her. At best, it would be the Spectacular Mothman Ripoff with battery eyes and three-dollar fake wings. She was insignificant. So insignificant that even the Ripoff would flutter off to eat some wool instead. Hated and feared for what she was she might be, yet no one thought her important enough to direct any real aggression on her. I am so lonely I ain't even got enemies.

"Well, you look like you're on the pull for Edward Scissorhands, you aren't getting pissed after downing two pirate's worth of booze, and your accent sounds like you should be gargling mint juleps with each bloody word. You stand out. That's not so good for people like you." He motioned again to the seat, and offers a grain of comfort. "People like us. Sit down."

Rogue slumped down on the stool, looking as miserable as a wet dog who was just denied the somewhat decomposed remains of a tasty steak. He was pointing out her faults so cruelly accurately that she winced and whimpered. It was no wonder people were warned about her, it was clear to anyone what a monster she was. "I know, y'all are right. I shouldn't have... it's so hard, y' know?" She leaned her elbows on the table and took another shuddering breath. "I was at this here concert... ever'body dresses like this." Rogue sipped her drink, the burn of rum welcome on her tongue and sighed. "Do y'all have any idea how lonely one can be in the crowd of twenty thousand?" She rubbed her eyes, feeling so small inside with this stranger berating her on her outfit.

[Pete Wisdom]

She leaned her elbows on the table and took another shuddering breath. "I was at this here concert... ever'body dresses like this."

"You flew yourself all the way over the damn pond for a sodding concert?" inquired Wisdom, his voice full of incredulity. "There's no crisis, no bloody disaster?" Then he took another look at the depressed X-Woman currently slouched down on the seat part propped up by the table. It was a strain not to roll his eyes. "Well... welcome to London. You'll fit in here a bit better if you stick to the right places, though. You want Camden, petal, not some pub in the Isle o'Dogs." He sounded sarcastic, as if saying something so totally obvious that only, say, Americans, would get it wrong.

"Do y'all have any idea how lonely one can be in the crowd of twenty thousand?" She rubbed her eyes, feeling so small inside with this stranger berating her on her outfit.

Pete wasn't able to contain his scornful look at this statement, though he tried unsuccessfully to hide it with a long pull of his cigarette and a swig. Diplomancy, Wisdom, what you need is diplomacy. "Oh, that's just a load of bollocks." Oh, great diplomacy. "Alone in a crowd of twenty thousand? You'd have had your arse pinched at least five dozen times and that's just strangers making contact. You've got no friends? No family? No workmates? Of course you do. What the hell's so damn terrible?"

[Rogue]

"You flew yourself all the way over the damn pond for a sodding concert?" inquired Wisdom, his voice full of incredulity. "There's no crisis, no bloody disaster?"

If she wanted to fly over the 'damn pond' for this, who was he to say otherwise. Rogue glared at the man with resentment. "No, there's no bloody disaster." Other than my torn up heart an' how I can't stand to be even in same continent as Remy. We were a real disaster an' then he dumped me an' stop lovin' me. How's that not a crisis? It's the end of the world! End of the fuckin' world and I do NOT feel fine.

"Well... welcome to London. You'll fit in here a bit better if you stick to the right places, though. You want Camden, petal, not some pub in the Isle o'Dogs."

But she had wanted to be alone, that's why she had been wandering the abandoned backstreets. Despite claiming to be like her, and with his history with Kitty, the man did not understand her at all. Not one bit. Not even enough to stop smoking his goddamn fucking cigarette that kept reminding her of Remy. The scent, and the way he held it between his long, narrow fingers. Abandonment gripped at her heart again with it's icy tendrils, withering all joy and light out of her. Nothing she had done today had been any good, it was all for nothing. She was still as alone as she ever was. "Do y' have any idea how lonely one can be in the crowd of twenty thousand?" she blurted out, without thinking and rubbed her eyes.

"Oh, that's just a load of bollocks." Oh, great diplomacy. "Alone in a crowd of twenty thousand? You'd have had your arse pinched at least five dozen times and that's just strangers making contact. You've got no friends? No family? No workmates? Of course you do. What the hell's so damn terrible?"

Rogue snapped her head up and stared at him with her teeth gritted. How dare y', spindly little london runt. Screw y'! Her hand struck with super human speed, knocking the cigarette right out of his hand and flying across the room. "Ah wus not inna crowd y' stinky muppet! Ah was standin' atta last row, Ah canna risk goin' with people, ain't y' knowin' how my skin - " Her shouting ended as abruptly as it had started, her voice breaking over the last word into a sob and she buried her face into her hands, crouching down on her seat.


[Pete manhandled with permission.]

[Pete Wisdom]

Pete watched as Rogue sunk lower into her grim outlook, and matched her resentful glare with a brief tilt of his head, his usual grudge-against-the-world demeanour unbroken. Still, he thought to himself, even if there wasn't some mutant-fuelled catastrophe about to wash across the British Isles, this level of angst and ennui would probably count as smuggling WMDs (weapons of mass depression) into the country. Briefly he considered his harsh words, then shrugged mentally to himself. And I thought I could be a miserable bastard sometimes. This girl takes the prize.

Her hand struck with super human speed, knocking the cigarette right out of his hand and flying across the room.

Suddenly his hand stung as hers connected, his human reflexes well-honed but unable to cope with an unexpected strike at such speed. His eyes flashed and fist clenched a moment as his features flicked between anger and habitual grim apathy, but calm and a vestige of concern, both for the bar's occupants and for his companion, overrode fury.

"Ah wus not inna crowd y' stinky muppet! Ah was standin' atta last row, Ah canna risk goin' with people, ain't y' knowin' how my skin - " Her shouting ended as abruptly as it had started, her voice breaking over the last word into a sob and she buried her face into her hands, crouching down on her seat.

Pete reached into the top pocket of his creased and rumpled shirt to extract another cigarette from the packet there with slow deliberation, and turned it over in his fingers, feeling the smooth surface of the paper and the shiny band of foil around the filter. He turned his head to look around the bar, and gave his best 'nothing to see here' stare to the drinkers there to ward them off from comment about Rogue's descent back into shouting.

"Yeah, I know all about that," replied Pete, his eyes revealing a slight hint of compassion to the very observant, but his voice still gruff. "I also know it has to be skin on skin to do bugger all. And that Primark does a sterlin' line of leggings and long-sleeve T-Shirts. You think you have it rough? Think of some poor crippled bastard or something. You can still feel. You can still move. Go to a concert. Talk to people in a bar." He shrugged, reached for his beer and took a long swallow, making the foamline of the head drop down to halfway. "Alone? You're an X-man. People there give a damn about you." Fuck knows why, though, with all this whining.

[Rogue]

Rogue was not going to cry. She was not. Not in front of this insufferable Englishman who kept insulting her. Not even if she felt there was enough tears inside of her to drown out Niagara. No, she would not give him the satisfaction. Pete went on talking with his ridiculous accent, his words short and rough and she did her best to ignore it all. I can't hear y'all, nope, cain't.

He shrugged, reached for his beer and took a long swallow, making the foamline of the head drop down to halfway. "Alone? You're an X-man. People there give a damn about you."

That, she could not ignore. The dark haired woman raised her head and stared at Pete from under her white bangs. Ire and despair fought inside of her, both emotions reflecting on her face until settling on the pained, sad expression. "If'n they did, y'd think Remy... " It was suddenly hard to talk at all and the warmth and reek of the bar made her nauseous. Rogue clambered on her feet and almost blindly staggered through the door to a sweet, cool London night air outside.

[Pete Wisdom]

Pete stared back, watching as Rogue fought the battle between anger and depression in her own mind.

"If'n they did, y'd think Remy... " It was suddenly hard to talk at all [for Rogue]. Then his quarry stood up and staggered through the doorway and up the stairs. He stretched in his chair, letting the popping of his shoulders and the loosening of the muscles relax him a little, then stood up and lit his fresh cigarette, treading out the one that Rogue had knocked out of his hand against the scarred linoleum flooring of the pub.

Damn. Not going to be able to finish this pint now, and it'll be even warmer by the time I get back. Should have stuck to something in a bottle. Taking a deep puff, he shook his head again, and headed out, the door swinging closed behind him. Back inside, the hard-bitten drinkers all breathed their own inner sighs of relief. The crazy girl and the wierd guy were gone.

He followed the word-choked X-woman up the stairs and into the street. Despite the nature of the day, the clouds were still stubbornly refusing to rain, though the cheap outdated sodium-vapour lamps that lit the streets struggled to do more than provide pools of murky light in the overcast darkness of the decaying urban neigbourhood. "Oh, right. Bloke trouble." Pete leaned against the wall to get comfortable, grey plumes jetting out from his mouth with each pull on his smoke. "That's tough, all right, but what good is all this bloody angst going to get you?"

Didn't do much for you either, when it happened to you, did it, mate? Well, you can play the hypocrite now. Of course 'that's different'. Just keep telling yourself that. "It's not going to make the sod come back to you, that's for damned sure. Listen to some Clapton, have a good cry, and get the hell on with life."

[Rogue]

It was dark and cold outside, just like inside of her, the frozen, black hole in her chest that Remy had left. Slowly Rogue could catch her breath again, feeling exhausted like she had just flown from the other side of the world. Pete followed after her, just when she dared to hope he'd stay inside and leave her the hell alone.

"Oh, right. Bloke trouble." Pete leaned against the wall to get comfortable, grey plumes jetting out from his mouth with each pull on his smoke. "That's tough, all right, but what good is all this bloody angst going to get you?" "It's not going to make the sod come back to you, that's for damned sure. Listen to some Clapton, have a good cry, and get the hell on with life."

Rogue was staring away from Pete, the streetlights glinting from the metal in her outfit and leaving rest in shadow. What was the point of explaining any of this? He didn't care. Nobody did. Remy certainly didn't. If she had those crazylady cats, they wouldn't care either. Even her hypothetical goldfish would not care. "I don't have a life without him. Y' ain't gettin' it." She turned slightly, although her face was mostly a pool of shadow and almost impossible to read. Her voice, on the other hand, gave clear indication of the resigned anguish she was in. "He's always there. He didn't just conveniently leave the team after dumpin' me like Kitty did. An' where could I go? I don't have family who ain't mutant terrorists, I don't have friends who ain't X-men. It's my only home. An' he's there. Eating breakfast in the kitchen. In the Danger Room practice. Goin' for a pint with others. Flirtin' with the others."

There was a flash of white when she bared her teeth. "All y'all keep sayin' that. MOVE ON. How can I fuckin' move on when he won't leave! I love him an' I can't forget that for two hours cuz he keeps poppin' up wher'ever Ah look!"

[Pete Wisdom]

Pete's eyes flicked to the shadow-hidden Rogue every so often as he listened to her cataloguing her woes, but for the most part, he was surveying his surroundings now that he wasn't secure inside somewhere he could see the entrances and exits. Paranoid, perhaps, but being paranoid doesn't mean that someone isn't out to get you.

There was a flash of white when she bared her teeth. "All y'all keep sayin' that. MOVE ON. How can I fuckin' move on when he won't leave! I love him an' I can't forget that for two hours cuz he keeps poppin' up wher'ever Ah look!"

His raincoat flapped in the breeze as the wind picked up, the late-night sounds of the city around them mixed in with the noise of the river. "I left Excalibur," he offered, with his teeth slightly gritted afterwards, "Pryde stayed where she was, until things finally ended with that bunch. You could do the same thing, petal. Get your act together and find something to distract you." He looked at her, his mouth twisting into a disapproving line.

"Since there's got to be a point, right, between 'fuck I'm miserable' and 'fuck I'm having an emotional breakdown' where you can find," he chuckled dryly, "an unhappy medium." Motion caught his eye, shadows in the darkness loitering. Maybe just some local street thugs... but they're not moving in yet, and they're not singing drunken bloody songs. He looked around more carefully, spotting those people still moving through the streets, and those trying not to be hidden. "Come on. We should get to the Tube."

[Rogue]

Rogue was still huffing after her outburst, feeling momentarily better after having a chance to blurt out some of her feelings. Of course, it had been just a tip of an iceberg, she could go on about Remy for hours if allowed. Days, even. A huge iceberg, the kind that sinks big luxury liners and ruins perfectly nice evenings for English gentlemen in rumpled suits.

"I left Excalibur," he offered, with his teeth slightly gritted afterwards, "Pryde stayed where she was, until things finally ended with that bunch. You could do the same thing, petal. Get your act to gether and find something to distract you."

He left? Oh. Still, one of them had left and they didn't have to stand the excruciating torture of never been further than a shout away from the other. Not that Rogue wanted to leave. It was her home. "I was there first, anyway," she muttered sullenly. Not that she wanted Remy to leave either. It'd be terrible if he would leave. She was missing him this much already when it had been just a fourteen hours and ... thirty six minutes since they last spoke. If Remy would leave she would just die. Without y' I am nothin', my sweet prince. My taste in men is black-eyed until the bitter end. I'm forever sleepin' with ghosts. There's no placebo for y'.

He looked at her, his mouth twisting into a disapproving line. "Since there's got to be a point, right, between 'fuck I'm miserable' and 'fuck I'm having an emotional breakdown' where you can find," he chuckled dryly, "an unhappy medium."

"An' in what point are y'all now?" Rogue retorted sharply, but Pete didn't seem to listen, his eyes darting up and down the street. "Come on. We should get to the tube." A tube? What the hell now? "I ain't - Wait for me," Rogue followed on Pete's footsteps, completely oblivious to any possible signs of danger. "Don't walk away from me." Oh, great, now he was leaving her too. Everyone left her. He'd been in her company what, thirty minutes and already he was trying to escape. Ah don't want to be alone. Not now. Not just right now. Not with ever'thin'.

I should let him go. I don't deserve the company of even this disgusting rude man.

No. Don' wanna to be alone.

[Pete Wisdom]

"An' in what point are y'all now?" Rogue retorted sharply, but Pete didn't seem to listen, his eyes darting up and down the street.

"Where am I now? On a road in the Docklands, getting on with the job," Pete replied, with a caustic chuckle. "That's what keeps people going." He paused to let Rogue catch up, motioning to her to hurry up with a beckoning hand. His eyes scanned the street, watching as scraps of newspaper and other litter was swept up in the rising wind, blowing down the deserted roadway.

Fuck, this is a crappy place to get ambushed.

"I ain't - Wait for me," Rogue followed on Pete's footsteps, completely oblivious to any possible signs of danger. "Don't walk away from me."

Ahead, a few hundred yards away, the neon-lit blue-red disc of the Underground beckoned them towards apparent safety, but the lack of other pedestrians and the glints in alleyways, shadows in corners, spoke of trouble coming too soon. "I'm not. Hurry up, woman. All those chains slowing you down?" It didn't occur to him that she wouldn't have seen the signs too. The X-Men were supposed to be hot stuff. Even if they were walking collateral damage machines.

If they're going to make a move, it'll be soon. They can't let us get near the cameras.

[Rogue]

So wrapped up in her own anguish she was that she hardly paid any attention to her surroundings. Despite the considerable amount of drinks she'd downed, even the mild tipsiness was quickly evaporating in the cool November air. The way her head was spinning was completely self-inflicted. The misery kept feeding itself, eating her self-worth and confidence until she now no longer even tried to reign it in.

There was a voice in her head telling her how she'd never find another love, how Remy never really loved her in the first place either. How could he have if he could let her go this easy, how could he have if he let her suffer like this. Her own thoughts tormented her far more skillfully than any trained sadist could manage, digging out each insecurity and buried fear, each forgotten painful memory, slight and hurt.

"I'm not. Hurry up, woman. All those chains slowing you down?" Pete snapped at her, his voice sounding almost angry. Rogue shivered and fastened her pace. In this shadowy world he was the only living, breathing, warm thing and she followed him like the mothwoman a flame.

Engine revved in the distance, high pitched screech approaching fast, too fast to obey any kind of speed limit. Then the wail of tires on a dry concrete and the smell of burning rubber and a sharp yank on her arm pulling her down. Footsteps, hard, rapid sounds like gunfire. No. Footsteps and gunfire. Rogue screamed.

What's goin' on?

Remy! Help!

[Pete Wisdom]

Engine revved in the distance, high pitched screech approaching fast, too fast to obey any kind of speed limit. Then the wail of tires on a dry concrete and the smell of burning rubber and a sharp yank on her arm pulling her down. Footsteps, hard, rapid sounds like gunfire. No. Footsteps and gunfire. Rogue screamed.

Pete was too occupied to swear as he yanked Rogue down behind the dubious cover of a plastic and metal city waste-bin. The two white transit vans that tore past them down the street had their front passenger windows down, and the dull black muzzles of the submachine guns that poked out spat yellow blossoms of flame. As he took cover, the adrenaline spike that surged through his veins made time seem to slow down, all his senses, for a brief moment, expanded in the familiar rush of combat. The scents of street, of burned rubber, of propellant filled his nostrils. The noise of a fusillade of bullets smacking into concrete, the sight of puffs of dust and fragments exploding out from each impact.

Those rounds are being fired high. They’re trying to pin us in place, let the toerags on foot move in, not hit us. Fuck that.

He looked around. The men on foot were closing in, running in from their positions of concealment towards them. What were they carrying? The devices weren’t all of a type. Some sort of net guns, some sort of tasers? The weapons looked too futuristic to be your run of the mill ‘ideal for home defence’ products, and in the United Kingdom, anything above an air rifle was regulated, let alone this Star Wars bollocks. These weren’t run of the mill terrorists or hitmen. Their long black coats were flapping in the rising wind as they shouted out commands to the pair to hold still, to surrender, to give up and put their hands on their heads.

Long black coats. It’s like a bad bloody action film. Men in Black Dusters. Could you get more of a walking cliché? Pete conveniently ignored the fact that he too was wearing a black suit, a black long raincoat. He would have fit right in next to Tommy Lee Jones in that film with the giant cockroach. Who the hell are they? Black Air? They’re all supposed to be in hiding. MI5? He should have heard about it. Some corporate army trying to secure some test victims? Oh, who gives a damn.

At times like this, everything seemed so clear. Afterwards, everything would come rushing back. Sufficient unto that day was the evil thereof. His hand shot into his coat, yanked out the sleek but somehow ugly black form of a heavy 10mm pistol. “MI13! Back off, in the name of Her Majesty!” he shouted, defiantly. A load of old rubbish really, but you had to say something before you start shooting at people. Although it sounds less impressive when you’re hunkered down behind an overflowing waste bin full of greasy fish and chip wrappers.

His own gunfire lit the night, the muzzle flash blinding in the darkness. The recoil smashed at his wrist as he fired wildly over the top of the litter bin, but he hadn’t hoped to hit anything, just give their foes pause and slow them down: it worked, as they too had to dive for cover in doorways or throw themselves prone. Drug darts and beanbag rounds smacked off the bin and the shopfront behind them. He wasn’t too worried, yet. They were just men with guns. What’s going on with this X-Whiner, though? I thought they all kicked so much arse they had to clean the shite off their shoes with a trowel every morning. She’s just screaming. Maybe it’s the booze.

“We have to move! Come on! We have to move!” he shouted, shaking Rogue’s shoulder with his free hand. The magazine in his gun emptied, the slide locking back, and rather than reload, he threw the weapon out into the street at the nearest Mibby, to clatter off the tarmac close by. We need a distraction so we can peg it to the alleyway. Luckily, the vans had finally pulled up to a stop nearby, the drivers bailing out to open the rear and side doors: more black-clad bastards in one, but in the other, some sort of cage? With weird techno-bits attached. Sod that. One distraction, coming right up.

He stood up, yanking Rogue up with him. Once more, the night was lit, but not with gunfire, not this time. A fan of blades seemingly made from solid flame burst into life from the fingers of his right hand and shot apart and out, hot knives bright as the sun flashing across the street, and they burrowed with terrible melting force right through the underside of the cage-van. The white hatch over the fuel cap said ‘Petrol only’. Nice and flammable. Boom.

[Rogue]

The concrete rushed up to her suddenly and sounds of gunfire rang in her ears. Confused and startled, she screamed and struggled away from Pete. They were hunkered down behind some garbage bins, and she had greasy papers clinging to her leather pants, and something in her hair. And the smell. Ewww. What was he thinking? Pete was shouting something and - holy shit - pulling out his gun - he had a gun? - and shooting. Rogue tried to make sense of what the hell was happening, cars and men running and shouting and why did this always happen to her?

She could not even go to a quiet pub to have a good cry and sulk and feel miserable without some men in black coming to bother her. First Pete, then these clowns. She should go and punch their face in. Toss that car into the river, stuff their annoying guns up their asses. It was not fair. Why couldn't they leave her alone? Bastards like these were always coming to interrupt her evenings, even that date with Remy was ruined because of that. Maybe if that night would've been different, everything would've been different. Maybe...

“We have to move! Come on! We have to move!” he shouted, shaking Rogue’s shoulder with his free hand. Rogue shook her head, trying to clear her head of distant memories and what-ifs and to focus on current moment. Pete tossed his gun away and stood up, yanking Rogue with him. She growled and shrugged out of his hold, turning to face the men shooting at them.

She almost missed how Pete's fingers lit up into flame knives, just caught the flash of light from the corner of her eye and then the blossoming fireball lighting the street. This close up, she could not just see and hear the explosion, but feel it in her body, the shock wave of heat almost enough to char her eyebrows.

She was left staring, stricken expression on her face. Even his powers are like Remy's. Blowin' up things. She was recalling the way Remy would charge his cards, his excitedly impish grin before tossing them to their targets. How he enjoyed the rush of adrenalin, how his eyes would shine with nefarious glee. An' it's never mine again, none of it. Gone forever.

Pete was persistent, tugging at her arm again, and berating her and then they were running together towards a side street, the sound of fire and twisting metal behind them, and their long, dark shadows flickering across the walls. Someone was firing after them, Rogue could feel something snap against her shoulder. Ruined my jacket, fuck.

[Pete Wisdom]

The pursuing enemy continued to fire down the wide alleyway as Pete and Rogue ran down the side street. Oily puddles from previous rainfall splashed into brief fountains as their boots drove into them. The side-street was crowded with dumpsters and discarded crates from the businesses to each side, fire-ladders and drainpipes clinging to the sides of the buildings. Here we go again. Better to run, that way, we won't have to kill anyone. These buggers look like they mean business.

A high pitched whine tore the air a moment and several beams of orange-yellow energy flashed down past them to burst into brief sprays of light as they ricocheted from walls and objects. "Inhibitor guns!" shouted Pete, to warn Rogue of the danger. These guys must be seriously well-connected. "Keep fucking running. They can't shoot and keep up!"

The mouth of the alley ahead opened up ahead of them, offering a glimpse of freedom. A black sedan car screeched to a halt blocking the entrance, the window dropped, and the passenger opened up with a torrent of submachine gun fire. No more Mr Nice Guy. Or maybe, they just wanted the supposedly invulnerable one. Well, I'm not sodding immune to bullets. He kept on running, hotknives flickering out from his fingers, staying attached and spreading out to form a protective shield that boiled several rounds into gas that otherwise would have impacted with his face. The car was blocking the alley. Time for the old Luke Duke Hazzard County Bonnet Slide.

[Rogue]

The two mutants ran together, their black clothes blending into the darkness of the alley, just enough for their pursuers to miss their shots. Rogue was just about to demand to know who the men chasing them were, and what had Pete done to elicit such an attack when the energy weapons flashed past them and Pete shouted. "Inhibitor guns!" She risked a glance backwards, and he immediately growled at her. "Keep fucking running. They can't shoot and keep up!"

Fine, fine. I can fly, y'know. Even if she knew taking flight would make her a much more visible target. Just for a brief time, but a good sniper only needed a moment. Neither could he leave Pete behind, no matter how obnoxious jerk he was being. Some other day she wouldn't have minded carrying him, but right now any thought of deliberate touching made the hair on the back of her head stand up. No. They could run.

They almost made it out of the alley when a black sedan car screeched to a halt blocking the entrance, the window dropped, and the passenger opened up with a torrent of submachine gun fire. Rogue was about to throw herself in the way of the bullets when Pete created some sort of force field in front of them. That's somethin' Remy cain't do. Her heart was racing in her chest and all the previous doubts and insecurities were clouding her head, freezing her into inactivity. Pete seemed to have this under control, so she might as well just follow him, like the useless baggage she was.

Behind them the racing footsteps echoed from the naked concrete walls of the buildings, with an occasional bullet fired harmless flying over their heads. The backseat doors of the sedan opened on the far side of the car and men filed out of it, taking cover behind the car. One futuristic looking gun appeared over the back of the car, but not firing at them yet. Rogue grimaced and glanced at Pete for a plan. "Can they shoot through y'r shield thingamabob?"