Author Notes Strike Back: (in which we answer the question on everyone's lips...)
WHAT HAPPENED TO THE AUTHOR??
Once upon a time there was a slash writer who's pen name was DangerMouse. She liked writing slash, particualry Lance/Pietro slash, because nobody else seemed to be doing it. Besides, they were cute characters (and even cuter together) and this Author has a villian fetish as well, but that is another story entirely. Well, everything was going well for this Author - people really seemed to like her stories (which surprised her) and wrote lots and lots of nice reviews (which surprised her boyfriend even more). Everything was coming up daisies, as far as this fanfiction was concerned, but then, the unthinkable happened.
DangerMouse's muse ran away.
Oh, it was a terrible situtaion, to be sure. The skies rained, the walls bled, the dog got fleas, and the car stopped working. Every now and then, DangerMouse would spot her muse, skipping around in other fandoms, like Harry Potter or Quantum Leap or Angel, but try as she might, the Author couldn't seem to drag her back where she belonged. Something had to be done.
To make a long story short ("TOO LATE") DangerMouse set a series of dasterdly traps in order to catch her muse. And well, obviously, one of them worked. So here, for your reading pleasure, is....

Pietro was starting to get very aggravated.

He had awoken to feel himself lying on a cold, hard surface that wasn't at all comfortable, his eyes shut and not responding. In the distance, he could hear something that sounded like moving water, such as a fish tank filter or one of those fountains they sell in department stores. Wiggling his fingers and toes experimentally, he took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling cool air filter pleasantly into his lungs. After finally convincing his body that, yes, he did want to open his heavy, heavy eyelids thank you very much, he was quite disappointed and silently cursed himself for the wasted effort.

The room was featureless.

Everything was black. There were no walls, no floors, no ceiling, nor any ornamentation of any kind. Not even a fish tank. The surface he was lying on wasn't really a surface at all - it was more like he was floating, but without all the fun of being weightless.

After pushing himself up to a standing position, he'd turned once in a circle, looking around, squinting in the blackness, trying to see anything. He'd taken a few steps forward, but stopped, slightly disturbed. For some reason he'd been expecting an echo, but his footsteps remained stubbornly silent. And so, Pietro was standing very still, waiting patiently for something to happen.

No one has ever described Pietro Maximoff as patient.

"Well, as far as Near Death Experiences go, this one sucks!" he called out to no one in particular. "Where's my damn tunnel of light?"

"Well, obviously, you're not near death," quipped a high-pitched voice behind him. Pietro spun around and felt his jaw go slack in shock.

Sitting calmly on a wooden bar stool (which definitely had not been there a few seconds ago) was quite possibly the strangest thing he had ever seen. She was maybe seven inches tall, with light-blue skin and long green hair. She sported a simple, off-white halter-top dress that fell about her ankles, which were crossed as she bounced her legs up and down. Her large eyes were a strange, pupil-less ice blue, giving him what could only be described as an impassive stare. In her hand she held a small 7-11 slurpy cup, her small mouth chewing incessantly on the red straw sticking out of the top.

"What the hell are you?" Pietro finally managed to ask after a beat.

"Your sub-conscious, obviously," she said, rolling her eyes. "What else would I be?" Pietro looked at her again, slightly confused.

"Why is my sub-conscious female?" he asked leaning in to get a closer look. She raised an eyebrow, giving him a little smirk.

"Why do you think, bottom-boy?" she said with a lewd sort of glance. "Nice shirt, by the way."

Pietro looked down at himself and was surprised to discover he was wearing his favorite purple shirt. "I happen to like this shirt," he said defensively, glaring at the girl. "And what do you mean, 'bottom-boy?'"

"Puh-lease," she said, rolling her eyes again. "I'm your sub-conscious. I know more about you than you do."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Well, no one ever said you were the smartest of the bunch," the girl replied with a shrug.

Pietro stared at her for a minute. "You're not very nice," he told her finally. "Why is my sub-conscious insulting me?"

"Maybe," she said, giving him a sort of weak, cynical smile, "you have low self-esteem."

Pietro blinked.

* * * * * *

Rogue felt the cool air of an overpowered air conditioner blow across her face as the electric doors to the hospital slid open with a 'swish.' She shivered, suddenly wishing she had brought a sweater. She couldn't help but wonder why hospitals were always kept so cold - it certainly wasn't comfortable to the patients and she couldn't imagine the doctors really liking it that much. She looked around the cold, sterile waiting area and grimaced. She really hated hospitals. With a resigned sigh, she walked up to the reception desk and waited patiently for the male orderly to notice her. After about five minutes of watching him type at the computer and busy himself shuffling papers, she cleared her throat.

"Yes?" he asked, not even looking up. "Are you injured?"

"Um, no," she told him, raising an eyebrow. "Ah'm lookin' for someone. Ah don't know where ta' go."

"Name?"

Rogue blinked. "Rogue... Xavier," she supplied unsteadily, not really interested in giving her own last name. At this, the orderly looked up at her and, taking in her gothic appearance, raised an eyebrow in return.

"Are you on drugs?" he asked her carefully. Rogue blinked at him again in shock. Once that was out of her system, however, she narrowed her eyes.

"No, Ah am not on DRUGS," she said loudly, very affronted. "Ah am LOOKIN' for a FRIEND of MINE." She spoke slowly and clearly, emphasizing every few words for the orderly's benefit.

"I meant what's the name of your friend, darlin'," he drawled, sarcastically mimicking her southern accent.

"Pietro Maximoff," she growled out, giving the orderly a look that could melt glass. She really, really hated hospitals. The orderly poked around at his computer for a minute more then nodded, more to himself than anyone else.

"Yeah," he said, looking up at her. "He's in surgery. But you can wait down the hall." At this he stood up and pointed down a corridor. "I think that's where some other folks are waiting. Think you can find it your self, hon?"

"Ah'll manage," she told him sharply, then spun on her heel and walked quickly in the direction he pointed. "Jerk," she muttered under her breath. Before turning the corner that would lead her to the waiting area, she found her steps faltering. Taking a deep breath to steady her self, she swallowed audibly and walked into the room.

Lance was sitting in what looked like an uncomfortable chair, chin in hand, looking solemnly out the window. Mystique, in her Principal Darkholme persona, was sitting across the room, flipping furiously through a magazine, not really reading it. There were other families in the room as well, most sitting quietly and looking worried or sad, some talking softly in small groups. A small television was mounted in the upper right-hand corner of the room, silently depcting a CNN newscast, the subtitles rolling across the screen. Overhead, the blue florescent lights buzzed, giving everyone in the room a deathly pallor. Rogue felt her stomach flip - this was the worst room she'd been in yet.

She met Mystique's eyes as she walked across the room, giving her an unreadable look before focusing back to her magazine, turning the pages so hard, Rogue suspected they might rip. She forced herself to push her cold anger towards the metamorphosing mutant down and out of the way. Now was not the time to dwell on petty rivalries and old grudges. Instead, Rogue continued her progress through the room, finally taking a seat in a vacant chair next to Lance. She watched the earth-shaker in silence, deciding he needed to make the first move. She didn't want to interrupt his thoughts.

After a few moments, Lance turned to Rogue, giving her a small smile.

"Glad you came, beautiful," he told her softly, his eyes somewhat duller than usual.

"Ah told you not ta' call me that," she chided gently, not really upset. He'd started calling her that when she joined The Brotherhood, mostly because it annoyed her. He probably still did it for the same reason. This time, however, it didn't seem like a jibe - instead, it felt reassuring. Normally, Rogue would not know this sullen youth to be the fierce-spirited angry mutant she'd hung out with during her brief stint in Mystique's service. Hearing him call her by that annoying nickname seemed to relieve some of the tension she'd been feeling about this meeting.

"I wasn't sure you were going to come," Lance said, startling her out of her thoughts.

"Of course I came," she replied with a little more force than she intended. "Why wouldn't I?" Lance shrugged.

"I figured the other X-Geeks wouldn't want you to leave," he explained.

"Well, they didn't," Rogue said. "But I'm here anyway."

"Maybe there's hope for you yet," Lance told her, grinning a little. Rogue smiled back briefly before becoming more serious.

"So, what's tha' verdict," she asked him, nodding her head in the direction of the operating room. Lance gave a deep sigh, following her gaze, his expression dropping a little.

"I don't really know," he said quietly, frowning. "They wheeled him in about forty-five minutes ago. The doctor said the operation would take about two hours, barring any complications. It's supposed to be pretty routine and they said he has a good chance of pulling out of this unscathed, but..." Lance trailed off, blinking his eyes rapidly. Rogue looked down and saw his hand clenching the armrest of his chair so hard, his knuckles were turning white. Placing her own gloved hand over his bare one, she forced him to let go, then gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

"He'll be okay," she told him firmly. Lance nodded.

"I hope so," he replied, looking back in the direction of the operating room. "I'm still worried..."

* * * * * *

Pietro leaned back in an inflatable, plastic recliner that had 'Budweiser' stamped across the side, holding in his left hand a fine, blue paisley patterned china teacup. Raising the cup to his lips, he sipped the drink and grimaced. He found it tasted almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea. Shaking off an odd feeling of deja vu and sipping the drink again, he looked over at the strange girl-like thing sitting on her stool across from him. She was no longer holding her slurpy drink, but was instead, flipping through some kind of porno magazine, occasionally making rude comments and snickering. For such a dainty looking creature, Pietro was finding her to be increasingly vulgar and rude.

"What should I call you?" he asked her, trying to break the monotony. At this, she looked up and gave him a distinct look of disgust.

"What is your obsession with naming things?" she snapped back in return, anger clearly evident in her voice.

"It's so I can make more sense of them," he explained. The girl shook her head.

"A name is meaningless. It's ridiculous. Not everything needs a name, you know."

"Fine," Pietro said, slightly exasperated. "I'll give you a name if you don't have one." He closed his eyes, thinking for a moment. "How about.... Id?"

"Id?" she repeated, curling her upper lip. "What kind of a name is Id?"

"It's from something Lance read to me once," Pietro told her, sitting up in his chair. It squeaked as he shifted his weight. "It's Freudian. Id is the subconscious, then there's the Ego and the Super Ego, but I really can't remember what those do."

"Lovely. Id. That's such a beautiful name," she said sarcastically. "Fine. If you must name me something, call me Id if it will make you happy."

"All right, Id it is," Pietro said with a smile, leaning back in his chair again. "So... read any good books lately?" Id promptly threw the porn magazine across the room, bouncing it off his head while giving him a withering look.

"What the hell kind of question is that to ask you sub-conscious," she asked him, her voice sharp with irritation.

"It's not my fault. I'm bored," he complained in return, throwing his teacup over his shoulder. It didn't make a sound. "This place is down right creepy."

"You're bored?" she cried, indignant. "How do you think I feel? I spend all my time here!"

"What do you mean, 'here?'" Pietro asked, ignoring her tone of voice. He was starting to get used to it. "What is this place, anyway? Is this all my sub-conscious?"

"I thought we had this conversation already," she said, shaking her head again. "Yes, this is your sub-conscious. I'm your sub-conscious, the blackness is your sub-conscious, everything you see here is your sub-conscious."

"That doesn't make any sense," he replied, getting slightly annoyed. "How come my sub-conscious is so barren?"

"This is your mind as you perceive it," Id retorted. "It's not my fault it's dull. Besides, it's not really barren at all. You have some porn magazines, I'm on a wooden bar stool, your in a nice, plastic, inflatable recliner that has 'Budweiser' stamped on the side, not to mention the fine, blue-paisley patterned, china tea-cup filled with a drink that tastes almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea which you just threw over your shoulder."

"Well, yes, but those things weren't here when I first got here." Pietro pointed out. "They just sort of appeared."

"To be honest with you, this place is usually quite busy," Id finally conceded with a sigh. "Because of the mental state you're in now, there's not really a lot going on."

"That isn't very encouraging," Pietro said with a frown. Id shrugged.

"It's all right. During the day, this place is occupied with things too complex for your conscious mind to really digest - the feel of your clothes against your skin, smells in the air, snippets of conversations that you overhear, thoughts you didn't know you had, etc. Your dreams at night are all sort of overflow from this. Right now, you're in a dreamless state because of the anesthesia. There's no place else for your consciousness to go."

"Hmm... this is starting to give me a headache," Pietro replied, rubbing the left side of his head.

"No, it's probably the fact that they're cutting your head open right now that's doing that," Id said in an offhanded sort of way. Pietro glared at her for a second then closed his eyes, sinking back in his inflatable recliner. Suddenly, he smiled.

"You know," he said brightly, opening his eyes, "I just realized something."

Id now had a very thick copy of "War and Peace" out on her lap and sighed at the interruption. "What's that?" she asked.

"Well, you're talking at a normal speed and so am I. Most people say I talk too fast."

"We don't talk too fast," Id scoffed. "The rest of the world just listens way too slow."

"Finally something we agree on," Pietro replied with a grin.

* * * * * *

Fred paced restlessly in the kitchen of Todd's house, still not sure what to do. Not only was he worried about Todd's mental state - the toad-like teen had still not spoken word since the evening before - but now Fred was also very anxious about Pietro. Opening the refrigerator, more out of habit than anything else, he gazed at the various pre-prepared foods that had been brought by mourners who visited Todd while he was sitting Shiva. Fred frowned. Some of it he couldn't recognize. What was a 'matzoth ball' anyway? And what the heck was a 'gefilte' fish?' With a heavy sigh, Fred stepped back from the refrigerator, letting the door swing softly shut on its own power. Walking slowly across the kitchen, Fred gazed out into the living room.

Todd still hadn't moved.

The Rabbi told Fred that he shouldn't engage Todd in conversation - that the person in mourning should be the first to speak. He also said that if Todd did start to talk about his mother, that Fred shouldn't change the subject. So far, Fred hadn't had to worry about that, given the fact that his friend remained stubbornly silent. Fred turned and started to walk back into the kitchen when a soft 'meow' came from behind him. Turning again, Fred smiled.

The little gray kitten he had adopted was sitting on the floor, staring at him with her big green eyes, the tip of her tail swishing back and forth across the floor. As Fred took a step towards her, the kitten crouched, then pounced, attacking his shoelaces with vigor. Fred stifled a laugh and reached down, easily sweeping the tiny animal into his large hands. From there, the kitten leapt to his shoulder, curling up near his neck, purring and occasionally swatting at his ear. With a contented sigh, Fred began to resume his trek to the kitchen, intent on finding something to feed the small creature.

"Hey, Freddy..."

Fred stopped in mid-stride, then spun around and peaked into the living room. "Todd...?" he asked warily, wondering if he had perhaps imagined his friend talking. Todd looked up at him, his chestnut colored hair falling over his eyes as he slouched backwards off the short stool he was sitting on and onto the floor.

"Freddy, grab me something to eat, will ya'?" Todd asked, putting his hands behind his head as he leaned against the edge of the nearby sofa.

"Yeah, Todd. Sure thing," Fred quickly replied. Walking over to the refrigerator, he threw it open and grabbed the first thing he could find that didn't need to be heated up - a plate of sandwiches, cut into triangles, smelling strongly of corned beef. Ripping off the plastic wrap on top of the plate, he tossed the clear plastic into the trash and closed the refrigerator door with his foot. In his other hand, he picked up two glasses and a bottle of warm cola off the counter, then walked into the living room. Todd sat up as Fred carefully put the platter on the glass-topped coffee table near where he was sitting. As his friend poured the drinks, Todd picked up one of the sandwiches, nibbling at the corner. Fred waited expectantly for Todd to speak, his nervousness over the situation actually causing him to not feel hungry - his stomach had been doing flip-flops for days it seemed. But Todd said nothing, simply munching on his sandwich, staring at the table in front of him. Fred tried hard to hold back another sigh.

Suddenly, the little gray kitten jumped off Fred's shoulder and onto the table, reaching out a little paw to knock one of the sandwiches onto the floor. Fred let out a horrified gasp as she nearly tipped a full glass of soda into Todd's lap. The large teen reached out and grasped the kitten gently by the scruff of the neck, lifting her to eye level to scold her.

"No, Igor," he told her firmly, putting his other hand underneath her back legs to balance her weight. "You bad cat. What are you trying to do?" Igor mewed in reply.

"Igor?"

Fred looked over at Todd, who was looking back at him, one eyebrow raised in question, a sort of half-smile on his face. Fred looked at the kitten for a moment, then shrugged, carefully putting the tiny feline on to the ground. "What's wrong with 'Igor?'" he asked, watching as the kitten stalked an imaginary prey across the floor.

"Well, that's a girl cat, isn't it?" Todd asked.

Fred shrugged again. "I guess. So?"

"Shouldn't a girl cat have a girl cat name?" Fred fixed Todd with a look.

"What, you think I should call her 'Fluffy' or 'Bubbles' or something?" he asked. Todd cracked a grin as the kitten suddenly jumped in his lap and started playing with the sleeve of his shirt.

"No, I guess Igor's okay," he replied, scratching the miniature fluff-ball between her ears. Igor let out a very loud and contented purr as she settled herself in for a nap. Fred worried a silence might fall between them again, but Todd let out a big sigh instead.

"I wonder if she hated me," he said softly. Fred was startled.

"You mean your mom?" Todd nodded.

"Yeah," he said with a frown. "The last thing I did was yell at her, man. It was such a stupid fight."

"But that's all it was," Fred told him firmly. "A stupid fight. We fight all the time, but it doesn't mean anything. I still know you're my friend." Todd shook his head fiercely and moved Igor onto the floor before standing up.

"I mean, I should have done more to help her," said the toady-teen, furiously pacing the length of the room. "I should have called a doctor - I shouldn't have walked out. I could tell she was gettin' sicker, but I didn't do nothin' about it! It's my fault she's dead!"

"What?!?" Fred gave his friend a wide-eyed look. "Are you serious?" Fred struggled to his feet, moving to grab Todd's shoulder, halting his angry movements. Todd spun around, glaring at his friend.

"Of course I'm serious!" he yelled. "She's dead! DEAD! And it's my fault! My fault that I was born, my fault that I'm some kind of freak, my fault that I couldn't be normal like other kids!" Todd started to shake, his eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to hold back the tears that filled his eyes. "I'm the one what drove her to drink and I'm the one that didn't get her the help she needed!"

"Hey, you listen to me," Fred growled, grabbing both of Todd's shoulder's, forcing him to make eye contact with him. "It. Was. Not. Your. Fault. You can't blame yourself for being what you are, and you can't blame yourself for what your mom did. You did the best you could."

"Not good enough," Todd said in a defeated tone, rubbing at his traitorous eyes as his breath began to hitch with forceful sobs. "She's dead. My best wasn't good enough." He broke down, clutching the front of Fred's shirt, sobbing so hard his legs barely supported him.

Fred was at a loss. Awkwardly, he put his arm around his friend, patting his back in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. Gazing up at the cracked ceiling, he wondered how Pietro was doing, wishing he and Lance were both here to help him.

It was going to be a long day.