So, I wrote this in 2015 and apparently that was a while ago. The good news is that I also wrote the part after this part. So... yeah. Also, I didn't proof this very well, and frankly it's a miracle if you can read it because... well, let's just say the pit has changed in strange and mysterious ways, and updating has been a journey.

Also also, hi. It's been a minute.

It is a Sunday morning when Raven sits her across the table and says, "There are two more recruits we need to secure. I'm handing you the dossier on one of them: a thief named Remy LeBeau. Cajun, French Quarter, exhausting. Study his file very carefully, absorb it, learn it by heart."

LeBeau's file is at least an inch thick, probably more. Some pages are dog-eared. She tests its weight with her palms. "And the other?"

"There is no dossier on Lance Alvers. All you have is his name. We fly out to California tomorrow to meet him. Be prepared."

Rogue can't quite find the words she wants to say. "Why does this feel unbalanced to me?"

"As men, they are opposites. Each man presents a unique challenge for you. Bare that in mind and respond accordingly."

Lance Alvers

Rogue thinks to herself: to the common eye, Lance Alvers is unremarkable. He's broad smiles and flannel shirts and trendy non-prescription eye glasses, a bar owner who advertises on Instagram and hosts microbrewery competitions every third Saturday of the month. Handsome, in an ordinary way. The kind of man you could walk past every day, exchange heartily hellos with, and still never quite remember.

Rogue thinks to herself: her eyes must be pretty damn common, because that is all she sees. Of course, there's more to him than that – there has to be, for Mystique to speak about him in riddles and drag her across the country just for a pretty please won't you join our insurrection. She just can't figure out what. This fact, and the jet lag, tries her patience and she has to make it a conscious effort to tuck away the sharper edges of her mood before facing their host.

He flattens his ordinary palms against the table they're seated at, and flashes his ordinary smile, again. His teeth are too white and straight, more likely the work of a good dentist than luck of the genetic draw. "Ladies," he says. "I don't know what brings you here, but I am already honored. I don't get to start every day in the company two such beautiful women."

"Hm." Mystique is not wearing her true skin, but one Rogue knows almost as well, the one that has to be her favorite disguise because she throws it on like an old, comfortable pair of jeans or a broken-in jacket, without preamble or effort or thought. Her thick blonde hair is twisted up in a tight bun and her long legs are neatly crossed below the short hem of her dress. "Are you happy, Mr. Alvers?"

It's certainly a gentle way to start, Rogue thinks. Gentler than the invitation she received. Lance just shrugs. "As happy as the average man." Naturally, Rogue doesn't add.

"But does your life have meaning?"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. This isn't some…" He chuckles, taps his knuckles against the wood. "You're not here for my soul. Because if so, you're barking up the wrong tree. That ship has sailed. Insert your applicable cliché of choice here, I'm just not interested."

Mystique, in the business of saving souls. "Ha!" Rogue exclaims. Then she meets Mystique's flat gaze and purses her lips. "Uh, I mean, nah."

"What exactly does that mean?" He sighs, his expression suddenly turning sour. It gives her the faintest thrill to see displeasure color his face. "In plain speak, ladies. I'd rather not waste any more of your time than absolutely necessary."

"In plain speak." Mystique repeats. "We're launching an attack against a military base in an attempt to derail the production of Sentinels. You're an informed man, Mr. Alvers, I doubt I have to explain the dangers to yourself and everyone if the government's pet project proceeds as planned. You have invaluable experience and abilities. We need you to join our little effort."

For the longest time, he doesn't speak at all. Long enough that Rogue wonders if maybe Mystique is the one who got it wrong and he's just a Joe Schmoe newly confronted with a reality too fantastic to believe.

Then, "This is a joke," he says. "A gag. I'm on a hidden camera show? Do I get an appearance fee?"

"Mr. Alvers," Mystique says, calmly. Assuredly.

"Are you from the government? Is this some kind of sting? My books are all in order. Come back with a warrant and you can prove it for yourself. I'm a law abiding citizen." When Mystique doesn't confirm this suspicion, he sighs a second time and shakes his head. "Ladies. Whatever this is, I think it's over. I'm a decent man. You're welcome to a drink on the house, but otherwise I have a business to run."

He's two steps away when Mystique says, "We'll take a water each." It sounds like defeat to Rogue, but what does she know? The look on the older woman's face is nothing but serene as she turns to face her. "Well? Your assessment?"

Rogue watches Lance disappear behind his bar in search of glasses, and shrugs. "Honestly, is there anything to him at all? I scoured the internet for any information on this Lance Alvers all night and insofar as I can tell, he's perfectly content to live a perfectly low key life. Not that that's a crime, I just don't see how he can possibly matter to us. I mean, just look at him. I can't figure out one defining thing about him."

"Yes! Exactly!"

Through a window, Rogue can see the San Francisco fog. "Are you playing games with me?"

"If you were walking down the street, taking the time to really examine each person you passed, do you think it'd be so hard to pinpoint defining characteristics? Appearances and habits provide clues to who a person is and where they've been. Your accent is a geographical indicator. Your penchant for tugging at already oversized sweaters reveals you've been uncomfortable in your own skin. Your hair tells the story of-"

"That time you kidnapped me."

Raven says, "So why is it so hard to pin down the details of our host? Why can't you find out anything about him?"

"To be fair," Rogue replies, "He does have fantastic teeth. I guess there's that…"

"Your waters," Lance says suddenly, pleasantly, setting two glasses down on the table. "Please let me know if you'd like to see the menu."

The older woman turns her whole body to face him. "I'd like you to reconsider our offer. Perhaps I haven't phrased things the right way."

"While I appreciate the effort and interest in me, I'm afraid I can't-"

She interrupts him. "You see, I thought I was speaking plainly before, but I realize now that's not possible when we're both still wearing masks." This time, her entire body morphs, snapping back into the bright blues and stark reds that define her natural form. "Now it's your turn, Mr. Petrakis."

Mr. Petrakis? Rogue is confused but Lance – he just sets his jaw and stares right back.

"Your observations were sound." Mystique says, easily. "There's nothing to Lance Alvers because he is not real. It's the disguise of a man who doesn't want to be noticed or found. He is purposely bland. Except his teeth, but that couldn't really be helped, could it."

"No." It's the man who answers, and his voice is already different. It's deeper, angrier. Slightly accented. "I could change everything around me and my dental records would still give me away. I needed to disappear completely."

"It was a good try," Raven acknowledges. "But now it's time to come out of hiding."

He reclaims his chair at the table, the same man but now bearing an intensity that makes Rogue uncomfortable. His shoulders are stiff, his lips pressed thin. "I'm not in hiding. I'm living differently. You asked me if I'm happy – no, happiness is not for our kind. But I'm at peace here. I won't give that up. Not for you, not for the sentinel project, not for anything."

To Rogue, Raven says, "Mr. Petrakis here-"

"It might as well be Dominikos, now," He injects.

"He is a force of nature. In Crete, he dedicated his life to mutant rights. He was known for his… aggressive tactics."

"They called it terrorism," he scoffs. "But I spoke in the only language they understood."

"And then abruptly, he disappeared from the world. Lance Alvers appeared in San Francisco and opened this bar a year later. A very small number of people know what happened, but only one man knows why."

He shrugs. "It isn't a complicated secret. We crippled the national financial institutions and the international community stepped in to save them. We were laying our lives on the line for nothing. So one day I woke up, packed a bag and moved across the sea to pursue your American Dream. For me." He says, "And do you know, it's worked. When you're on the front lines, you don't think down pillows and silk duvet covers could possibly help you sleep at night if you turned a blind eye to everything that matters – but they do."

Raven says, "I know what you're feeling. When I went from starving in the streets to building forts in four poster beds, I thought my anger had subsided with my hunger. I thought I could live a life as someone else. I was almost happy." Her skin flickered like a fading light until she was blonde again and she stared down at her pale hands and arms and smiled, softly. Then she clenched her hands into tight fists. "But it doesn't last. The pain of injustice doesn't disappear just because you realize how the other half is living. It just gets stronger. Tell me, what happened to Helen? Where is your wife?"

The ground behind them quakes, just for a moment. The windows rattle. Dominikos says, "An anti-mutant aggressor took a shot at me while we were walking, but he had poor aim. She was gone before she hit the ground."

Raven speaks carefully, running a sympathetic hand down his shoulder. "The pain only grows. Help us do what is right."

"You can't make me do this."

"No." She acknowledges. "That's why I'm asking."

To Rogue's surprise, it's her he stares at while he contemplates the offer. He looks like he's searching for answer in her face and she wonders if she can provide it. "Tell me," he says, eventually. "Do you think there will come a time when we won't recruit children to fight our wars?"

She says, "I'm not a child."

"Not anymore," he acknowledges. "But I think I've seen your face before, now that I'm really looking. With the X-men, in video coverage."

Rogue says, "I'm not here with the X-Men. This is off their radar. Least I hope so. I seriously doubt they'd approve of what we're planning."

"Right." He nods at her, like he understands. But then he adds, "You know it's funny. Everyone said that Charles Xavier was the good guy, the role model for mutant kind. But you had to tear down a wall of children to challenge him man to man. Isn't that something?"

It's an uncomfortable subject. Rogue pulls the edge of a sleeve over her hand, fidgeting because she can't disappear entirely under the thick, wool fabric. "Are you gonna help us or not?"

"Yes. Yes, I think I will. If Raven has persuaded an X-man to help... well, it must be a worthy cause. But first I have to make some arrangements." He exhales loudly before leaving them there, retreating into a back room, and Rogue takes a moment to process everything that has just been said.

"I noticed all the right things but came to the wrong conclusion," she says.

"It seems to me you came to the fast conclusion," Raven argues. "People are complex. Slow down your judgment."

Rogue wonders if she's talking about what happened with Lance-Dom or what happened with herself. "Did you really go from the streets to a life of wealth or was that just a convenient story?"

She gets only an enigmatic smile in return.