Chapter 5-

Rogue glares at the door like she could batter it down with the force of her stare. When it finally opens and John passes through, she gazes at him with the same determined hatred. He smiles sharply in reply and waves a young woman into the cell. She carries a tray with a plate of eggs and toast and a glass of orange juice balanced on it.

When the smell reaches Rogue, her stomach growls loudly, "Decided to feed me finally?"

John glances at her naked hands, "Gloves first."

"Go to hell."

"Fine," Jerking his head toward the door, he signals the young woman-

"Fine," Rogue echoes, snatching up the gloves lying beside her and yanking them on.

The young woman carries the tray forward. When she kneels down, Rogue can see a faint scar running from below her jaw and up one side of her face, "If we'd fed you earlier, you only would have thrown it up." The woman explains in a quiet voice, "The true cure causes intense nausea in the first twelve hours. Lucky for you, you slept through the worst of it."

"This is Mar." John informs Rogue as he leans against the wall by the door, his arms crossed casually, "When you're done eating, she'll take you to get a shower and a change of clothes. Then we'll talk."

"Wait-" but he is gone and out the door.

Rouge regards the glistening eggs and rapidly cooling toast for a second. The eggs are scrambled and a bottle of Tabasco sauce sits beside the plate. Just the way she likes them. Her eyes turn uncertainly to the woman who stands at parade rest by the door, still as a statue as she stares into the middle distance. Rogue's stomach rumbles again and with a shrug, she picks up the fork.

While she eats, shoveling the food into her mouth with a hasty lack of grace, Rogue studies the other woman. She is not much more than a girl- just a little older than Rogue probably. Like many mutants she had seemed older at first, the necessity of hiding and survival weighing her down probably. Her clothes are similar to John's- dark with a kind of military nondescript-ness. Under the scar and stiff expression, her face is quite pretty, with soft brown eyes heavily lashed. But her dark hair is pulled back too tightly, anchored at the base of her neck like a stone.

Noticing Rogue's eyes on her, she asks, "Done?"

"What?" Rogue glances down at the empty plate, wishing for a moment that there was more, "Oh- yes."

"Come with me." The girl- Mar gestures to the door, ignoring the abandoned tray.

"Where too?"

"Shower. Just like the Commander said."

Commander. Hmph.

Rising to her feet, Rogue pauses at the door as well, "Why do they call you Mar?"

The stiff expression cracks a little, a tiny slice of a smile showing and the girl bends over to pluck a stray leaf off the floor of the corridor. Holding the piece of green between her thumb and forefinger, she keeps her eyes on Rogues' face as the leaf curls and browns, crumbling to dust as Marie watches.

Right.

Mar leads her down the hallway, turning the corner and marching up a set of stairs. On the next floor, they pass a bank of windows opening onto a vista of unending green.

"Where are we?" Rogue asks, looking out over the vast expanse of trees. Somewhere mountainous but not that tall or rocky- East of the Mississippi then- the Appalachians or the Catskills maybe.

"I can't tell you that." The other girl answers curtly.

"Of course not." Rogue mutters, trailing behind, studying this new glimpse of her prison. There are cameras everywhere in the hallways, probably in her cell as well. The building looks like an abandoned hospital or hotel, built before the turn of the century probably.

Filing the details away in case they offer a clue to escape, Rogue didn't notice Mar pause until it was almost too late. She came ridiculously close to running into the back of the other woman.

As Rogue skids to a sudden stop, Mar indicates the open doorway on her right with a nod of her head. Through it, Rogue can see a bank of frosted windows that pour light onto the pale tile. Underneath the windows are a row of wooden stalls, presumably hiding toilets,

"The ground drops off below the windows." Mar explains, "Unless you can fly, this is door is the only way in or out of this room. There are fresh clothes on the bench. You have half an hour."

Rogue asks sourly, "You're not coming in?"

"Do you want me to?"

Not bothering to answer, Rogue enters the room, listening to her footsteps echo on the antique tile. The entire room is white and glossy and just a little chilly. Opposite the toilets on the interior wall are a bank of sinks and mirrors. Stepping past the toilets, Rogue turns her head and watches her reflection trail her. Does she look different? The young woman pauses, tugged toward the mirror. Is that a dark gleam in her eye? Evidence of the power rising up under her skin . . .

Shaking her head like a dog, Rogue turns away from the mirrors. On the far end of room, well away from the door are the shower stalls. There's a white painted bench bolted to the floor in front of them. A dark pile of clothes rests on it, neatly folded and accompanied by a pale towel, rolled up like an English cream cake. Rogue turns 360, surveying the room as a whole. There is no other exit she can see, and even if Mar was lying about the drop from the windows, Rogue doubts she could reach them anyway. They are so far off the ground that even climbing onto one of the toilets, she wouldn't be able to touch the glass.

At her feet is a grated drain set into the floor. Rogue had heard of mutants who could become liquid or stretch themselves impossibly small or thin. She sighs. But not her.

No way out for now. She might as well get clean.

Stripping off her clothes, she stands under the spray. Safe in the thunder of the water, her body relaxes and the sobs come all of a sudden, racking her slender frame. Rogue's hands scrabble at the slick walls. She presses her forehead to the tile and John's words trample through her head, 'No one is coming for you'. How was she ever getting out of this?

Eventually exhausted, Rogue just closes her eyes and lets herself pretend that she is standing in her own shower, protected in the mansion. Nothing to be afraid of, safe at home. . .

Mar's voice slaps away her fantasy, "Ten minutes!"

What would happen, Rogue wonders, if she just stayed where she was? If she sits down in the shower and refuses to move.

Nothing good, probably.

Legs and hands shaking, she steps out and dries herself, rough and hasty. Wrapping the towel around her body, she glances down to study the clothes.

They are pretty much the same as Mar's and John's. Black cargo pants, a white tank top, gray tshirt and a dark blue zip up hoodie to go over it all. On the floor, is a pair of military style boots, the kind that lace half way up the calf. There is even a fresh pair of gloves. Pausing as her hand closes around the cotton underwear at the top of the pile, Rogue almost breaks down again. She has no idea where they have come from, how many people have handled them- the thought churns the food in her stomach to a sour mash.

Closing her eyes, she tugs them on as fast as she can, then throws the other clothes on over them. Every place the fabric rests against her skin feels like an alien touch.

I'm being stupid, she thinks, lacing up the boots. If I can't take this, put on some strange clothes, I'm never getting out of here.

I have to be tougher.

Taking a steadying breath, the girl walks over to the sinks and begins to braid her hair, tight and even like she would if she were going into the Danger Room.

Dressed and clean and gloved, Rogue meets Mar back at the door, "What's next?" She asks.

Mar leads her across the building and then back down again to the basement level. Rogue rubs her fingers together, feeling the irritating friction of the material of the glove scrapping against itself. The feeling makes her want to rip the gloves off fiercely enough to peel her treacherous skin away with them. It makes her want to pound her fists against the walls and scream.

In a corridor that looks a lot like the one that holds Rogue's cell, they meet John. He gives Mar a terse nod, then pushes open the door on his left. He looks at Rogue like he is daring her to walk through.

Lifting her chin, she marches past him. The room is tiny and windowless, holding nothing but a metal table and two chairs. Rogue seats herself, noting the manilla envelope resting on the table's surface, the only color in the room. Crossing her legs and then her arms, Rogue watches John enter and pull the door shut behind him.

Before he can speak or even sit down, Rogue demands, "What do you want from me, Pyro?"

He smiles. Not in a nice way. "Let's talk."

"You kidnapped me out of my bed to talk?"

But instead of speaking, he picks up the envelope, emptying it out on the table with one hand. Glossy white paper spills out onto the tabletop. He picks one sheet seemingly at random and flips it over, setting it in front of Rogue.

Frowning, the girl sits forward to get a better look and her face blanches. The photograph shows a middle aged man laying in a puddle of blood, leaking from what seems like hundreds cuts across his chest and arms and face . . . Another photo hits the table. A woman rests on a bed, her eyes wide open and a gaping hole in her chest. The edges of her nightgown are curled and blackened around the wound. Rogue's breath catches painfully. Another photo. Two little girls also laying in their beds, they could be sleeping except for the stiff way the bigger girl's hand flops over the edge, something red and sticky rolling off her fingers. Bitter tears fill Rogue's throat. Still another photo. A young couple wrapped around one another in a dank alleyway-

"What is this?" Rogue demands, staring into Johns' face so she doesn't have to look at the horrors spread out in front of her.

"This is Aaron Armitage" He taps the first photo with one finger, "He was a class three telekinetic until he took the cure. A month ago someone broke into his office and killed him. There were more than a hundred cuts on his body, at least of ten them would have been fatal. But all the cuts were made simultaneously."

He nudges the next two photos of the woman and the little girls tucked into their beds. "This was Thora Symonds and her two daughters. She took the cure eight months ago- at the same clinic you used. She was concerned the court would award custody of the girls to her ex-husband if she didn't."

"How-" Rogue's voice is a dry breath. She swallows and tries again, "How old were the girls?"

"Eight and ten."

"Ah-" Rogue presses her hand to her mouth to keep the sound inside. Shaking her head, she turns her face away, "Why are you showing me these?"

He slides another photo forward, "This is-"

"What's the point, John?" She tucks her hands into the crooks of her elbows to stop the shaking that seems to have taken over her body. "Did you bring me here to brag about what you and the Brotherhood-"

He's around the table faster than she would have thought possible. Grabbing her by the arm, he yanks her to her feet, "Is that what you think we do?" He snatches up one of the pictures and shoves it in her face, "We don't murder defenseless little girls!"

"Then who?" She pulls hard at her arm and he releases her suddenly so that she falls back into the chair. She catches herself against the table and the terrible photographs scatter.

John retreats back around to the other side of the room, his pale face flushed, "They call themselves The Marauders. They're mutants- mercenaries for hire."

Rogue whispers, "What?" Her breakfast rolls in her gut once again.

"They're assassins."

"Why? These people were no threat to anyone- their powers are gone."

John makes a sound of contempt, "Stop pretending you don't know what was happening."

Rogue starts, a jerking motion that makes the legs of her chair scrape against the floor. Then shakes her head in denial, "I don't-"

"Don't tell me you couldn't feel it," He insists flatly, "the power trickling back, growing under your skin."

Rogue shakes her head harder. No. It wasn't true. He couldn't know that. She hadn't told anyone. She never told anyone-

"It must have been hard for you," He continues, his voice growing soft and gently mocking. He sits down across from her deliberately, "feeling the power grow stronger every time you touched someone. Did it make you want to stop, just so you could pretend it wasn't happening?" He tilts his head to the side, "Or did it make you want to touch them more?"