Remy studies Rogue's room, his mind clicking through possibilities.
Sprinkler heads run the length of the ceiling. Easy enough
to rig with explosives. Use adamantium for the shrapnel. Rewire
the outlets and connect the live wires to every bit of metal
in the room. Sudden inspiration. He could rewire the security
system and rig the entire mansion.
Dat what you wan'--Rogue's death?
He's surprised at his hesitation in answering. An image of
Rogue flashes to mind. Not of her indulging him at the wedding.
Not even of her flying lazily through blue summer skies. This
Rogue is a woman who has been beaten, raped and left for dead
by the Genoshans. He remembers feeling for her pulse. The
cold fear gripping his gut until he felt the faint, steady
He stares at his reflection in the bureau mirror. His fingers
trace a too-prominent collarbone. Sunken eyes. Hollow cheeks.
A body starved for affection, craving the healing touch of
a lover. A soul torn between wanting the smallest gesture
of support and needing release from consuming pain.
His eyes flick to Rogue's smiling photo. His hand tightens
on the frame. He remembers her scream. Remembers the long
hours of waiting and worrying. Whether Rogue was restlessly
asleep or sluggishly awake, he had waited by her side. His
hands soothed the aches from her muscles. His room offered
her solace. He was the one she had turned to in her time of
So where was she now that he needed her?
Remy watches the silver glow beneath his fingertips, feels
the same icy glow in his own heart. His anger explodes even
as the charged frame explodes into the bureau mirror, sending
a shower of glass splinters spraying across the room.
I was *dere* for you, girl!
"Seven years o' bad luck, sugah."
Rogue steps up behind Remy, seeing both of their reflections
in the fractured glass. He lifts his eyes to hers, but says
nothing. Tension knots his shoulders.
He turns slowly, revealing more in that movement than words
could ever say.
Rogue's throat tightens with emotion, sensing the underlying
meaning in his understated response. Remy's eyes light briefly
with interest as he notices the Genoshan collar on Rogue's
"Why you wearin' dat?"
"One o' Hank's experiments--"
Rogue bites her lip against her slip of tongue, but it's
too late. Remy clenches his jaw at the mention of "experiments".
"Ah reckon ah'd best get this mess cleaned up. Let me
get the glass, Cajun. It won't hurt me."
Rogue leaves as quickly as she arrived. Remy watches, until
he catches another reflection. A sliver of glass near the
open closet door reveals a wedding dress on a padded hanger.
Also on the hanger is a small pouch. Remy grins to himself.
Inside the pouch are the courting rings of Rogue's grandparents.
Not worth much, as far as money goes, but priceless in Rogue's
De glass won' hurt you, eh, *chere*? Don' mean you as
invulnerable to ev't'ing as you like t'think.
Remy's fingers nimbly pry open the bag and slip a ring into
his robe pocket. An envelope flutters to the carpet. It's
crisp, recently mailed. Remy flicks it open. A letter. From
Rogue to her father. He glances again at the envelope. It
was returned--"Refused". Her father's black signature
scrawls across the white paper, leaving no doubt that he
sent it back. The decision is made. Remy can't bring himself
to kill Rogue, but he will have his revenge.
He pads down the hall back to his room, feeling a sense of
purpose he hasn't felt in months. He steps inside as one steps
from shadow into sunlight and sees the change in himself reflected
in Tseidel's questioning eyes.
His fingers brush the envelope in his pocket. Sinister's
words come back to him. He knows who his friends are.
He sees Tseidel clearly for the first time in months. She
needs help. The X-men could offer her so much, if he would
only let them. He takes Tseidel's chin in his hands, his face
softening with a mixture of concern and regret that he's put
his own pettiness above her well-being.
"In de camps, we promised t'be lookin' out for each
other. Y'been lookin' t'me for answers an' I ain't been takin'
care a business, p'tite. Hush, now. T'morrow we try an' do
He lays her head back on the pillow, tucking the comforter
Continued in Chapter
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