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Random Redux Author: Misty
Flores At times I believe it impossible to hate her. Other occasions, I believe it so simple, infuriatingly easy. To look at Rogue is to gaze upon tragedy. It's not a theory open for negotiation. It remains as is: pure fact. Rogue's life has never been about control. All my life, I have divided mutants by their powers. Some might consider it against my nature. I have never considered black and white. Even with my white hair, my chocolate skin, I have done everything possible to consider all the shades of grays, the infinite colors of the spectrum that never define a clear perspective. And yet, it's remarkably simple to categorize mutants by their powers. It's quite clear: there are two types of mutants: those with destructive powers, and those without. Mutants with destructive powers tend to be unable to control them. To do so requires horrendous amounts of concentration and training, and it's always warned that they may never fully contain what they have. Their mutations were inherently built to destroy, like tiny demons built inside of them, whispering into their ears, clinging to their skin, burrowing into their very life, infecting their souls. Perhaps to view things as such reveals a pessimistic soul, but I have never thought of myself as such. It's true, at times I do seem somber than most, but it has also been said my smile can light up a room. I have been told that my enduring faith is what keeps some going, and I have been told my bravery, my own control, has given many hope. My theory has been tested. Ever the scientist, Jean, of course, upon hearing it demanded evidence, and this I gave gladly. Scott, my dear friend Scott, is classified as a mutant with destructive powers. His eyes, burning hot lasers, have cost him so much. His battle is one that will never be won. Charles himself has told me, quietly over dinner, that the 'switch' that had been present in Scott's mind to control his blasts had been damaged in an accident. Scott himself, has never spoken of this. Perhaps it is because he would rather not think of the chance he would have had to live without fear. It is worse, I believe, for those of us who have a conscious, who struggle daily with the battle of good. Mutants with destructives live with the constant knowledge that their powers were built to kill, to destroy. There can be nothing redeeming about such powers if one is good, unless one struggles to overcome the devastating nature. Scott is aware of his destructive powers. He is aware of how too easily his power can be turned against us, and I believe, he fears it. Few see beyond the cool, collected nature -- many think him cold, uptight. They simply don't understand his fear. The minute he loses control, the minute he forgets, he endangers us all. Control is something quite often taken for granted in the human world, but mutants never forget. Rogue's welcome to 'Mutant High' as my students tend to call this mansion, had been a kidnapping, and a near death experience. At the time, I studied her, both in my classes and again outside of them. I observed things. While at first she seemed withdrawn, nervous, insecure, slowly her nature began to manifest itself. Rogue had chosen her name for a reason. We all do. People forget the significance behind a name we choose. Storm -- dark, dangerous, turbulent, sometimes light, drizzling, collected. Rogue -- unreliable, deceitful, apart from the norm. I took a moment, upon learning her name, to look it up, study it. Rogue was a flirt. Perhaps it came from her own Southern nature, an extension of her drawl and her small smirk, but it was in her nature. Her eyes narrowed, and her gaze was magnetic. Perhaps there were prettier girls in the school, but even at the age of seventeen, Rogue's aura was sensual. Rogue's powers were classified as destructive. Her mutation was perhaps one of the most intriguing I had come across. Her skin, inhabiting the life force of another human being, fatally if she refused to let go, was marked, dangerous. She wore gloves, scarves, at times she was given a body suit, but she never liked to wear it. Despite this, I was still sure, in that first day, that Rogue would get along here at the school. She was a mere child, a mutant with destructive powers who was scared, and lost, perhaps confused from her first few encounters. Her attachment to Logan had at first seemed constructive. Few were worried, many thought it refreshing to see an apathetic rebel take such an interest in the runaway. I admit, I myself chose to see it such. She nearly killed him the first night. It was an accident, I understand that. I have no idea why she felt she had to explain it to me, but I do remember her gaze immediately seeking out mine, plaintively drawling her innocence, before she pushed her away out of the doorway, leaving the man who had killed her and saved her in the space of five minutes, withered away on the floor. It made me uneasy. What she was doing in a grown man's room after hours was not my problem, though it did raise a few questions, but Rogue's immediate, instinctive reaction was what caused the fear. She had made a conscious choice to use Logan to save herself. It had been a mental decision she had made, to take the life of another to save her own. Perhaps she had known it would have killed him. The fact that she cared about Logan deeply provides that in her favor, but it never negated the consequences of what she did. I wondered at my own callousness at this action. Rogue loved Logan. Many saw it as a childhood fascination, but I never did. She was old enough to know the difference, as was he. Again, I pushed my fears aside, because Rogue, for all intents and purposes, is a lovely girl. Take away her mutation, lose awareness of what she is, and you see a blossoming young adult with a beautiful smile and sparkling eyes. She never seems innocent, but her jaded demeanor is just as appealing. Before the incident, she often came to me for advice. Once again, I tried to pretend I had no idea why she sought me out, considered me a mentor of sorts. I never understood why she continued to press me for stories of my own life, my own powers. She knew how I loved to fly. She knew of my control with the winds. She even queried openly one day if I lost my temper, would I lose control of my winds, as well. I never gave her an answer, but I believe she gathered from that, that my answer was yes. Her smile grew brighter, her palm squeezed mine, and I believe for the moment, she believed she had found a kindred spirit. Another mutant with destructive powers. Another mutant battling desperately for control. Another mutant battling daily with her own fears of hurting those she loved. But I am not like her. I never chose to destroy. Perhaps it is not the child, Marie, who made the decision not to let go the day my friend Carol extended her hand in friendship. Perhaps Marie is complete innocent. Perhaps she did not understand what she was doing until the life had been sucked out of Carol's body and trapped into her mind. But when I look at the child, I do not see Marie. I see Rogue. Rogue made a decision. Somewhere, in that moment, there had been a choice, and because of that, the only existence of my best friend lies in Rogue. She knew I hated her. The others did not think I hid it well. It wasn't her fault, Jean kept trying to tell me. She didn't know what she was doing. Storm, she's only a child. The child now remembers every single memory Carol ever had. The child remembers years of Holocaust persecution, and the child remembers bar fights in Canada where she killed a man when claws extended accidentally. That mutant is no longer a child. Contrary to what others believe, I think I hid my rage startlingly well. I forced myself to go numb, to think nothing of the murder. I closed my mind and my heart to it, despite the ache to mourn Carol, I never did. I knew what would happen if I looked upon Rogue then. My winds and my tornadoes, my sheets of rain and my sleet and hail would hear my cries, come to my bidding, and if I made that choice, even for a second, my weather would no longer be my own. I could not teach her to fly. I knew they wanted me to. They rushed to her aid when she found herself plastered to the ceiling, unsure how to get down until Carol reminded her. For a child that was afraid of heights, I'm sure it must have been quite traumatic. I couldn't look at her. Rogue no longer sought me out. Perhaps she thought we were not kindred spirits after all, perhaps she understood I knew about her choice. At any rate, it was nearly a year before I could look at her without tempting myself. My winds remained in control, and Rogue was my teammate. The tension drains me continually. I watch, aware that even Charles thinks I overreact with my observation of the young Rogue. She is 'good'. She keeps to herself, and she smiles, and she truly regrets what happened to those she's touched. But I do not believe she wishes she had never touched them at all. Logan has returned. She will touch him again. It's in her eyes. The ache and need, the building of the moment when she will realize that she can and will touch him. It's a decision, made in a split second -- the decision a mutant with destructive powers makes. A daily battle not to lose control, not to hurt the ones you care about. Perhaps that is what everyone does not understand. As much as Rogue cares about us, she cares about herself more. At times I believe it impossible to hate her. Other occasions, I believe it so simple, infuriatingly easy. It is those times, when I think I am the most dangerous. My mind is nudging, winds whispering in my ears that it might be up to me to watch the team, to guard even innocent Marie from the decisions made by Rogue. Rogue made a choice, and she will continue to make them. She needs her touches. Her choices are almost subconscious, but there will be a time when they will not be, when she will murder and she will be in complete control. Perhaps that is what is most frightening of all. She continues to circle Logan, wear him down, and I continue to watch, always coming closer to that split decision when I know a choice will be made. She will touch again, and I know my winds will be waiting. Once that decision is made, I know, then, Rogue may be right. Kindred spirits. We won't be so different after all. FIN Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to their owners/creators/copyright holders. This fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights. |
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