Mah name is Rogue. Tahme was when things were different, but they aren't. A rogue doesn't play bah the rules. A rogue doesn't go bah the rules. A rogue doesn't need the rules. Ya see, a rogue plays Russian roullette with lahfe—and gets the bullet.


Rogue had settled into Storm's garden, weeding with a vigor that would surprise anyone coming across her there. It was rather therapeutic this roguing of the rich soil, clearing out the undesirables, leaving the good plants to hopefully thrive and blossom.

She stopped for a moment to wipe the sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist. When her hand fell, she nearly jumped out of her skin. A girl, long auburn hair, blue tank top, worn jeans, eyes closed, blood streaming from her scalp beneath the hair and from beneath her clothes, was falling forward toward Rogue. Rogue moved to catch her. The girl was a heavy weight in her arms. Her eyelids cracked slightly open, and Rogue saw in horror the rivulets of blood pouring from the corners.

"Mère?" the girl asked, her voice a hoarse whisper, faintly accented.

"What's wrong? What happened?" Rogue brushed back the hair with her gloved fingers, searching for the wound that had led to this girl's terrible state, but the girl shook her head.

She coughed. Blood stained Rogue's clothes.

"What's wrong?" Rogue had already been telepathically screaming for help since she first laid eyes on the girl, but she knew that nothing could possibly be done fast enough to save her. "What happened?"

The girl's eyes opened wide. They were red, brilliantly glowing irises against the white. A wave of nausea clenched Rogue's stomach. She stared, horrified, into the girl's all too familiar eyes.

"I did what I could," the girl whispered. Her body trembled like a leaf in the wind. "Tell Grandfather Logan,"—she paused to breathe—"I did what I could." The life slipped out of her body, and she fell limp.

"No," Rogue whispered. "No."

She couldn't comprehend it, this girl in her arms. Dead.

"Jean!" she screamed aloud, the sound ripping painfully from her throat. "Jean! Please, someone help!"

That's how they found her moments later, holding the girl, screaming for help, crying, trying desperately to hang onto her sanity. Hank and Logan got her into the medical bay and Jean settled the girl onto the table.

"It'll be okay, Rogue," she reassured, even as she got to work.

Rogue sank into a chair in the corner of the room, unhearing, unseeing.

It wouldn't. It couldn't be okay.

The girl was dead.

Rogue leaned back against the wall and stared blankly forward as the doctors did their work.

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Rogue felt numb with the events of past hours. Jean and Hank had come back with their grim test results. The girl was about twenty-two and had died from the shattering of her nervous and circulatory systems. Her genetics had confirmed her words. Rogue was somehow her mother. She had a daughter.


Rogue sat in an out-of-the-way chair in the corner of the medical bay, unable to move, barely able to breathe. She had a daughter. A dead daughter.

"I did what I could."

Ragged laughter burbled out of Rogue's throat, coming from some overexposed, shocked, almost manic area of her mind. She wanted to scream, to rant, to rail at the unfairness of the universe that gave her a child of her own body, her own blood, only to take her away, dead the day she met her. She gasped in a breath, struggling to overcome the sudden asphyxiation that overwhelmed her. Rogue put a hand to her face and drew it away wet. She was crying. Laughing and crying.

"Tell Grandfather Logan..."

"Yes," Rogue said suddenly to herself, her voice barely audible, a breath of a whisper on a tongue thick with emotion, from a throat raw with tears. "Ah'll tell Logan."

She tried to stand. She found she couldn't and cried out as she collapsed on the floor. Heavy sobs racked her shoulders, her stomach, her body. So much pain at the unreality of all of this.

"Rogue?" Logan's arms were tightening around her.

She dug her hands into his shoulders, buried her face in his chest, and keened like a small child who had lost everything she had ever had.

"She called me Mama, Logan. I couldn't save her, and she..."

"Shh..." Logan hushed her in the circle of his arms.

Rogue wept.

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Children. He'd lost to Pulse on account of children.

After all he'd done...

Angry...into bar

"Bourbon. Keep dem comin'."

Everyone knew when Gambit was in a mood to get drunk to give him what he wanted and let him be. He drank in lieu of killing something.

He barked a sharp, humorless laugh, shook his head, then downed his glass in a gulp.

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    FANDOM: X-Men: The Movie

    STORY SUMMARY: Lives, fates, and time itself lie broken in the hands of the Witness.

    DISCLAIMER: All characters and organizations (with the exception of small, mostly unnamed minor characters) throughout the series are the product of Marvel.

    CANONICAL NOTES: This story arc utilizes a strange combination of movieverse and comicverse and none of the above. Sorry about that.

    LANGUAGE AND ACCENTS: Cajun French is courtesy of Heavenmetal (many thanks). I will attempt to reproduce accents in this story arc.

    AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic is the granddaddy of my entire fanfiction universe (with a couple of exceptions). Expect to see characters, relationships, names, and premises you recognize. Realize: it all leads somewhere you won't.

    (UNBOUND) entries are in drafting phase and are likely to change radically before complete.



    0. Entertaining Angels
    1. Queen Of Thieves
    1.0 The Storytellers
    1.1 Queen
    2.1 Night
    3.0 Prelude To Legacy
    3.1 Legacy
    3.2 Legacy
    4.0 Prelude To Remember
    6.1 Fierce
    7.1 Court
    9.1 Shattered
    9.9 Coda

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