The Ante - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Lucia de’Medici
Last updated: 05/11/2007 10:19:38 PM

Chapter 4

"Activate: Rogue’s Run. X-five-point-niner," Rogue shouted, striding into the empty Danger Room. The click of her boot heels echoed loudly against the reinforced floors.

In the control tower, well overhead, Kurt pressed his face against the glass.

"She’s using decimals?"

"You should all be using varied sequences by now, Elf," Logan rumbled. "There isn’t a whole lot more I can teach you that you don’t already know."

"Rogue has been showing much more initiative the last few days," Henry remarked, adjusting his glasses to monitor the lit screen in front of him that would track her movements during the session. "What do you think is the cause of it?"

"I don’t know, but I definitely do not want to get in her way when she’s in that mood." Kurt pointed out.

Below, the Danger Room had morphed into rough terrain. Hewn boulders had sprung from the ground, making passage difficult as it spread across multiple dips and rises. Rogue was presently hauling herself, hand over hand, over the largest ledge. She dropped into a crouch, waiting just long enough for the nearest sensor to fold out of the wall and start firing.

A beam of red sliced through the air, which she evaded easily by somersaulting off the rock. She landed with one knee bent beneath her, and then the real show began.

"What’s her objective this evening, Hank?" Logan asked, tipping himself against the far wall and extracting a cigar from his shirt pocket.

"Evasive maneuvers. It’s fairly standard in this type of environment."

"Huh."

"Was that a laugh or a question, Logan?" Kurt threw over his shoulder before teleporting to the opposite end of the control room to follow Rogue’s movements. Two large mechanical droids, a variation on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s sentinel design, dropped down in a hiss of steam on either side of her. A whirr and several clicks later, and the assault began at full force.

"Watch it fuzz ball, or I’ll drop you in there myself," Logan retorted, lighting his cigar.

"But —!" Kurt’s eyes widened, only partially noting the wrench in his gut as Rogue’s powers failed to manifest.

Without an immediate source of absorption, all she had was her own agility and speed to see her through the session.

Rogue spun backwards, spring vaulting behind the boulder she’d been perched on before turning her face up to the control tower and grinning up at him ferally. Kurt gasped - for a second he could have sworn her eyes had darkened, the ghost of some psyche manifesting itself through her will and the pressure of the session.

"I think that’s enough outta ya, bub. Get suited up. Those new uniforms oughta be broken in sometime."

What happened next, Kurt couldn’t even begin to try and comprehend. Overhead, the lights dimmed, lending to the ambiance of the course. A mech lumbered towards Rogue, gears cranking noisily; the next second, a sliver of bright pink light arced across the room and connected with its shoulder. It swayed backwards a moment, then righted itself, firing again.

Kurt swallowed thickly.

"Awe, man! Not cool, Wolverine. Not cool at all."

On the floor, a resounding boom echoed, followed by the sizzle of electricity and a rising cloud of synthesized, environmentally accurate dust.

Kurt grinned, turning to face Logan with his arms folded over his chest. "I think Rogue’s taken care of it for me."

"She didn’t -" Hank exclaimed, standing.

"Huh," Logan grunted again, swaggering over to the window and surveying the damage on the floor below. Both mechs had short-circuited themselves, and they were now lying in a smoldering heap.

Rogue, standing over one of them, kicked its arm for good measure.

"Ya tell Cyclops he oughta program these things to be a lil’ quicker!" she shouted.

Logan smirked, hitting the intercom button so Rogue could hear him below. "Tell him yourself, kid, and bring a box of Kleenex with ya when ya do."

Henry looked up, dumbfounded. "She was in there a minute and fifty-two seconds."

Logan shrugged, chomping down on his unlit cigar. "It’s the new suits, I’m tellin’ ya."

"Ah wanna go again! Hank! Give me an override," Rogue called, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her sleeve. She looked at it in distaste for a moment, as if remembering she’d traded in her black and green spandex suit for something a little more technologically advanced, and accordingly, a little less comfortable.

Kurt didn’t blame her. The new getups were stiff as anything; it’d be a few sessions before the team could break them in properly.

"Hold on, kid. We’re sending the Elf in with ya," Logan replied, leaning over the intercom panel.

"Was?" Kurt swiveled around, his shoulders drooping as he took in Logan’s grim smile.

"Ya heard me, bub."

"Scheiße!"

BAMF!

"Do you really think it’s the new uniforms?" Hank asked as he turned to Logan, his brow furrowed.

"Sure. Ya give a bunch of kids black polymer suits, brushed so it looks like leather, and they all think they’re superheroes."

"Hmm, I should look into the psychological implications. Fascinating, truly..."

"Hank."

"Was I doing it again?"

"Talking to yourself? Yeah, bub, but that’s not the point. When was the last time Rogue asked for a double session?"

Henry shook his head and turned back to the monitor.

"At this degree of difficulty?" He frowned, typing in a series of codes with swift, blue fingers that brought up Rogue’s training record for her duration at the Institute. "The last known record was February of last year."

"Hank?" Wolverine asked, watching as Rogue landed a swift series of punches to a holo-villain then took one of its knees out.

"Yes, Logan?"

Wolverine bit down on the end of his cigar, chomping it thoughtfully. After a moment, he sniffed at the air.

"It’s not the suits."

He turned away as Rogue’s defense rapidly dissolved into a vicious offence. Something splattered against the danger room wall, dark enough to be oil, but viscous enough to be simulated blood.

Behind her, Kurt teleported out of the way before she could swing wide and immobilize him.

"Was that...?" Hank murmured, standing up. He hadn’t seen that particular power manifest in some time. He’d believed she’d gotten it out of her system with the other clutter of psyches stolen from her by Apocalypse when he’d risen.

There was no mistaking it: The crate on which Rogue was standing was humming, but more distinctive than that was the bright fuchsia glow that surrounded it.

"Where was Rogue last February, Henry?" Logan muttered, the grim turn of his mouth plainly evident as he exited the control tower, not waiting for Henry’s answer.

Below, the crate exploded with a force violent enough to send Rogue soaring into the air.

Henry McCoy squinted at the monitor, pushing his glasses a little further up his nose.

There was something oddly familiar about the patterning of energy that had induced the explosion. He’d seen it before, on more than one occasion in fact... but never from Rogue, and never in this sort of environment. In fact, Rogue had gone to great lengths in the past twelve months to deliberately avoid using her powers, and as far as Henry knew, she’d succeeded.

The screen flickered before him, and with push of a button, the machine began to scan for possible matches with a similar sequence in their expository signatures. Less than a minute later, the system beeped, signaling the closest analogous frequency - a genetic signature bearing the name of a mutant that Henry McCoy knew to have been residing in the city of New Orleans for the better part of the past year.

Henry’s eyes widened, turning to watch as Rogue was plucked out of the air by Nightcrawler’s teleportation.

"Oh my stars and garters," he murmured.

---

"Charles, ya here?"

"Come in, Logan. Jean and I were just finishing up."

Rather than finding the pair of them floating somewhere up near the ceiling as Wolverine had expected, Jean and Charles were seated modestly at the Professor’s desk, a variety of textbooks and notes spread out between them.

Diagrams of genomes, DNA helixes, and pages upon pages of mathematical calculations littered the surface of the table. Jean blushed, embarrassed by the fervor that inspired the mess, and began assembling the pages neatly with her telepathy.

"Should I go?"

"That’s alright, Jeannie. You oughta hear this, too." Logan nodded tersely, gesturing for her to remain seated.

"What is it, Logan?" Charles asked. "Is something wrong?"

Wolverine grimaced, his shoulders hunching automatically though there was no visible threat in sight — or in smell, as the case would be.

"There’s something funny going on with Rogue," he began, to which the Professor smiled benignly, as if this particular fact was as clear as day.

"Oh?" Jean asked, her eyebrows raised. The pair shared a look between them that made Logan bristle.

"I think someone might’ve paid her a visit unannounced."

Charles steepled his fingers before his chin; whether it was to conceal his smile or not, it set Logan’s nerve on edge.

"Who would...?" Jean began, forcibly widening her eyes to keep from blinking too often. That act was not about to work on him, Logan grimaced; he could smell a snitch a mile away. Something was definitely up, and the two resident psychics knew all about it.

Logan was about to answer as Henry burst through the door, waving a printout of the diagnostics he’d just taken from the Danger Room session and the records of one particular mutant whom none of them had expected to hear from for quite some time.

"Gumbo," Logan growled, turning on his heel, stalking past a breathless Henry and out of the room.

"Logan!" Henry called after him.

"Later, Hank," he snarled.

"But -"

"Let him go, Henry. Please, tell me what you have discovered about Rogue’s recent display of powers?" Charles interjected.

Henry turned back to face the Professor, surprised. "Rogue? Oh no, my dear boy." He paused, collecting himself. "It’s Gambit’s newly acquired powers that we should be concerned with."

---

The bathroom gleamed; the fluorescent lights were jarringly bright compared to the dim hallways of the mansion. Rogue didn’t give her eyes time enough to adjust as she rushed in, her knees still trembling as if they’d developed a will of their own. The door shut behind her with a soft click. She locked it though the small brass bolt would do nothing to keep the rest of her housemates out if they really wanted to find her.

She hoped they wouldn’t. How could she possibly stammer out a reasonable excuse? One quick psychic sweep from Jean and the entire house would know what had happened that morning, and then just a few minutes ago in the Danger Room.

Rogue glanced at the windows, almost expecting to see Bobby trying to sneak a peek into the girls’ showers by way of his ice slide. It was dark enough that she could see her own reflection mirrored in the panes, but nothing else. She shuddered, wishing desperately for her stomach to settle. Gambit had done something to her, she though viciously. Fired her up like a charged card and left her to fizzle out all on her own.

As it were, she looked a mess. Her hair had gone limp from the humidity of the early summer, and after her recent duel with the Danger Room’s new modifications, it was matted down with sweat. It was barely better than being tousled by the deft brush of fingers that came too close to the scalp. To spite her, her head tingled where his hands had been hours before.

He hadn’t touched her skin. He hadn’t, and yet if felt as if he’d left his mark everywhere on her body.

She looked at her face in the windowpane’s reflection. She was too pale, too haggard-looking, but the telltale blush that she’d clearly done something she shouldn’t have had yet to depart fully. Rogue drew a shaky breath, dropped her toiletries on the ceramic countertop, and turned away from the window.

It had come out of nowhere — a delicious tingling that started at her core and seeped into her limbs. That first mech had drawn it out of her. When she had tried to disable it by whipping a small stone at the weak point on its torso, she hadn’t expected the zing of the charge, the kinetic energy spiraling into the rock and then exploding when her throw had flown off course.

She’d been too shocked to feel him inside her head, an unvoiced second sense that directed her footing, the arch of her spine as she evaded and parried with the offense, and the steady, confident ripple of power that had guided her hands when she’d blown up the crate.

Her stomach fluttered again, and repressing a small whimper, she stumbled over to the showers.

She needed to get his mark off of her, wrest back the control over her body despite the sickening sensation that somehow it felt entirely too decadent to be decent.

She snapped on the hot and cold taps and pulled her hands back just in time to avoid the first spray from the showerhead. Her mind threatened to replay the encounter again, and fearfully, she began pulling off her clothes with more force than necessary.

She hadn’t touched him. She’d have sensed it. She would have sucked the rascal bone-dry and left him a quivering mess on the ground if she had.

She would have felt his psyche; the ghostly, deft curl of his fingers as he shuffled his cards absently, that heavy-lidded look he liked appraising her with, and that slow, soft rumble his voice made when he spoke to her.

A buckle snapped, and she ignored it in favor of the rapidity at which she peeled off her uniform top, the tank beneath, her gloves, her shoes and socks. She nearly sobbed as the clasp of her bra snapped against her back as she fumbled with it.

This couldn’t get any worse, she thought, vainly trying to ignore the way her nipples pebbled below the thin cotton.

Every move she made, her body managed to betray her once more.

"Damnit!" she swore, looking to the ceiling as she struggled to get her pants off her hips. They stuck to her stubbornly, peeling away only to ripple with gooseflesh as the cool bathroom air hit her sweat-dampened skin.

She all but threw her toiletry bag into the shower, wriggling out of her panties and scattering her shampoo, conditioner, and soap across the tiled floor. She stepped in after her belongings quickly, snapping the curtain half shut behind her, and slid beneath the jet that pounded from overhead. Tipping her face upwards to greet the hot water, Rogue held her breath and began counting to ten — hoping in that span of time she’d have scalded off the unsettled tingle in her limbs...

That he inspired, she thought venomously.

One.

Somehow, she’d get passed this. She’d be all right. She’d get a decent night’s sleep and push the entire incident from her mind, along with the residual flutter of his powers.

She peeked an eye open.

His powers, siphoned through her, tonight.

Gingerly, she poked at the lightly scented bar of soap swimming in the recessed holder in the wall. No sizzle of kinetic power, no flash of bright light. She exhaled, relieved.

Perhaps that little stunt in the Danger Room had been a fluke — an echo of the powers she’d absorbed when Mesmero was using her as a vessel to restore Apocalypse to power.

Rogue shook her head. It had been a year since she’d absorbed him; a year since she’d absorbed anyone for that matter. It was impossible.

She shut her eyes again, trying to force a strangled sob back down her throat.

What in hell had he done to her? Rogue resumed her counting, her teeth gritted together in frustration.

Two.

Somehow, Remy — Gambit, she corrected herself — needed to be reminded that when you played with fire, you ended up with scorch marks all over the carpet. Hadn’t he spent enough time with that crackpot Pyro to know that?

Three.

Gambit. Her belly twisted pleasantly, and unconsciously, she squeezed her thighs together. Why did his name sound that much more dangerous when he used his alias? Maybe it was the fact that he’d disappeared for a full year, and managed to resurface again, the same cocky grin still in place, the same smoldering appreciation greeting her as he sized her up...

No! Rogue’s eyes snapped open, blinding herself with her running mascara. She stepped back from the spray, holding her hands against her face.

Gambit.

Where had he been for so long? And why had he returned?

Having him in Bayville was like having an itch between her shoulder blades that she couldn’t possibly reach despite how much she strained her limbs to scratch it.

Maybe, if she hadn’t found that card yesterday morning... Rogue swiped at her eyes, hyper aware of how her skin tingled where the hot water hit her, and held her hands in front of her.

Her fingers were trembling, and so she fisted them hard, turning the knuckles white.

It was as if finding that Queen of Hearts card he’d palmed and slipped between her gloved fingers last year in Louisiana had set off a homing beacon. Like a shark smelling blood in the water, he’d returned.

Rogue blinked the water out of her eyes. Well, she thought, she wasn’t about to let him come in for the kill.

With grim determination, Rogue scowled and reached forwards, her fingers dancing lightly over the taps.

If the Cajun wanted to play, so be it. She was up for the worst.

With that, Rogue snapped off the hot tap, shrieking in surprise as the first blast of ice water touched her skin.

She giggled, breathing heavy, and just a little shocked at her own determination not to succumb to the temptation of Remy’s presence in Bayville.

---

"Rogue?"

She paused, clutching at the towel wrapped around her body.

If Kitty noticed the lack of steam pouring from their bathroom, she didn’t comment.

"Can... can we talk? I mean, like, not right now but, like, in maybe, I dunno, when you’re done?"

Rogue dropped her clothing on the foot of her bed. Did Kitty know? Was she blushing again, oh god...

"Because, uh, well, you know, like, I was thinking about it and, you know," she stammered. Rogue didn’t turn around. "Like, I know we haven’t always gotten along, but I was really out of line today, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry."

Rogue exhaled heavily, unaware that she was holding her breath.

"Yeah, Kit. Me too." She peeked over her shoulder, smiling faintly.

"Really?" Kitty’s expression brightened considerably. "Well," she bounced on the souls of her feet, clasping her hands in front of her, "Okay, I’ll - I mean, if you wanted to - I’ll make some milkshakes or something, and we can talk. Meet me in the kitchen?"

"Ah’ll be right down," she replied, a little too tightly to be natural, but Kitty didn’t notice. Turning back to the pile of damp clothing on her bed, Rogue fiddled with the knot of her towel, waiting for Kitty to leave so she could dress.

"Cool!" Kitty exclaimed buoyantly.

Rogue waited until she heard the click of the door as it closed before letting her shoulders slump. Her hair left a steady trickle of cold water running down her neck, and she shivered.

She tried to shake the sensation off, but since their encounter that morning, she could hardly dispel the feeling that beyond the inky blackness of night outdoors, he was out there.

Cautiously, she approached the window.

Was he watching her now? Pressing her face close to the glass, she clutched at her towel with one hand, and placed her fingers on the cold windowpane with the other.

She looked across the grounds to her tree with its splintered limb. The branch Rem-Gambit had broken that morning had been cleared away, but its absence made the tree seem incomplete somehow.

It wasn’t too far off from her room, in fact, she had a clear view of the oak, and now that she knew where he’d hidden, she supposed he’d had a pretty good look inside the mansion as well. Slowly, she moved from behind the window to the large French doors that opened onto their balcony.

The view was mostly the same, though from here, her bed usually took the brunt of light pouring into the room when the sun rose.

Save for the amber glow of the security lights that illuminated the mansion and its surrounding pathways, the grounds were veiled in a thin, blue-green cast, and beyond that, darkness.

Nothing stirred, though more importantly, no one stared back at her.

She shivered again, drawing away from the glass.

Kitty would be waiting for her, and if she lingered too long, she’d probably come back and start asking questions. Rogue hurried to her dresser, mentally bracing herself to avoid the card hidden in the top drawer, and froze.

There, smoothed out against the surface of her mirror, the Queen of Hearts stared back at her. The wrinkles were still there, the tattered edges still evident from all the card’s handling, but more disturbing was the thing beside it: Taped with one corner overlapping the Queen, a new card was stuck to the mirror’s surface.

Rogue swallowed a shudder, her knees turning wobbly so that she had to brace herself against the dresser.

Her hand lingered over the pair a moment, unsure whether or not she wanted to tear them off the mirror, but her heart had risen. It had begun pummeling a staccato in her throat.

He had been here, standing just outside the bathroom as she showered, and he had found the Queen.

"Oh!" she cried, covering her mouth to staunch the sound. Gambit had gone into her underwear drawer to find it!

If that wasn’t bad enough, he had added his own two cents for good measure.

Scrawled across the face of the rumpled Queen, and bleeding over onto the King of Hearts’ regal countenance, was the message, written in heavy black ink:

"I’d always bet on you."

Rogue clamped her hand over her mouth, and just as she was reaching to tear Gambit’s cards off the mirror, or perhaps to draw her fingers over them to be certain that she wasn’t imagining them, a flare of bright red drew her gaze away.

Her eyes widened as she turned towards the window, and her hand dropped, hitting the top of the dresser with a hollow slap.

The grounds of the Xavier institute were alight with flame.

---

Post Script:

-"I’d always bet on you, Love, Gambit" is comicverse canon. In actuality, Rogue has a photograph of the pair of them with that message written on it. (I got all choked up the first time I read that.) Here, the "I’d always bet on you" reflects on what Rogue said in chapter three.

- The Big Obvious: This whole King and Queen of Hearts thing — I’m taking some serious liberties here, and later you’ll see why. At first glance, it’s a cheesy ploy by Mr. LeBeau to get back on Rogue’s good side after the whole "Cajun Spice" tragedy, or maybe he’s just trying to prove himself a capable thief with a propensity for breaking and entering. Canonically, though, and trust me I researched this to be sure, Remy doesn’t identify himself with the King of Hearts. (I’m kind of surprised no one mentioned this yet, I was expecting at least one flame saying, "You don’t know what you’re talking about!" but it’s kind of cool that no one’s done that.) Anyway, Remy identifies (loosely) with two other cards, and that bit of info will manifest itself eventually. Right now, he’s still in Machiavellian mode, and probably with good reason. Rogue, however, gives him the Queen at one point in comicverse, which makes me think the Evo writers were playing with that whole "lucky lady" thing. It’s a nice homage to old school X-Men, and I think that’s partially the reason why I like their budding relationship in Evo.

- The Uniforms: I revile descriptions of characters’ clothing. You do too much, and you’re going overboard. You ransack the reader’s imagination. You do too little, and you don’t give enough of a foothold. So here it is — again, strength tested for canon compliancy. These aren’t movieverse uniforms we’re talking about. Do you remember the very last scenes of Ascension II? You remember when Charles was making "predictions" (and I use the term loosely) about the future? We saw the Dark Phoenix, we saw Mags (possibly as Joseph) with the X-Men in the Danger Room, we saw the new Brotherhood (Wanda with the long red and black hair, Lance with those insane muscles, Toad looking... toady, and Pyro as a member) and we saw the new uniforms of the X-Men themselves. Those are the uniforms I’m talking about, and those images are the reason that Colossus is where he is, and Pyro is where he is. Here, however, Rogue doesn’t have the trench coat... at least, not yet. Gaddamn, do I wish they’d do a fifth season of that show.

Translations: German

Scheiße: Shit!

Was: What

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