X-Men: Dark Mirror (16 page)

"What's wrong?" he asked, and Jubilee's smile faded.

"Nothing," Ororo said, but her voice was distant, thoughtful. "Just little things, adding up all wrong."

"Little things that have to do with Scott and that mission to Seattle?"

"Is Wolvie okay?" Jubilee asked.

"Yes, of course." Ororo reached
out
and
smoothed
back Jubilee's hair. "I am sorry for upsetting you. It is nothing, really. I have simply had an ... odd day."

Remy did not particularly like the sound of that. Ororo never had "odd" days. A faint rumble passed over the Mansion.

"They're back," she said, gazing up at the ceiling, and then, softer, "This will be interesting."

Jubilee gave her a hard look. "You can stop with the riddles now."

"Yes, I can," she said. "Come, let us go and greet our friends."

Remy glanced at jubilee and found her looking back at him in confusion. He sympathized completely. Something had happened while they were gone, and for some reason Ororo was reluctant to talk about it.

He hoped Rogue was all right. Their relationship continued to confuse him, but what he did know—the only thing he could be certain of—was that she was a friend. Quite possibly more than a friend, and if anything happened to her it would make a hole in his heart that he was not certain would ever fill up.

Better to keep her safe. Remy did not care for heartbreak.

He followed Ororo to the hangar, Jubilee close at his side. He did not bother telling her to go away, that this— whatever it was that had Ororo concerned—was for adults only. Jubilee was fifteen going on thirty, and Remy knew of few adults who had seen or done as much as she had in her short life. Besides, he knew quite well she would rather cough up her right lung than miss greeting Wolverine.

He was already off the jet when they arrived at the hangar, jubilee raced across the concrete floor and flung herself in his arms for a giant hug.

"Hey!" she said, shameless. "You kick some butt?"

"Sure," Logan said, smiling. Remy was not entirely certain he liked that smile. It seemed ... different, somehow. Brittle. Jubilee did not appear to notice.

Scott and Jean walked off the jet together, as did Kurt and Rogue. Remy called out a greeting to her, but she did not respond. At least, not in the way she usually did. She met his gaze only briefly, and then ducked her head with a shy smile and stared at the ground. Kurt nudged her—once, twice—until she lifted her chin. It looked like a struggle, though, as if all Rogue's great confidence had been stolen from her heart.

"Ma
cherie,"
he said, drawing near. "What happened?"

Rogue swallowed hard. Kurt said, "She touched someone at the mental hospital. It... affected her. She's been like this ever since."

"You should have called," Remy told him. "What were you thinking?"

"She's not hurt," Kurt said. "She'll come out of it."

Remy did not like his tone. It was far too flippant, given the seriousness of the situation. Rogue had corne in contact with the worst that humanity had to offer. If some patient in a mental hospital could hurt her this badly— make her retreat from the world inside her mind—he did not want to imagine how she had suffered in that initial touch of skin to skin.

"Why?" he asked Kurt. "Why was she touching anyone?"

"I don't know," Kurt said. "We split up."

It was a lie. Remy could taste the untruth; see it in the unsteady flicker of Kurt's golden gaze. He reached for Rogue's gloved hand and she did not pull away as was her habit She let him tug her close. She stood very stiff in his arms, but he expected nothing less and rubbed her back. Rogue's auburn hair gleamed under the hangar floodlights, the white streak especially bright.

"Shhh, now," he whispered. "It will be all right,
chere.
We'll get you feeling better in no time."

Get her feeling better—and in the process find out just what the hell had happened in Seattle. He felt sick, thinking about it Anything that would turn Kurt into a liar—

Remy found him staring. "What is it?"

Kurt blinked, breaking eye contact His blue tail curled tight around his leg. "Nothing," he said, and Remy realized for the first time that his accent seemed less pronounced.

Movement caught his eye; Scott shaking his head. Jean stood beside him. She looked different, somehow. Harder. The Jean he knew, the one who baked cookies on Saturday nights or warmed milk for the students, was not the same woman he saw now. This Jean, with her mouth set in a flat line and her eyes narrow and dull, did not look as though she would care for children at all.

"Please, Scott?" Ororo asked.

"No," Remy heard Scott say. "Jean and I would like to rest awhile before we give you our report."

Ororo did not look pleased. "I have some concerns," she said, but Jean had already begun walking to the door, and Scott followed close behind.

"Later," he said. "I promise."

"No," Remy called out. "What happened to Rogue? Who did she touch to make her this way?"

No one answered him. Rogue pulled away from his embrace. Giving him a shy smile, she left him standing by the jet. He did not chase her, but instead watched as she and Kurt—tail uncurling long enough to lash the air- followed Scott and Jean from the hangar. Wolverine, after patting Jubilee on the head, followed them with an odd slow swagger in his hips. It seemed to him that Wolverine—though always taciturn—was especially silent.

"Did Wolvie just... pet me like a dog?" Jubilee asked, when the five X-Men were gone and the door had shut behind them.

"Something's wrong," Remy said, unable to shake the feel of Rogue in his arms, that look on her face: so shy, so fragile, not the woman he knew at all. Kurt, too, with his shifting eyes.

Ororo said nothing. She stared at the door, mouth pressed into a hard line. Remy felt the gentle brush of some impossible breeze, scented rain within the confines of concrete and steel. Jubilee shivered, and stepped closer to him.

"Do not worry," Ororo said quietly. "We will have the truth. One way, or another."

They took one of the free downtown buses to
Elliot Bay, north past the Spaghetti Factory, fast-food joints, and gas stations. Rogue watched the city pass, paying closer attention to the world than she ever had before. People, especially. People, on their way to jobs, out shopping, running for a bite to eat. She wondered if any of them were mutants, and for the first time in her life, could not remember why it would matter if they were. She was human now, through and through; powerless, perhaps, but not weak. She knew that about herself now. Being divorced of her physical identity for just one night had given her a clearer sense of who she was, the crutches she leaned upon in her life.

Kurt sat beside her on the bus. Their hands brushed, and she forced herself not to pull away.

"You are improving," he said, looking down at their flesh: dark and light, smooth and rough.

"Comfort is a state of mind," Rogue said. "I think I'm finally getting that."

"Don't get too comfortable, darlin'." Logan leaned over the back of their seat. "We still got problems."

"Money," she said.

Kurt smiled. "In the circus we had a saying: The lack of one penny can destroy the mightiest man. A stern reminder of what we were working for,
other
than our love of the big top."

Rogue frowned, staring at her hands. "I'm sorry, but
I
won't beg. I lived dirt poor for years, and never had any need to ask strangers for money. I'm not going to start now."

"No one said anything 'bout begging," Logan replied. "There are some homeless shelters around the area we're headed to. Might be able to scrounge up some tilings we'll need from those places."

"Just as long as we don't stay there long," Scott said. "We got lucky this morning—in more ways than one.
I
don't want to press it."

At Pier 90 they got off the bus and walked left across the wide tracks, which led directly to the southern entrance of Seattle's Balmer Yard. The trains were lined up like giant playing blocks, rust red or dirty blue, logos covering the ridged sides:
pacific rail, cargo express, evergreen steel.
The air smelled like exhaust, ocean salt; she felt a rumble in her chest and heard the high squeal of monstrous brakes. She felt very small.

"The key is to find the right car," Logan said. His fine blond hair wisped across his face and he shoved it away, scowling. "We're lucky it's summer. We shouldn't freeze to death."

"Great," Rogue said, and then pointed farther down the rail. "I see an Amtrak sign."

"Too crowded, too controlled. Security would find out fast we don't have tickets. We need something big and empty, the kind used for cargo."

A train lumbered by; the sound of the engine forming a steel-on-steel symphony of groans and squeals and dull trembling thunder.

Logan, in the interests of subtlety, led them down a bike path that continued north alongside Balmer Yard. Through the chain-link fence they spied on the trains.

"Time for some fieldwork," Logan said. "Rogue, you're with me."

"I thought I wasn't innocent enough, sugah."

"This is the train yard. Tough and dangerous is more sexy than cute and girly."

Jean smiled. "Sorry to break it to you, Logan, but I don't care what body you wear. You might be cute, but you're never going to be girly."

"Don't kill a man's dreams, Jeannie."

An older woman sitting on a nearby bench turned around to look at them. Logan smiled and she shook her head in disgust.

"No accounting for taste," Jean murmured, which was enough to make Rogue laugh.

She and Logan left the team, following the bike path until they reached a public-access road. From there they walked past the locomotive-servicing facility to the Balmer Yard office building.

"Trying to hitch a ride in broad daylight is going to be difficult," he said, as they approached the front door.

"Do we have a choice?"

"I'd say to hitchhike, but we got too many people."

"What a mess," Rogue whispered, finally confronting the enormity of crossing the country on nothing but the kindness of strangers. It made her afraid.

Logan surprised her by draping his arm around her shoulders and planting a hard quick kiss on her temple. She flinched and he let her go, though she continued to feel the weight of his arm, his lips.

"It'll be okay, darlin'. We've handled worse."

"This time feels different."

"It
should.
You're not in your own skin."

"What do you think our bodies are doing right now?"

Logan's jaw tightened. Rogue let it go. It was a bad question; the possibilities made her feel sick.

They entered the office building; warm air washed over her face, along with the heavy smell of oil and steel. Dark boot tracks covered the lobby floor and the walls were cracked and yellow with old paint. Logan led her into the first office off the lobby. At the counter stood a tall woman with sharp cheekbones and an unhappy mouth.

But Logan, despite his new face and figure, was still a rough charmer. It was not sexual at all; simply, a charisma that had the woman in front of them smiling after mere moments in his presence. The secretary's reaction surprised Rogue; she knew that women found Logan attractive, but she had always thought that the source of his allure lay in his undeniable masculinity. After all, even though she knew quite well he was capable of turning on his charm, he was not, by habit, the most refined of men.

"We're from the university," he told her, and Rogue listened, stunned, as the hint of a valley girl entered his voice. "We're researching the rail system and how it affects economic growth in the Northwest. It's a killer course."

"But fascinating, I'm sure," said the woman. Her desk plate named her
shelly.

"Totally," said Logan, and within minutes he had a printout of the schedules and destinations of every train in Balmer Yard. Rogue felt like getting down and bowing; it was an Oscar-worthy performance.

Just as they were leaving the office, he stopped and said, "By the way, we brought some food to keep us going today. You mind if we store some of it in your office lounge or use your microwave? Do you guys even have a space like that?" He rattled the plastic bag he still carried.

"We just got one," said Shelly, and hesitated. "Well, I don't see why you couldn't, but don't touch those other meals, right? People get territorial."

"Of course," Rogue reassured her, wondering what Logan was up to.

She found out when they actually reached the lounge—a little alcove crammed tight with a minirefrigerator, microwave, and a shelf lined with personal belongings. The other side of the space was a closet, filled with hanging coats, scarves, and umbrellas. The employee cubicles were in a completely different part of the office, out of sight of the alcove.

No one was around when they entered. Logan did not hesitate. He opened the refrigerator and threw all its contents into his plastic bag. Rogue watched the hall, sparing a glance for him as he went next to the coats, checking