The Xavier Institute was quiet that evening, the hum of the Blackbird’s engines still echoing in the minds of those who had just returned from the mission. Outside, the grounds were bathed in soft moonlight, the faint rustling of trees carried by the cool breeze rolling over the estate. A handful of students milled about in the courtyard, their laughter and conversation a gentle backdrop to the otherwise peaceful night.
Inside, however, the usual domestic chaos was unfolding.
Jubilee was sprawled out on the couch in the common room, one foot resting on the coffee table, the other lazily propped up on the armrest. The television flickered in the background, some action-packed anime playing at low volume, but her focus was elsewhere—specifically, on the bag of Doritos she was currently shoveling into her mouth with zero remorse.
Bright orange dust coated her fingers, staining them with artificial cheese residue, but she didn’t care.
"Oh yeah, baby, get in my belly." she muttered between bites, fully immersed in her junk food bliss.
Then, just as she was about to grab another handful—
The bag vanished.
Jubilee froze mid-bite, staring at her now empty hands as if she had just been personally betrayed by the universe itself.
Then she looked up—
And there she was.
Ororo Munroe. Storm. The literal goddess of the sky.
Standing over her with an unimpressed expression, the stolen Doritos bag dangling from her fingers like it was radioactive waste.
"Jubilation, you will not eat this."
Jubilee’s jaw dropped.
"Seriously, Stormy?! I was savin’ those for a while!"
Storm didn’t budge.
Instead, she handed Jubilee something else—
A wrap.
With grilled chicken and lettuce.
Jubilee stared at it.
Then back at Storm.
Then back at the wrap of disappointment.
"You cannot be serious right now."
Storm arched a perfectly sculpted brow, her expression calm but unyielding.
"No, young woman, I am quite serious. These—" she gave the bag of Doritos a slight shake, "—are terrible for your health. I cooked this for you."
Jubilee’s horror deepened.
"You made this? By hand? Like, with your actual hands?"
"I am quite capable in the kitchen, Jubilee."
Jubilee groaned dramatically, throwing herself back into the couch.
"Oh my God, I’m being micromanaged by a literal goddess."
Then, from the corner of the room, another voice grumbled—
"‘Ro, let the kid live a little."
All heads turned.
There, in his usual seat by the window, sat Logan—Wolverine.
He was leaned back in his chair, one boot propped up against the coffee table, a glass of whiskey in one hand, a half-burned cigar in the other. The window beside him was cracked open, allowing the sharp scent of tobacco and aged bourbon to mix with the cool night air.
His sharp, animal-like gaze flicked over to Storm, smirking slightly before taking a slow sip of his drink.
Storm’s eyes narrowed slightly.
"It is easy for you to promote such reckless behavior, Logan," she said coolly, "considering your healing factor allows you to consume an unsurmountable amount of alcohol and tobacco without any long-term damage."
Logan let out a low chuckle, swirling the whiskey in his glass.
"Well, darlin’…" He took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaling toward the open window. "Maybe damage is what makes life worth livin’."
Storm’s expression flattened.
"Logan. Stop encouraging this behavior in the students."
Logan just smirked, shaking his head.
"It’s just some nasty snacks, ‘Ro. What evil there is in that? We used to drink straight whiskey and beer back in the day ‘cause the water was so shit. And don’t even get me started on war rations. Beans and bacon, all cooked up in lard."
Storm crossed her arms.
"We are not in the 19th century anymore, Logan. Nobody is feeding lard to anyone."
Logan just took another sip of his drink, smirking against the rim of his glass.
"Yeah. Everything today’s so safe… weak."
From the couch, Jubilee finally chimed in, grinning.
"Okay, Gramps—go back to eatin’ banana puddin’ and nap time."
Logan side-eyed her.
"I’m pleadin’ your case here, kid. Shut up."
Just as Jubilee was about to retort, another voice entered the room.
Rogue.
"What y’all bickerin’ ‘bout again?"
She strolled down the stairs, dressed in her usual casual attire—a pair of denim shorts, a loose white T-shirt, and her signature brown leather jacket draped over her shoulders. She had heard most of the conversation from upstairs and was already smirking to herself before she even reached the common area.
Storm immediately turned to her.
"Logan is trying to enable Jubilee to poison herself."
"The earth gives plenty," she gestured gracefully, "and he wants to stimulate her to eat this… processed slop."
Rogue’s eyebrows shot up.
"Oh. Doritos?" She held out a gloved hand. "Gimme some."
Jubilee’s head snapped toward her, alarmed.
"Hey, Roguey! That’s mine!"
But Rogue had already reached into the bag, grabbing a handful and popping them into her mouth. Even if it was in Ororo's possession
There was a pause.
Then she grinned.
"Mmm."
She chewed slowly, enjoying every bite, before handing the bag back—
Directly to Storm.
Storm looked vaguely smug.
Jubilee looked betrayed.
"Rogue."
Rogue wiped the orange dust from her lips, smirking.
"Y’all happy?" she teased.
Storm gave a small nod of approval, while Jubilee slumped dramatically against the couch.
"Damn it. My Doritos."
Before Jubilee could sink into full despair, Rogue grabbed one of the wraps, took a bite, then handed the rest to her.
"When a goddess tells ya to eat healthy, ya eat healthy, Jubes."
Jubilee glared at her.
"I hate you."
Rogue just winked, grabbing another wrap for herself as Logan chuckled from his seat.
"Smart girl."
Jubilee, still pouting, took a bite of the wrap.
She chewed slowly.
Then—
"...Okay, this is actually not bad."
Storm simply smiled.
----------------------------------------
Moments later...
Rogue threw herself onto the bed, her body sinking into the soft mattress, but her mind remained restless. The ceiling above her was dark, faint slivers of moonlight filtering through her window, casting long silver streaks across her room. The faint hum of the mansion at night—muted conversations from the hall, the distant sounds of students still up, and the occasional howl of the wind outside—did little to quiet her thoughts.
She had gotten good at pushing back intrusive memories. The lingering echoes of people she had absorbed over the years had, at times, threatened to consume her, to warp her sense of self. But through discipline and sheer will, she had learned to lock them away, to compartmentalize the voices that weren’t hers.
Rogue threw herself onto the bed, her body sinking into the soft mattress, but her mind remained restless. The ceiling above her was dark, faint slivers of moonlight filtering through her window, casting long silver streaks across her room. The faint hum of the mansion at night—muted conversations from the hall, the distant sounds of students still up, and the occasional howl of the wind outside—did little to quiet her thoughts.
She had gotten good at pushing back intrusive memories. The lingering echoes of people she had absorbed over the years had, at times, threatened to consume her, to warp her sense of self. But through discipline and sheer will, she had learned to lock them away, to compartmentalize the voices that weren’t hers.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Most days, they stayed buried.
Most days.
But tonight, it wasn’t Carol Danvers' voice creeping into her head. It wasn’t the echo of Captain Marvel’s thoughts or instincts.
Tonight, it was her own past.
Not the X-Men.
Not her time as a hero.
The Brotherhood.
Mystique. Destiny.
The only family she had ever known, before she chose a different path.
Her thoughts spiraled back to that one mission, the one she could never forget.
----------------------------------------
NEW YORK, 2016
She had been sixteen.
A girl thrown into a world of war, fighting battles that were never really hers to begin with. She had known how to throw a punch, how to use her powers. But there was still hesitation in her, a feeling she never spoke of to Mystique or Destiny.
She remembered standing in the Brotherhood's hideout, a dimly lit warehouse near the Hudson, the air thick with the scent of oil and steel.
Mystique stood before her, her yellow eyes unyielding, her hands on Rogue’s shoulders.
"Rogue, this mission is important. We must steal the schematics from Stark."
Rogue remembered looking up at her adoptive mother, her voice small, uncertain.
"Ah’m scared, mama."
Mystique’s expression hardened instantly, her grip on Rogue’s shoulders tightening.
"Don’t be scared." Her voice was sharp, commanding. "If you get scared, you will be weak. And if you are weak, the humans will kill you. Doesn’t matter how scared you are—never show it. They will exploit it, they will hurt you… they will kill you."
The words had landed like cold steel in her gut.
She had turned then, searching for Destiny, hoping for softer guidance.
The older woman, wrapped in her usual flowing robes, had stepped forward, her blindfolded gaze unreadable.
"Listen to Raven, Anna Marie," Destiny said, her voice calm but absolute. "She knows what she speaks of. Fear is a great motivator, but it is also a great hindrance. Make your enemies fear you, but never show that you fear them."
Rogue had nodded, because what else could she do?
She didn’t have a choice.
The mission had been coordinated chaos.
The Brotherhood had stormed the facility, and soon enough, the Avengers were waiting.
She remembered the crackling energy in the air as Captain America flipped into action, his shield raised, barking the command that had made her stomach tighten—
"Avengers, assemble!"
There had been no Thor that night, no Scarlet Witch, no Vision. They had thought they had a chance.
They were wrong.
Even without a god among them, the Avengers were a force to be reckoned with.
She had watched as Mystique faced off against Captain America, her adoptive mother moving with graceful efficiency, her attacks calculated.
She didn’t match his strength, but Mystique had never needed strength—she had deception. She shifted form effortlessly, turning into Steve’s mother, then Howard Stark, forcing hesitation where there should have been none.
The battlefield was madness.
Juggernaut vaulted across the facility, his massive form a wrecking ball.
Pyro’s flames lit up the sky, his fire turning corridors into infernos.
Blob charged at the Hulk, the two titans colliding, shaking the very earth beneath them.
Destiny evaded Iron Man’s repulsor blasts, moving with an unnatural grace, as if she already knew where every attack would land.
For a while, it had seemed like they were winning.
Then—
She arrived.
Carol Danvers.
Captain Marvel.
Rogue had known she was strong, but nothing had prepared her for what she witnessed that night.
Carol cut through the battlefield like a storm, her fists glowing, her energy blasting Juggernaut back, sending him skidding across the concrete. She moved too fast, hit too hard, and suddenly—
The battle wasn’t theirs anymore.
Then came the moment she would never forget.
Carol had Mystique in a headlock, her grip unrelenting.
Destiny reached for her, but Carol was too fast, twisting Mystique’s arm behind her back.
And then—
"ROGUE! DO IT!"
The order had pierced through the chaos, cutting through her hesitation.
And for a split second, Rogue had hesitated.
She had never been comfortable with everything the Brotherhood did.
But when her adoptive mother called for her— She had complied.
She had taken off her gloves—
And she had jumped.
Her bare hands gripped Carol’s face, pressing against her cheek, her temples, her fingers digging into her skin.
Then came the rush—
The power flooding into her, the overwhelming surge of strength, of flight, of energy manipulation.
She felt Carol’s memories crashing into her, her life, her past, her dreams, her fears.
And then—
Carol went cold.
Her body slumped, unmoving.
Rogue had let her go, but it was too late.
Carol collapsed onto the pavement, her chest barely rising, her eyes vacant.
She had left her in a coma.
She had stolen everything from her.
----------------------------------------
Rogue snapped back to the present, her breath shallow, her hands clenched into fists against the bedsheets.
It had been years since that night. Years since Carol had woken up, since the rift between them became permanent, an unspoken war neither of them could mend. Even now, after all these years, after she had left the Brotherhood, after she had become a hero—
Carol’s memories were still there. Still locked inside her. Still a part of her that she never asked for.
She rolled onto her side, pressing her forehead against the pillow, her thoughts still tangled in the past.
No matter how far she ran, no matter how much she changed— Some ghosts never let go.
Rogue stood frozen, her breath uneven, her heart pounding in her ears. The mirror in front of her reflected the woman she had become, but tonight—tonight, she barely recognized herself.
The dim light in her room cast a soft, golden glow across her freckled skin, her wild auburn hair framing her face in loose waves, but her green eyes were clouded, unfocused, staring past her own reflection.
Her uniform hung behind her—dried, crisp, clean, the iconic green and white fabric a stark contrast to the thoughts storming in her mind.
For a moment, she had smiled.
She had thought of her journey, of how she had come here, how she had fought and bled to build something new—
Something better.
----------------------------------------
Back in 2017, She had lost.
A fight, a battle—against them.
The X-Men had beaten her, and she had nowhere left to go.
Not a week before, she had still been Rogue of the Brotherhood, still under Mystique’s watchful eye, still following orders she wasn’t sure she believed in anymore.
But after that fight—after she had been defeated—she had been alone.
Utterly, painfully alone. She had felt manipulated, lied to. Mystique had told her so many things, whispered so many promises—
"Mutants are better. The Brotherhood exists to show the world we are better than humans. Evolved."
And for a time, she had believed it.
She had believed in Mystique’s cause, in Destiny’s guidance, in the Brotherhood’s vision.
But she had also known doubt.
And when Xavier opened his doors—
He hadn’t rejected her. Hadn’t feared her. Hadn’t hated her.
He had welcomed her. He had accepted her, broken pieces and all.
And then, after Xavier—Wolverine.
She had followed him to Japan, fought beside him when he needed her, when Mariko had been in danger.
And for the first time in her life—
She had felt like she belonged somewhere.
----------------------------------------
But then she remembered him, Magneto.
His words haunted her too.
She had only known him briefly, back when she was young, back when Mystique had still been introducing her to the Brotherhood’s allies.
She could still hear his voice—his commanding presence, his unshaken certainty.
"Young Anna Marie, you're powerful. You're strong. The humans might shun you, they might shun us. But one day, we will rise—and in their ashes, we’ll build a society that truly accepts us… that truly understands us."
"We’ll save mutantkind."
Then there was Xavier—his voice softer, but no less certain.
She remembered when he had spoken to her, not long after she had joined the X-Men.
"Rogue," he had told her, "we built the X-Men to change the world, to protect it. Not as conquerors, not as warmongers, but as children of peace."
"To remind humans that we can coexist, that we can live together. That is the only way forward, the only way to save mutantkind."
She had believed him. She still did.
And that’s why she had smiled—at first.
This was her family.
This was her purpose.
But then—
Then came the words that cut her like a knife.
"Free men don’t buy promises of salvation."
Fuck.
She felt it twist inside her, a slow and awful realization.
She turned to her uniform, ran a hand over the stitched X on her chest—
And suddenly, she couldn’t unhear it.
"Mutant Police."
Her fingers curled, gripping the fabric tighter.
Her brows furrowed, her eyes stung with something unwanted.
Superiority.
Coexistence.
Choice.
Were they just words?
Or did they truly mean anything at all?
Her chest tightened, and frustration surged up like wildfire.
Her fist clenched.
She wanted to hit something.
The mirror was right there.
Her arm arched back, her muscles coiling, ready to strike—
Why the hell did it bother her so much?
Why did she care what someone she had barely met had to say?
But she knew why.
It wasn’t just what he said—
It was who he was.
The accent.
The gloves.
The absorption powers.
So different, but also—so alike.
Too alike.
Her teeth clenched.
"Fuck you, Duncan." She muttered it under her breath, but the anger didn’t fade.
Her arm tensed, her fist trembling, the urge to punch the mirror still there—
But then— A voice.
"Rogue."
She froze. Her head snapped toward the door, her breath short, her heart still pounding in her chest.
"Jean?"
A pause.
"We have to talk."
Jean slipped into the room without knocking, her presence gentle yet firm. The soft click of the door behind her signaled that she wanted privacy; whatever Rogue was dealing with, Jean could sense it required both honesty and space. The lamplight cast long shadows on the walls, turning the bedroom into a cozy cocoon of oranges and golds in the late hour.
She moved quietly across the room and perched on the edge of Rogue’s bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. Tapping the spot next to her, she looked at Rogue with warm, understanding eyes.
“Anna Marie,” she began in her calm, melodic tone, “you’re hurt. I came to talk. I sensed your frustration.”
Rogue was leaning against a dresser, half-turned away, her arms folded protectively over her chest. She flinched at Jean’s words—unsure if it was embarrassment or relief that she’d been caught in her turmoil.
“Jean… Ah’m… Ah’m fine,” Rogue managed, though her words wavered.
“You are not.” Jean’s voice was resolute but gentle.
Rogue exhaled, a shaky breath escaping. “Jean…”
“Anna Marie,” Jean pressed softly, “you don’t have to shield yourself from pain. You can tell me.”
There was a long pause. Rogue’s eyes flickered with conflict. Finally, she relented and walked over, settling on the bed next to Jean. Her shoulders slumped, and she looked at her gloved hands, twisting them in her lap.
“Ah… Ah ain’t sure anymore,” she said, voice hushed. “Ah ain’t sure of what we’re doin’ is goin’ anywhere. We wear these uniforms… these badges… it feels like we’re somethin’, we’re goin’ somewhere. But the question is—where?”
Jean studied Rogue’s face. In the soft light, she could see the strain etched into her features, the faint quiver in her lips. “It can be tough, taxing to be an X-Man, Rogue,” Jean acknowledged. “It’s hard sometimes.”
Rogue snorted softly, shaking her head. “Haven’t y’all fought these Sentinels fer decades? Ah fought ’em with the Brotherhood, an’ now with y’all. It never ends. Always some new threat.”
Jean sighed, folding her hands together in her lap. “It has been a long time we’ve been fighting them, Rogue. But we’ve made progress. This isn’t the government hunting us down anymore… it’s the Friends of Humanity. That’s a step forward. People have started to accept us, to tolerate us.”
Rogue’s expression darkened. “Have they? Ah ain’t so sure. Feels like we’re just spinnin’ in circles, same record over an’ over. Is what we’re fightin’ fer even possible?”
“It is,” Jean said with quiet conviction, “because it’s a dream worth fighting for.”
“Ah’m not sure,” Rogue admitted. “What if… what if this dream ain’t for everyone? What if some folks out there have lost their belief in it… what if they just want to be left alone?”
Jean’s brows knitted together. “That’s not possible, Rogue. Mutants have been alone for so long, and they rarely stood a chance by themselves. Hunted, executed, humiliated. It’s good—no, it’s essential—to believe that one day we can have normal lives. That we don’t have to be villains or heroes… or fighters.”
Rogue’s gaze dropped. “But it’s not the truth." Jean hesitated, then nodded. “No, but one day it might be. That’s why we exist.”“But do we have to? Do we really need the X-Men to protect mutants? Maybe… maybe people can fend for themselves.”
Jean shook her head, her fiery hair catching the lamplight. “Of course we do, Rogue. We’re stronger together. Unity is important because if we’re not a community, alone we… perish. Nobody is better off alone, Rogue. Not even you.”
Rogue glanced over at the standing mirror near her closet, and for a moment, her eyes unfocused as she recalled the Alamo’s words: Free men don’t buy promises of salvation. The thought stung. She wondered if he really believed he could do everything on his own, if that lonely path truly made him feel free.
“Not even the Alamo,” Rogue murmured, “as much as it seems he likes to believe that.”
Jean smiled softly, following Rogue’s line of sight to the reflection of the uniform hanging nearby. “He needs a family too, whether he acknowledges it or not,” she said. “We all do.”
Rogue looked down, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Ya right… they need us.”
Jean reached out, gently resting a hand on Rogue’s arm. “It’s more than them, Rogue. It’s us. We need each other. Me, Scott, you, Jubilee, even Logan. We might pretend we’re better alone, freer alone, but in the end, this connection we share… this family… it’s better than any solitude.”
Rogue felt a stir of warmth in her chest, a reminder of why she had chosen this path and these people. “Ah see that,” she admitted, giving Jean a soft smile. “Ah agree. Thank ya fer comin’.”
Jean returned the smile. “Don’t worry, Rogue. And remember—you’re never alone. We’re here for you.”
Rogue nodded, a quiet sense of relief washing over her. “Ah appreciate that.”
Jean patted her hand, then rose from the bed, her gaze still lingering on Rogue in reassurance before she headed to the door. The light from the hallway illuminated her silhouette, and then the door clicked softly shut behind her, leaving Rogue in the warm hush of her room.
For a long moment, Rogue simply sat on the bed, letting the conversation sink in, feeling a bit lighter now that her swirling thoughts had somewhere to land. Eventually, she stood, took one last glance at her reflection, and then turned off the lamp. Slipping under the covers, she pulled the blankets around her shoulders. The day’s tension eased as she closed her eyes, her breathing steadying at last. No matter the doubts and questions that would inevitably return, for now, she had found a moment of peace—a reason to keep fighting, a reminder of the family she had found and the hopes they shared. And in that comforting thought, she drifted off to sleep.