"What is this?" she grimaced. She looked down, noticing a wicker bin with a plastic shopping bag stretched over its top about two feet to the side of her feet, nestled beside the wardrobe. "Why am Ah in mah costume?" A surgical glove dangled over the lip of the bin. "Where is this place?"
Rogue took a step back, glancing inside the half-open wardrobe. There were three dog-collars sitting on a shelf, along with a couple of studded belts. Rogue swung the wardrobe door open and looked inside at the assorted clothes, some on coat hangers, some jammed in half-open draws, a few piled up at the bottom of the wardrobe. Skirts, shirts, trousers, vests ...
"Ah guess whoever these people are, they don't mind sharing their space," Rogue mused. The music continued: "Grade three, had a written composition, about the global threat of communism."
Suddenly, the door at the far end of the room was flung open. Rogue started, and glanced cautiously around the door of the wardrobe at the man who stepped inside, slamming the door behind him. He was a lean, handsome man, lightly muscled and tanned, with a Mediterranean complexion and dark hair. He was also soaking wet, water running in rivulets over his body and pooling up on the floor at his feet. A yellow towel was wrapped around his waist, tucked in on his left side. That is, until he took it off.
As he began to furiously towel his hair, the man said, "Is that you, love? I thought you were going jogging with Bobby."
"Oh Mah God," thought Rogue, her heart pounding in her chest, "he sounds just like Antonio Banderas! And he ain't wearing nothin'!" Her conscience asserted itself. "Ah shouldn't be here," she murmured to herself as he looked up in her direction. The CD was still playing: "How could they do this to me? Born head first and brought up ankle-deep."
"Rogue ...?" the man asked, stepping over the first mattress and moving towards her. Rogue swallowed, and stepped out from behind the wardrobe door, swinging it closed. The man stared at her; he seemed to recognise her, and he knew her name, but his expression was ... odd. As if something was wrong.
He spoke. "You ... you're not her."
* * * * * * *
Bobby blinked, and looked around. He was in a kitchen, which wasn't in itself a disturbing thing, but it wasn't a kitchen he had ever seen before. The furnishings looked old and battered, though they were clean. He took a step forward, towards the wooden table in the middle of the room.
"I don't think I'm in Kansas anymore, Toto," he said, sotto voce.
"Course you aren't, man, you're in Texas!" said a man's voice from behind Bobby. Bobby froze as he felt arms reach around his waist, linking up around the "X" on his costume's belt. "What're you in uniform for, anyhows?" the voice continued, deep and soft, whispering in his ear.
"He's nibbling my ear lobe," thought Bobby, so shocked that he couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't think of what to do. "Some man with a beard is nibbling my ear lobe!" The stranger's beard rasped against his cheek, and Bobby heard the man say, "So, are you up for anything today?" The man pressed up against Bobby's back, and Bobby felt something ...
With a sudden burst of speed, Bobby rushed forward, breaking out of the man's embrace. "Wha ...?" said the other man, as Bobby moved to the far side of the table, turning to face the overly-intimate stranger.
He was tall, at least six feet tall, and solidly built. His skin was pale and his hair was red, both on his head and on his face. The beard that Bobby had felt scraping up against his face was short and neatly-trimmed. Bobby ran his hand over the abrasions: he noted, almost dispassionately, that he was shaking.
"Bobby, what's wrong?" The red-haired man's baritone voice was full of concern. "You're shaking like a leaf."
Bobby remained silent, his eyes wild with fear.
"You've shaved your moustache off," said the man, moving slightly towards Bobby. Bobby took a step back, and the stranger stopped moving, holding his hands up in front of him. "Alright, don't panic ... I'm not going to hurt you, man."
"What's up, Michael?" The voice came from the passageway behind the stranger, who turned slightly to look at the woman behind him. Bobby continued to stare in shock, though at least he recognised the newcomer. She looked a lot older than she usually did, but there was no mistaking her appearance. Mystique met Bobby's stare, and concern showed on her face.
"Something's up with Bobby," replied Michael. "Could you get the others, Mystique? I think maybe he's being mind-controlled."
* * * * * * *
The dark-haired man glared at Rogue, the air around him glowing a deep red. "What have you done with Rogue?" he demanded, angrily.
"What do you mean, 'done with Rogue'? Ah am Rogue!"
"Not the Rogue I know. What are you doing in our room?"
"How should Ah know? One moment Ah'm in my motel room, the next Ah'm in here!"
With an annoyed gesture, the man sent a tendril of redness towards the stereo system, where it touched the on/off button. Softly, the CD player whirred to a stop.
"Why do you look like her?"
"Your Rogue looks like me?"
"Yes, mostly." He seemed to be calming down a little.
Rogue decided to switch to the offensive. "Why am Ah here? Bobby and Ah were travelling through Texas on the way to California. This ain't where Ah went to sleep. How'd you bring me here?"
"I haven't done anything to you!" The red aura around him dimmed somewhat, and he paused for several seconds before continuing. "Look, something strange is going on--"
"Damn right it is!" she interjected, and he threw up his right hand and gestured for her to stop. Rogue subsided, confused and wary.
He restarted his sentence. "Something strange is going on, and we'll probably find out the answer much more quickly if we talk this through. Agreed?"
She nodded. "Alright."
"Let's go and get the rest of the X-Men. Then we can talk, hear your story, and start looking for solutions. Okay?"
Rogue felt her cheeks burning with anger. "Ah said, alright! Don't lecture me like Ah'm a child!"
He winced. "Sorry ... Rogue." He sighed. "This is going to take some getting used to." Straightening, he looked her in the eyes. Rogue guiltily glanced up from his nether-regions to meet his gaze.
"My name is Christian Giron," he said, as a tendril stretched out from his hand and pulled a sheet up off the mattress and over his lower body.
Before Rogue could reply, there was a knock at the door. "Christian," said Mystique, "there's a problem with Bobby. Could you let Rogue know?" Rogue started at the sound of her mother's voice. "What's she doing here?" Rogue wondered.
With a resigned expression on his face, Christian replied, "I think she already knows, Raven. We've got a big problem here."