By Micaela

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(Note: All Marvel characters are sole property of Marvel Comics. I hold no claim and make no profit. If you try to sue me, Tiger's gonna be right *peeved*!)

(Warning: GRAPHIC violence. I'm talking about baaaaaad stuff. Please, don't try any of this at home; Tiger is a trained professional psychopath, he knows what he's doing. Oh, and if you like Rogue...this is probably *not* the story for you.)

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Greens and blues and blacks

Greens and blues and greys

Heehee

I want my Mommy

Oh I forgot, Mommy's dead

Greens and blues and reds

Look at the pretty bird

Why's that insect talking to me

Greens and blues and browns

Brillaint light stung her eyes like the stingers from predatory insects. She felt a long, suffering convulsion ripple up her body, and this dull throbbing sensation tickle her senses.

When she came to, her eyes were already open, her pupils stinging with dryness and irratation. She had no idea how long they'd been open.

Long stringy strips of hair dangled in front of her face, soaked with sweat and smelling of blood. Her nose fliched away from them in revulsion, and she tried vainly to block out the nauseating scent of iron blood.

She was upright; even in her disoriented state she could feel her body's weight pressing down. She realized, dimly through the pain, that she must have been tied to a wall.

Her hands clenched, and she gasped through cracked lips when she felt twine dig into her wrists. Her left wrist was sliced straight through, and a trickle of blood, as soft and silent as a red snake, slithered its way down her arm.

"Welcome back to the land 'o' the living, *chere*."

Her head jerked up, ignoring the dull, pulsating pain. Through blurred vision, and strips of her own matted hair she could see him.

He looked different. That was really the first thing that occured to her, oddly enough. He was dressed in some sort of leather suit -- she thought she could see the glint of metal fasteners.

He'd cut his hair, slicing away most of the length, and cutting the bangs into a chin-length blunt cut. His eyes glowed black (?) instead of their familier and comforting demonic red.

She blinked her eyes twice, hard, and shoke her head. She couldn't seem to lose this fuzzy, dull feeling that permeated her mind and body.

He stood before her, iddly puffing at the growing-shorter stump of a ciggarette. The fingers of his left hand were entwined in a shock of his hair, twisting the strands about his fingers. He stepped forward, his boots macking crunching sounds on the dirty wood floor, and said:

"Didn't think you'd get away with that, did ya?"

Her eyes widened, and her face jerked away.

"Don't act so surprised." he hissed at her smugly, "You don't get away with attempted murder that easily, bitch."

She inclinded her face away from him, her eyes burning as the acrid smoke from the ciggarette bit at them.

"Look at you." his lip screwed up, "You can't even kill someone correctly! If he had died, I wouldn't be here today -- everything you do seems to fuck up, doesn't it, girl?"

She clamped her eyes shut, shaking as another convulsion racked her body. She opened her eyes, and her head swam as images -- faces -- things -- danced within her field of view.

"Somethin' wrong?" he inquired, a knowing smile on his face, "Ahh, yes -- right about now you should be realizing that you're trippin' on something." His eyes glowed for an instant as he reached into a pocket of his trenchcoat.

She blinked again, trying to clear her vision of mottled colors and nonsensial images. Her green eyes were dilatated badly, but she could still see what he pulled from his pocket.

A syringe.

It was filled with clear liquid, and just looking at it glimmer in the light made her sick to her stomach.

"This", he whispered, gently tapping one fingernail against the side of the needle, "Is LSD. Pretty potent stuff too, from what I know. Then again, the folks I bought it from ain't 'xactly reputable, ya know."

His eyes mocked her, reveling in her horror and fear. He had not partaken of the drug -- why did he need to? Her fear was intoxicating to him.

Rogue felt bile rising up into her throat, felt her heart start pounding, and for the first time in a long time, she knew she was vulnerable -- physically as well as emotionally.

She clamped her eyes shut, taking deep, slow, steady breaths to calm herself. No matter what, this was not as hopeless as she feared. She was far from helpless -- she was the daughter of Mystique, after all! There were many, many ways to escape situations like this, and when she got free, this freak creep who looked like Remy was going to pay -- dearly.

Tiger rolled back on his heels, absentmindbly brushing the shaft of the syringe with his fingertips. He watched her carefully -- despite her ditzy, over-emotional Southern Belle routine, he knew she was no fool, and he wasn't about to give her any advantages.

Rogue sucked down a few last deep breaths. While her eyes were still dilated, and a nervous twitch was wracking her body every few seconds, she was no longer nearly mad from panic. She reminded herself to breath slowly -- it wouldn't do any good to hyperventilate herself into shock.

Her blurry eyes darted about her prision, her naturally cunning mind already formulating a plan for escape. She was trapped in some sort of...barn? Her eyes flitted upwards, gazing at a wooden ceiling. Yes, she was indeed in a bar or store room of some kind -- she couldn't smell even the lingering scent of animal dung or feed, so she suspected the latter.

Tiger turned around to open a bag of some kind, so she quickly wrenched her head around to see what he had used to hold her.

And quickly realized things were much worse.

Much, much worse.

You see, Rogue was not tied to the wall.

She was nailed to it.

Nails, nails, nails, sneaking down her arms, driven straight through her skin and muscle. Nails, long nails, nails they use to nail wood and metal, piercing her arms and legs and, judging from the dull pulse she could feel in her belly, her stomach too.

Her brain screamed, and it took all her willpower, all her training, not to fling herself forward, not to rip herself off the wall.

Because she knew that if she did...

She would rip out her guts.

And even if she survived that...

He was near.

Beyond shock, her eyes stared at the nails, unseeing. Tiger had positioned her like Christ on the Cross -- dimly, she remembered flashes of seeing the Crucifix in books and it never looked this bloody -- with nails piercing her wrists and arms and driven straight through the middle of her hands.

"Yuck, huh?" Tiger queried her, grinning unnervingly at her, "Ya know, I first tried to nail ya up like they do in the pictures, through the wrists ya know, but your weight was too much and the nails ripped straight through your wrists."

This time, when Rogue felt the bile in her throat, she did nothing to stop it.

Tiger didn't even blink an eye when she spit up all over herself.

"So, instead, I stapled ya up through your hands and arms and all, and wrapped twine and wire around ya to keep you there!" Tiger stepped forward, brushing a twig of white hair from her face. "Y'know -- I almost understand what Remy saw in you. You *are* very fuckable."

He sighed, reaching forward to grasp the entire white stripe that had been her trademark for years, "But, alas, ain't nobody gonna be fucking you now. Not even me -- even with this lil' gadget here --" he tapped a small bracelet that wound its way around her wrist, "-- taking away your powers, even *I'm* not fucked up or desperate enough to screw your corpse."

She made a noise, deep down in her throat -- part wail, part scream, part growl -- it seemed the only sound she could produce.

Tiger wrenched her head forward roughly by the stripe, then lowered his nose to it for an instant. Rogue's skin crawled as his breath tickled the nape of her neck.

"Hah! I knew it!" Tiger crowed, flinging her head back, "Peroxide, I knew it! So *that's* how that stripe kept moving around!"

Rogue felt her entire body shudder on its own, her mind and horror seemingly detached from it. She couldn't think, couldn't breath anymore -- she could feel the warm, wet fingers of the drugs he'd pumped into her dance their way up her spine.

"Oh, and by the way", Tiger said nonchalantly, recalling memories he'd snatched from Remy regarding a certain Southern Belle and a cave, "Speaking of fucking...I hate to break this to you, but you weren't *that* good, regardless of what Remy told you."

A soft, lulling wave of dizziness overcame her, and much to her horror, she found herself welcoming it. Please, just anything that would take her away from here...

She had to say something...she had to call for help...she had to stop him, threaten him...before it was too late.

Her mouth gaped open, and not for the first time she attempted to force out words from beyond her drugged up haze and pain. "R-Re.."

Tiger peered intently into her face, taking her jaw within his hands, "What is it, huh bitch? Whatcha trying ta tell ol' Tiger?"

And a word, a whisper escaped her tortured tounge, slipped past her lips, and found it's way to his ear.

"R-Rem-Remy..." she croaked, barely coherent.

He sighed and shook his head. "Sorry, bitch. Remy's as dead as you are."

And he turned from her.

A scraping sound was caught by her ears, and almost agaisnt her will, she opened her painfully dry eyes. Tiger was dragging a large can of some kind across the floor. He stopped about three feet from her, then yanked off the rusty top.

Rogue thought she couldn't be any more scared.

She was wrong.

The famaliar, sickening, acidic scent floated across to her, and she felt more bile rise to her throat.

It was gasoline.

Tiger grinned at her, then plucked something from his pocket.

A pair of panties.

"I don't suppose", he said airily, as if he were disgusing the weather, "I'll have any more need of these -- Jean certainly won't."

Rogue nearly screamed, painful, gasping sounds that tried in desperation to escape from her throat, as if they were rats jumping ship.

Tiger dipped the panties into the gasoline, paused, then plucked them back out again. Striding across to her, he smiled icily and said, his words stinging like a viper's venom, "Open wide!"

Rogue tried to fight him; more out of instinct than any real hope of winning. However, considering her hands and legs were securely nailed down, she wasn't a match for a pre-pubescent, much less the ruthless killer before her.

His hands forced their way into her mouth; she tried to bite down but didn't get far before she felt silken soft fabric and the lacing, horrific taste of gasoline agasint her tongue.

She gagged, trying as best she could to prevent the gasoline from trickling down her throat. But her energy seemed to have drained out along with her blood and strength, and she felt the sickening stuff dribble down her gullet despite her best efforts to the contrary.

He wrenched his hand from her mouth, whilst using his other hand to slam her head hard agaisnt the wall. Rogue felt blackness creeping up around her field of vision as her head rattled and pain lanced through her body.

Already she gagged again and tried to spit out the gasoline soaked underwear. Tiger smacked her upside her jaw and she heard a crackling sound.

Duct tape.

He wound it about her mouth first, imprisioning the offending object within her jaw, then intwining it about her head, wrapping it about her face, and catching the strands of her hair in it.

Her vision was blocked by the tape, but she could still hear and smell -- barely. Gasoline dribbled down her throat, trailing where once vomit had risen. She wondered if she threw up now, would she choke to death?

Tiger gripped the syringe between his fingers, gripped it so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He almost wished Remy were here to see this. This...beautiful display of what he could do. Remy was a braggart, a victim, a *nothing*. Were it not for Tiger, their body would not even exist anymore!

Tiger grinned maliciously at the bound and gagged woman. This bitch was going to pay for leaving them to freeze to death in the frigid Antartic.

Tiger concentrated, and a slick sliver of power raced from his fingers to the syringe.

Stupid bitch thought freezing to death was fun? Then lets see how she likes being burned alive....

He knelt by her, grasping her still straining, slender neck inbetween his hands. Pinning her securely agaisnt the wall, he hefted the syringe aloft in his hand, and drove it straight into her throat.

Rogue convulsed, and a long, slick stream of blood escaped the new hole. An odd notion crossed his mind -- he wondered that if he licked her blood, would he taste the gasoline?

Deciding he'd find that out some other time, Tiger stood up, backing away. The syringe was a timed explosion -- he had nearly two minutes to escape before this place went sky-high.

"Au Revoir!" he called to her, then departed.

=========

"*WHO* are we going to get, again?!"

Scalphunter muttered something to himself, sinking low into his seat.

Arclight glared at the shocked and enraged Scrambler, then repeated, "I told you who!"

"Yeah, I *know* what you said, I just don't believe it! Who the fuck is this 'Tiger' fag, and why is he with the X-Men?!"

"He was part of the team before you showed up." growled Scalphunter, "He was the bosses' pet ginuea pig. He's kinda...um...one of Gambit's multiple personalities."

Kim's eyebrows went up. "Huh-wha?"

"It's true." Phillipa chimed in, "He's kinda like that guy we saw on Jerry Springer last week -- uh, fuck, what was his name -- "

"Marcus Cline." Blockbuster rumbled, still hunched over in his seat.

"Yeah, that guy. He had, what, somethin' like 200 personalities, right? Well, Gambit ain't got quite *that* many, didn't the Boss count about 23 -- "

"27." Scalphunter corrected.

Arclight glared at him for interrupting her for the second time, "Twenty-seven then. Except they're all gone now, the Boss and Tiger did some sort of fucked up shit and purged them all out."

"Except Remy." Scalphunter sat up in his seat, one hand on a pistol almost as a reflex, "And if Tiger's to be believed, he did that himself."

"You don't believe him?" Arclight demanded, staring at him in a half-crazed way. Scalphunter glared at her, not quite sure of her. She and Tiger had some sort of freaky 'romance' going on for a while there, and he wasn't sure just *how* devoted she was to him.

"The Boss believes him. That's why we're going to pick him up before those X-Bitches show up and find out Gambit's other 'deep dark little secret.'"

Phillipa flopped down rather roughly in her helicopter seat. She stared at the back of Scalphunter's head a minute, then glared out the window.

As for her -- there was never any doubt. Well, okay, maybe a *little* -- and it wasn't like she wouldn't do in LeBeau's pasty white ass herself if this was a ruse. But she was, to a reasonable extent, certain this was the real deal.

Scalphunter stared at the dials of the helicopter, scowling. The Boss believed him to be the real deal too, but the former merc was still skeptical. Firstly, Tiger had said Remy was 'dead'. That was, in his humble opinion, bullshit. Remy was the core personality, the Boss had said, and Sinister and Tiger working together couldn't forcibly evict Remy from his own shattered psyche.

Scalphunter breathed deeply. Best case scenario: Tiger is back, Remy's dead, along with a few of the X-Men. We all go home, and he and Arclight start humping like dogs within the hour. Worst case scenario: LeBeau's blabbed to the X-Men about Tiger, they got Prof.X to do some mental shit, and erase Tiger or whatever the fuck you do to a voice in your head. This is all a trick to lure us within shooting range.

Both scenarios had their strong suits and weak points. He didn't think Tiger could just 'kill' Remy like he had the other people living in his skull. But luring them out like this wasn't the X-Men's style, either, so...

"There he is!" Phillipa half-shrieked, half-whispered (trust me, it's possible). She was nearly standing up in her seat, tapping her finger agaisnt the window forcibly.

Tiger stood up, a long, black leather trenchcoat blowing in the chilled, bitter wind. He was smoking a ciggarette and seemed completely oblivious to the burning wooden building behind him.

As the helicopter landed, Phillipa turned quickly to Scrambler.

"One tip -- he doesn't think he's Gambit, so whatever you do, don't call him Remy. Call him Remy and you're liable to get an icepick shoved down your throat, via your nasal passage."

Kim nodded slowly, still staring at the strange figure that approached them.

"Tiger!" Scalphunter called, hopping from the helicopter, "What the fuck's going on here?!"

"I'll explain later!" the now oddly black-eyed man responded, striding forward, "Good ta see ya again, John!"

"Likewise." Scalphunter replied, quickly scanning the surrounding area for any sign of their enemies, "Tiger, if this is a trick..."

"It's not." the other man snorted, "Trust me."

Scalphunter shook his head. "I never trust you."

Arclight felt oddly -- shy? No, that wasn't quite right, but she had butterflies in her stomach, and nothing she thought of seemed right to say.

"Hey babe." Tiger whispered, reaching out for her hand, "Missed ya lots."

She grinned, cracking her knuckles. "Missed ya too, Tiger."

Kim rolled his eyes, and wondered if he could cut the sap with a knife.

Arclight narrowed her eyes, staring at the burning building, which was not as hot nor as high as she suspected it had been. "What're you burning?"

Tiger grimaced.

"Just some trash, babe."

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