Disclaimer: I absolutely do not own X-Men.

A/N: So, I finally decided to give writing in this fandom a try. This fic was floating around in my head awhile until I finally decided to just write it. It's inspired in part by the 90's X-Men animated series, in which it was hinted that Rogue was abused. I always thought that would make sense for this version of Rogue as well. It's finished (as is its sequel), so all I have to do is edit and post. Anyway, on with the show! I'll be posting this prologue (which actually takes place mid-story and will be the only chapter written in first person POV) as well as the first real chapter tonight.

Prologue:

Mystique's gone too far this time.

How could she?

Really...How could she?

'It wasn't enough to raise me as a weapon,' I think to myself. My fists clenched tightly at my sides as a strange mix of rage and panic fight for dominance. 'Or to betray my trust repeatedly. Now she's dug up my past.'

My past.

Not our past, not anything even related to my powers, just my dark, very personal, past that I'd wanted to keep in the past.

And there's Kurt looking confused and maybe a little hurt. Jean, watching me and judging me for something she doesn't even understand. Miss Perfect couldn't understand this. How could she understand a dysfunctional family who hate each other when hers is so nice and orderly and...perfect.

The professor is watching like it's all some kind of science experiment, but I think maybe he's starting to suspect something is wrong. Logan though...Logan already knows. Half the time I think he's the only one who will ever understand me at all.

After this they all might just understand more than I ever wanted them to.

Because, of course, they all had to be here.

"How much?" I manage to force out. I only vaguely notice my fingernails digging into the palms of my hands through my gloves. Each word is cold, crisp, and filled with a barely contained anger. "How much is Mystique paying you for this?"

She had to be paying him something. He wouldn't bother to be here if there wasn't something in it for him.

His eyes narrow and the corner of his lips turn upwards into a little scowl. It's an expression that's haunted my dreams for as long as I can remember.

'He can't touch me', I remind myself. It becomes a chant that echoes in my head. 'He can't touch me. I'm untouchable.'