Rogue: Energy Within by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Rogue-Energy-Within-1260245923?file=1

Rogue: Energy Within ANIMATION

The Hunger of Silence

Porcelain chimed against silver, a delicate sound that possessed absolutely no right to exist within the swirling, lightless nebula surrounding them. Anna Marie, wrapped in her heavy leather jacket and the stifling isolation of her own skin, stared at the teacup resting on the velvet-draped table. The tea smelled of crushed chamomile, aged honey, and the sharp, ozone tang of a dying star. She sat in a high-backed armchair upholstered in oxblood leather, marooned in a decaying art-deco parlor that floated untethered in the void of a pocket universe.

Across the small table sat a gentleman who was a masterpiece of biological forgery. He wore a sharply tailored charcoal suit that moved with the liquid grace of midnight shadows. His face was impossibly symmetrical, possessing cheekbones that looked sharp enough to carve glass and eyes that were entirely the wrong shade of silver. He smiled, and the gesture felt like a razor blade dragged slowly across a cello string.

"You wear your graveyard beautifully, Anna Marie," the gentleman purred. His voice was a rich, dark timber, vibrating with an ancient resonance that made the tea tremble in its cup.

Rogue leaned back, crossing her gloved hands over her chest, keeping her pulse measured despite the cold dread pooling in her stomach. "I didn’t catch your name, stranger," she drawled, her Southern lilt serving as a familiar armor against the impossible. "And I certainly didn't accept an invitation to whatever haunted tea party this is."

"Names are much like the gloves you so desperately cling to," the entity replied, extending a hand to adjust his own collar. "They are merely barriers we construct to keep the raw, freezing truth of the universe from burning our delicate hands. But if you require a label to make this transaction palatable, you may call me Vesper."

"A transaction implies I have something you want, Vesper," Rogue said, her eyes narrowing. Behind her ribs, the familiar, suffocating chorus of a hundred stolen minds stirred. Carol Danvers’ military instincts barked a warning; the weeping of a terrified Morlock echoed in the back of her skull; the residual arrogance of a dozen defeated mutants flared up. Usually, the voices were a chaotic symphony. But in Vesper’s presence, they were unifying into a single, chilling emotion. Panic.

"You possess an exquisite burden," Vesper said, leaning forward. The shadows cast by the parlor’s singular, flickering chandelier seemed to lean inward with him, stretching toward her like hungry, elongated fingers. "A mind saturated with the weeping echoes of others. You are a library of stolen literature, and the shelves are groaning under the weight. I can hear them screaming inside you, Anna Marie. It must be agonizing."

Rogue tightened her jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a flinch. "I manage perfectly fine, sugar. It’s part of the mutation. Now, if you’re done playing parlor tricks with space and time, I’d appreciate a door back to Westchester."

"What if I offered you a door to something far better?" Vesper’s silver eyes locked onto hers, and suddenly, the ambient temperature of the room plummeted. The seduction in his tone was not born of romance, but of a deeply predatory promise. "What if I offered you the rain?"

Rogue blinked, the unexpected nature of the question breaking her defensive rhythm. "Excuse me?"

"You cannot feel the rain, can you?" Vesper murmured, his voice softening into a narcotic whisper. "Not truly. You feel it strike the leather, the spandex, the thick cloth. On the rare occasion a drop hits your face, you must wipe it away, terrified it will act as a conduit to the first person who brushes past you. You cannot hold a lover without constructing a fortress between your skin and theirs. You cannot comfort a dying child. Your touch is a weapon, an executioner’s blade. I am offering to sheathe it."

A profound, suffocating silence stretched between them, heavy and pregnant with the weight of her deepest, most guarded fantasies. Rogue stared at the silver-eyed creature, her breath catching in her throat. "That’s not possible," she whispered, the drawl fading into raw vulnerability. "My genetics are rewritten. My mutation is permanent."

"To the primates playing with test tubes on your little blue sphere, perhaps," Vesper said, a terrifying smile gracing his flawless lips. "To me, your mutation is merely a knotted thread in a grander tapestry. I can untangle it. I can pull the thread until it unravels
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