RogueStar

(brucepat@iafrica.com)

"You betrayed me," he said, "But I love you and will forgive you."

"No . . . no . . . Ah nevah . . . ."

DRRRRRRRRINNNNNNNG.

Sabrina woke with a start, looking at the book next to her bed.

"Momma was right - these things are trash."
 

Bored, Remy leBeau watched the tunnel that led into the rebellion
head-quarters. It used to be the home of the Morlocks - Callisto, the other
founder of the rebellion, had allowed them to set up base there. When she
was killed, they had stayed on, unwilling to leave a place which had proved to
be safe and easily defensible. Remy picks up a stone and charges it with
kinetic energy, throwing it into the water where it makes a much larger splash
than it should.

"Could use a cig right 'bout now," he thought, "Pity dat warehouse was out."

He picks up another stone and skips it across the surface. Seven beats before
it sinks. This man has given up a normal life to do this - to fight the Emissary
any way he could. Given up any hope of a wife and children, of a family. His
parents and older brother were killed when he was seventeen - that was six
years ago. He had gone to the store for some milk and bread at his mother's
request, grumbling and cursing all the way , little knowing that such a simple
errand would save his life. When he returned, paper packet in his hand, he
had heard gunfire coming from his house, heard the screams of his mother as
she pleaded. Then silence. Sickening silence. He had hidden in an alleyway
until all was quiet and had seen the uniformed MPF soldiers walk out of the
doorway. The words still echoed through his head at nights when he couldn't
sleep:

"Treacherous scum . . . . They deserved to die."

"Tell me about it! People like that are worse than dogs."

"After all the Emissary has done for them . . . . "

"Like what?" he argued to the silent tunnels, "Put dem in ghettoes? Take away
deir rights one by one so sneakily dat dey didn' even notice dat dey had gone?
Make sure dat dey had no voice t'speak back with? Merci beaucoup,
Emissary."

"Are you talking to yourself, sir?" an amused voice from behind him asked.

"Non, Pryde. T'de ghosts."

"Ah . . . . I brought you some coffee. Came to relieve you of your watch."

"Merci," he took the steaming cup from the new recruit and took a sip,
"Double latté, m'favorite."

"Mine too, sir. I guessed that you liked it."

"Call me Remy."

"Unusual name."

"An' Pryde isn't?"

She laughed, "You have a point there. I don't know what my real name is -
this is what the Emissary called me after the Super Soldier process."

"Ya be a super soldier?"

"The prototype as they called it. I prefer the term 'guinea-pig'."

"Mais oui. De Emissary be good at euphemisms," he smiles, "F'r what it's
worth, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she grins, flipping out her claws, "I never need a manicure."

"Like a cat's."

"Yeah. That's what I call myself sometimes."

"Cat?"

"No - Kitty."

"Kitty Pryde. It has a ring to it."

"Probably better than my real name."

"Oui, petite. Ya mind if I leave ya alone now? Dis cajun boy needs some
sleep."

"Not at all. One more thing?"

"Shoot."

"You're awfully young to be a leader of a rebellion, Remy."

"An' you're awfully young t'be a super-soldier," he pauses, "Chere - if anyone
comes who ya don' recognize, hit dis an' half de rebellion will be here in a
matter o' seconds."

He handed her a small device that looked like a radio transmitter.

"Sure. Good night - sweet dreams."

"Merci, Pryde."

"My pleasure."
 

Sabrina Parker pulled on the tight, black bodysuit that was her uniform and
slipped on her thick, bomber-jacket that contained an arsenal of weapons and
gadgets. The image inducer fitted snugly against her hips and she pressed a
button, activating it. Instantly, the young woman was replaced by another
figure. Creamy skin became blue, ears elongated and pointed, a tail grew and
waved. To any casual observer, she was the Contact.

"Time ta play th' game," she said.

Her voice would prove to be a problem. She had to avoid speaking somehow
- the Emissary had not provided a Voice Synthesizer to go with the Image
Inducer. Sabrina grimaced - she hated this mission, hated the sense of not
knowing whether she would be alive this evening. She was the best and the
best wasn't meant to have any doubts. The image of the strange, young man
with the dazzling eyes came back to her suddenly and she shook him out of
her head. She could not afford to be distracted. Not any cost. Sabrina left the
apartment.
 

Kitty Pryde picked up a stone, carefully whittling away at it using her
adamantium claws. She was bored. The watch had been for the most part
uneventful, apart from the occasional flurry caused by a rat scurrying through
the sewer. She had not dreamed the rebellion would be like this. Waiting.
Watching. Pouncing. She shifted a spandex clad leg, trying to get more
comfortable on the hard stone and failing miserably. The stone formed itself,
under her guidance, into the figure of a young woman. The woman who she
once must have been. Memories flooded her mind, coming through the block
that had been placed there when she had been turned into a super-soldier.
Her short, peroxided hair had waved long down her back, taken neatly back
in a bandette. She was dressed in a frilly, party-smock. It had been her
cousin's birthday. There was going to be a cake and balloons and a clown.
Kitty remembered being excited, remembered running to the house,
remembered running through the door without opening it. The stony look on
the face of her aunt. "Go! We don't want mutants here. We don't want
trouble!"

Kitty had left in tears. Had walked down the street in a blur. Had run into a
young, serious-looking man.

"What's your hurry, honey?"

"I'm a mutant and my aunt doesn't want me to go to my cousin's party. They
were having a clown!" she lisped through her tears.

"We want mutants," the earnest young man had bent to her level, "They're our
favorite people."

Little had she realized that they wanted them for a super-soldier project - as
laboratory rats to test out a highly experimental procedure that almost
invariably proved fatal. Footsteps, silent to all but her cybernetically enhanced
hearing, padded up the tunnels. Shook Kitty out of her memories. The young
cyborg pulled out a gun and slid into the shadows. Out of the darkness
walked the Contact, peering behind him every few seconds. Kitty breathed a
sigh of relief.

"Is that really you?"

The Contact jumped, visibly shaken by her sudden appearance.

"How did you escape the Emissary's cells?"

Silently, the Contact looked mulishly at her.

"Why didn't you just teleport to the base instead of taking the tunnels?"

Like Red Riding Hood who realizes on her third question that her
grandmother is really a wolf in woman's clothing, Kitty lowered her gun and
pointed it at the Contact.

"Because you aren't the Contact, are you?"

"Smart girl," the doppelganger kicked out, knocking the gun out of Pryde's
hands, "An' you're comin' with me, sugah."

"Not again," Kitty attempted to leg-sweep the intruder but only got a bruised
calf for her troubles, "What are you? Made of steel?"

"Nope. You're thinkin' o' mah drinkin' buddy, Petey. Ah'm just invulnerable."

"I'm guessing not to guns," she scrambled for her energy-weapon, releasing a
volley of shots.

With the fluid grace of mercury, the spy dodged every shot.

"Is this how leBeau trains you? Sloppy."

"Better than the Emissary," Kitty desperately hit the button the radio
transmitter.

In what seemed to be a few hours to Kitty, but in actuality was little more than
a minute, the tunnel was filled with rebels.

"Drop your weapons and turn your image inducer off," a voice commanded,
with the assurance of one who knows that they have the power to back up
that command if need be.

The intruder complied.

"Oh heck."
 

To be continued . . . .