RogueStar

(brucepat@iafrica.com)

Sabrina Parker was aware of none of that history, none of the human misery
behind the actions that she was trained to carry out as an MPF lieutenant. If
she had been, would it really have been any different? After a while, her soul
had become as cold as this dungeon. Love, friendship, compassion - to all of
these she was indifferent. If she had a conscience, it rarely pricked her. Yet,
despite this she was still subject to the same basic primal needs as us all. The
need to eat for one.

Sabrina's stomach growled and she was painfully aware of the fact that she
had not eaten for over a day.

"Even th' slop they used ta give us durin' trainin' would be welcome right now,"
she thought, trying to take her mind of the gnawing in her gut.

Like an answer to her prayers, the door slid open and the same young man as
yesterday stepped into the dungeon, laden tray in his hands.

"Th' boy who calls himself leBeau," Parker grimaced, "Never th' genuine
article - probably uses th' leader's reputation ta attract chicks."

"Guessed ya would be gettin' hungry," the youth smiled at her, "'Fraid dat it is
hardly gourmet. Momma leBeau would be rollin' in her grave right now."

She returned his smile, trying to make conversation.

"We used ta starve our prisoners. Made them more pliable."

He looked disgusted, then pity replaced the repulsion.

"Ma chère, petite bête," he sounded sad, "How many years o' brainwashin'
did it take 'fore ya

[My poor dear]

accepted dat?"

"Ah don't know what y'all mean," Sabrina was insulted.

"Dis may be a war, but we don' have t'treat each other like animals. It be de
difference 'tween McTaggert an' us."

"So you lie instead?" she said, annoyed more at her instinctive agreement with
what he said than his words themselves.

"Desolés?"

[Sorry?]

"Ah don't know why y'all think that pretendin' ta be Remy leBeau will score
any points with me," the lieutenant tossed at him, "An' he's a coward if he feels
he needs ta hide behind a kid like you."

The young man laughed, "Ya honestly t'ink dat I'm not de rebel leader?"

"No, Ah think that you're a front, sugah," she retorted, "As y'all said
yesterday, Ah'm just a pawn in th' game. Why would yo' leader bother with
me?"

"'Cause a pawn's jus' a few steps away from a Queen," Remy replied
cryptically, "Ya ever play chess, chere?"

"Too busy trainin' ta have time foh fun."

"Mon père used t'play wit' me 'fore he was murdered. Good at it too," he
squatted beside her, setting the steaming tray on the floor, "De pawns were de
weakest pieces an' ya sacrificed dem wit'out really t'inkin' about it."

"An' yo' point is, kid?"

"M'point is, 'tite, dat when de pawn reached de other side of de board, it
became a queen. De most powerful piece."

"Lemme guess? Th' moral o' that story is ta never discount th' seemingly
valueless, 'cause y'all nevah know how much it might be worth in th' future."

"Non," he grinned, "De moral o' de story is dat I stunk at chess."

Sabrina laughed in spite of herself, then sobered as she remembered who she
was. Who this personable man really was. The rebel leader. The most wanted
man on the MPF hit-list. Her easy ticket to a promotion.

"Can Ah eat now that you've finished tryin' ta get me inta yo' confidence?"

"Can't con de con-woman, henh?" he pushed the tray closer to her, a look of
regret in his eyes, "Ya know, it wouldn' hurt ya t'be polite. Sayin' 'please'
would even be a start."

"Not ta rebel dogs," the MPF Lieutenant spit back, "An' certainly not ta th'
King Cur."

"Batiscan. Ya don' realise how precarious ya position is, don' ya?" his voice
was angry, "M'entire

[A mild oath = sapristi]

team is bayin' f'r ya blood."

"An' you don't want me ta die?" she laughed harshly, "How sweet. Ah
wouldn't do th' same if'n Ah was in yo' shoes, leBeau."

"Ya espèce de tête dure," Remy exclaimed in frustration, "What will it take
t'get through t'ya?

[You hard-headed creature]

I'm not like McTaggert. I don' fight 'cause I want ta. I got no choice."

Parker was silent, looking at the patterns in the dust on the floor. When she
spoke, her voice was quiet, gentle.

"Is that why you hide your eyes?"

"Quoi?" he instinctively touched the reflective glasses which he wore.

[What?]

"People say that a body's eyes are the windows ta yo' soul. Tryin' ta hide yo'
soul, Remy?"

"Mais non," he smiled at her, removing the jet-black shades, "Guess it was
m'attempt at lookin' normal. Très ironic, neh?"

Sabrina looked up at the rebel leader, suppressing a gasp of horror. His eyes .
. . sweet lord of all mercy . . . they were little more than red circles in pools of
darkness. Strangely alien, yet, at the same time, strangely familiar. The man in
her dream . . . .

To cover her discomfit, she dipped a thick piece of bread into the broth and
put it into her mouth. It could have tasted like cardboard for all she noticed.

"Somet'ing wrong, chère?" he asked.

"No. Just mad at havin' ta eat breakfast in th' company o' rebel scum," Sabrina
said coldly, covering her feelings with the same veneer of ice as always, "Ah
still have some idea o' commensality."

"So do I, 'tite," he replaced the dark glasses, "I, f'r one, don't like t'eat wit'
people who can't t'ink f'r demselves. Sheep be better eatin' dan company."

Sabrina snorted, helping herself to the coffee, which had little going for it save
its warmth and sweetness. The ice-queen had stopped herself from thawing
just in time.

Remy leBeau paused before the door, hand poised on the frame.

"Chère . . . Sabrina, someone'll be in later t'talk t'ya."

"That dark-haired thug again?"

"Non, not Unuscione."

"Pity. At least Ah knew where she was comin' from."

He raised an eyebrow questioningly then shook his head, evidently thinking the
better of it. The door closed behind him with a swish.

"Welcome to the . . . ." Jubilee spread her arms for effect, "Training Room.
Trademark."

Iceman applauded sarcastically, "As you can see, there isn't too much room to
train in."

Pryde looked around the dilapidated room. The floors were covered with
padded mats and a few punch bags hung limply from the ceiling, spewing
stuffing. Racks of staffs, knives and other handheld weapons lined the walls.

"Cool."

"As Remy would explain if he was here, training equipment is notoriously hard
to come by, being commandeered by the MPF," Mystique continued, "If I
could only get my hands on the stuff they have there . . . ."

"Where is Remy?" Pryde asked in interest.

"With the lady lieutenant," Iceman lent the fact a whole significance of its own.

"Enough," Mystique said before the conversation became too animated, "We
are here to train, not gossip. How good are you at hand-to-hand combat?"

Kitty smiled.

Mystique watched the super soldier train, laughing and joking with Iceman as
she did so. Painful memories came flooding back through her defenses -
memories of another more serious fight. She had been on a mission to infiltrate
an underground fighting syndicate - a syndicate known for staging brutal death
matches between unfairly matched opponents. The Gladiatores. Obviously,
the Emissary would not have cared, if it had not been for the fact that they
were not paying McTaggert the cut she demanded to turn a blind eye. A
match was being staged in center ring when she arrived, dressed as a wealthy
social butterfly. A carefree wife who enjoyed a little blood in between
scandals. A young girl, little more than 15, was fighting a huge man whose ugly
face bore the scars of previous victories. She looked so little in comparison to
him, so vulnerable, and Mystique asked a punter what the odds for the match
were.

He grinned and replied in a manner that Mystique would never forget: "The girl
- Rogue - is the favorite. The other guy - Kleinstock - is 100 to 1 against."

Mystique had wondered why at the time. How someone seemingly so frail and
young could hope to defeat that massive brute, Kleinstock. She stopped
wondering a few minutes later when the girl drew her blade with a smooth
ground to sky stroke and ended the match. The crowd cheered and threw
flowers to cover the corpse of her opponent. Rogue, as she had been named
by the punter, bowed and left the arena. Head blurred, Mystique had run to
the dressing rooms, wishing to speak to the child. She had found Rogue there,
head in her arms, crying like her tears could wash her hands clean of all the
blood they had spilled.

"Child . . . is everything all right?"

"Jus' dandy," the girl had flashed her a cocky smile, "Ah take home 23% o' th'
purse tanight."

"Do you enjoy doing this?"

"'Course not. But it's this . . . or . . . or . . . ."

Mystique had placed a reassuring hand on Rogue's shoulder, "There is another
option."

"Like?"

"Come with me."

"You nuts, lady? Ah barely know you."

Mystique had pulled out her badge and showed it to the girl.

"My name is Raven Darkholme - I'm a Corporal in the MPF."

"Please don't arrest me. Ah wouldn't do this if'n Ah had a choice."

"Of course not, honey . . . . If you come with me, I'll give you a home and -
how old are you now?"

"14."

"14," Mystique had repeated tenderly, "When you're 18, I'll sponsor your
training. You can be on the right side of the law - upholding it."

"Sure," the kid had smiled, "Why not?"

"What must I call you? Rogue is hardly the prettiest of names."

"Momma called me Sabrina. Sabrina Parker."

"Well, Sabrina . . . should we go?"

"Yeah," she picked up a duffel bag, "Let's go."

Mystique sighed as she watched Kitty going through the standard exercises. It
reminded her too much of the girl who had become a daughter to her. The girl
who now was being held captive. The girl which she could no longer
acknowledge as her own. Sabrina.

To be continued . . . .

1. Much of the French used in this story is pure cajun. It might not be found in
any proper french dictionary. I am endeavoring to incorporate as much as
possible for accuracy.