They're not mine, and I don't make a brass cent from them. Sad but true. If
you want to sue me, be forewarned my most valuable possession is my party of
hard-ass adventurers in Icewind Dale! And they're well-armed! ^.~
****
A MATTER OF PRYDE
PART 10
'TAKING STOCK'
Wincing, Sabrina stretched out a leg to try and loosen the tight, sore
muscles of her calves and thighs. The chains binding her hands and feet made
it hard to sleep in any comfortable position, and her muscles had cramped up
overnight. If she were to escape them, even if only by committing suicide,
she had to be ready to capitalise on any mistake the rebels might make. She
could not afford to be stiff; her reaction-time had to be perfect.
She broke off a chunk of stale bread and chewed absently on it. Before she
could do anything else, she had to get herself out of this cell - a
difficult task in itself. Like the rest of the rebel base, it was part of
the sewers that had once served New York. The stone walls were old, but
there was no way she could break through them with her superstrength
inhibited. There were no openings in them, other than a few, little
airvents, which would have proved tight even for the rats and cockroaches
that ran around the sewers. The only way into and out of the cell was
through the electronic door, and that was only opened when someone came to
see her, either to interrogate her or to bring her food and water. However,
if that were her only chance, she would just have to find a way of taking
it.
Her eyes automatically went to the cupboards set into the wall, showing that
the room doubled as storage space. In at least one of them were medical
supplies - Sabrina remembered that much from the rebel leader's visit, when
he had fixed up her bruised and battered face. That meant swabs, hydrogen
peroxide, suture needles, saline solution . . . . Suture needles? Sabrina
smiled thinnly to herself. Bingo, baby.
She had found her means of escape.
***
"Damn that woman! Why is she stubborn?" Remy LeBeau muttered, as he pushed
open the heavy door to the Training Room.
The room was empty, and he raised an eyebrow in surprise. He had thought
Mystique was holding a training session with her team here, and had hurried
across from the holding-cell to check on them. He wanted to see what Pryde
was capable of doing. She claimed to be the alpha supersoldier, the
prototype for a line of cyborgs engineered for fighting, and he wanted to
know exactly what that meant for them. After years of fighting sentinels,
did they have to adapt to fighting a new threat? More importantly, could
they?
Suddenly, he noticed there was fresh blood on the floor, red against the
brown mats, and he wondered with a momentary thrill of fear what had
happened. Had Unuscione's misgivings about Pryde been right? Had she been a
plant by the Emissary and had she attacked somebody? Then, he shrugged it
off. If it had been serious, someone would have informed him about it. Drake
had probably just got a bloody nose again, and had insisted on being rushed
to sickbay.
"I'll check up on him later," he told himself, squaring up to the punching
bag that hung limply from the ceiling, "Meantime, I need some therapy."
Experimentally, he jabbed at it with a left, followed by a right.
"One two. One two. One two," he muttered under his breath as he punctuated
each number with a blow, "Stubborn, no good femme."
It had been a while since someone had gotten under his skin like Sabrina
had, countering his most cherished beliefs with nothing more than
propaganda. He had hoped he would be able to get through to her and at times
it had seemed like he had almost succeeded, but he had not counted on the
extent of MPF brainwashing. He was not sure that his words would ever be
enough to undo the influence of her years of training. Worse, he was not
sure what he was going to do about her. He could not keep her in a cell
indefinitely, any more than he could release her back onto the streets or
bring himself to kill her. He thumped the punching-bag all the harder.
Then, there was the matter of the Contact. Since Sabrina had tried to
infiltrate the base in his form, he had to be in MPF custody. He was
probably being held in the big, concrete prison on their base for
interrogation, if he had not been executed on arrival. He would ask Mystique
to verify he still lived, and to find a way of breaking him out of the jail.
She had been an MPF soldier before she had defected to the rebellion; she
would be the only one capable of bringing them both back alive.
Finally, there was the problem of Unuscione . . .Feet dancing, he peppered
the punch-bag with a series of right crosses, followed by a left. Her
evident interest in him was unsettling - Remy never was sure whether she
wanted him under her in bed or under her control, although he suspected it
was both. Again, he regretted sleeping with her in the black and hopeless
time after Callisto had been murdered.
He stopped, sweat pouring down his face, his shirt soaking wet. More than
ever, he wished that Callisto were still alive and with him. He needed her
wise advice, her unique brand of common-sense, her direct and brutal
honesty.
"I miss ya, chere," he whispered, turning away from the punching bag.
When his parents had died, when he had only been seventeen and scared, he
had found a new home and a new family with her. They had been best friends,
lovers, comrades-in-arms. He had loved her with all that had been left of
his shattered heart, but the Emissary had taken her away from him as well.
She had been executed in public as a traitor, and buried in an unmarked
grave. It was then that Remy leBeau had learnt how meaningless love was - it
could not protect you or the person for whom you cared.
Tears rose in his eyes and he rubbed them away viciously with the back of
his hand. He needed to stay focussed, especially now when everything had
become critical, especially now that he knew he was beginning to care too
much again . . . .
****
The tunnels were dark and welcoming. Kitty Pryde ran down one of the many
convoluted passageways, not caring where she was going, only that it was
away from the rebel base. Her programming ran too deep, was written into the
very deepest parts of her soul. She could never be free from her past. She
collapsed to the floor, panting with exhaustion, pressing her hot cheeks
against the cool, damp stone. Tears streamed freely down her face from her
one organic eye; her other one, manufactured to the exact design
specifications of Dr. Essex, was dry.
She heard footsteps coming up behind her, and she scrambled back to her
feet. No matter how exhausted she was, she had to keep running. After what
had happened to Drake, she couldn't let anyone get near her. She couldn't
trust herself not to attack them, when her actions were not her own to
control.
"Stop, Pryde," Mystique sounded tired, "You know I can stop you with a
command, but I don't want to do that."
Slowly, Pryde turned to face the other woman. Raven was standing a little
way away from her, her arms folded across her chest. Sweat glistened on her
forehead, and darkened her combat fatigues. She was breathing heavily.
"Your programming kicked back in, didn't it?"
Biting her bottom lip, she nodded her head miserably, "It did. It shouldn't
have, but it did."
"Why?" Raven took a step closer to her, "Why shouldn't it have?"
"There's a chip in my brain that controls that sort of response. I paid a
backstreet surgeon a ton of money to have it disabled. He said it was too
deeply embedded in my brain for him to remove it without killing me, but he
said he could short it," her hand went to her head to trace the thin ridge
of scar-tissue beneath her short, spiky hair, "I thought it worked. But I
was damn stupid to believe that I could ever be free from them."
"Could the chip have repaired itself?"
"Yes . . . yes, it could have! It did!" she exclaimed in sudden horror, "My
systems are self-repairing, but only when I'm seriously injured, and . . . .
Shit, I know when it happened. How could I have been so stupid? My arm fixed
itself when those Sentinels blasted it to slag. My chip must have fixed
itself at the same time."
Mystique nodded, her face expressionless, "In that case, we need to put it
out of commission again. I think it's time to introduce you to another
member of the rebellion. His name is Milan . . . ."
*
TBC
*
you want to sue me, be forewarned my most valuable possession is my party of
hard-ass adventurers in Icewind Dale! And they're well-armed! ^.~
****
A MATTER OF PRYDE
PART 10
'TAKING STOCK'
Wincing, Sabrina stretched out a leg to try and loosen the tight, sore
muscles of her calves and thighs. The chains binding her hands and feet made
it hard to sleep in any comfortable position, and her muscles had cramped up
overnight. If she were to escape them, even if only by committing suicide,
she had to be ready to capitalise on any mistake the rebels might make. She
could not afford to be stiff; her reaction-time had to be perfect.
She broke off a chunk of stale bread and chewed absently on it. Before she
could do anything else, she had to get herself out of this cell - a
difficult task in itself. Like the rest of the rebel base, it was part of
the sewers that had once served New York. The stone walls were old, but
there was no way she could break through them with her superstrength
inhibited. There were no openings in them, other than a few, little
airvents, which would have proved tight even for the rats and cockroaches
that ran around the sewers. The only way into and out of the cell was
through the electronic door, and that was only opened when someone came to
see her, either to interrogate her or to bring her food and water. However,
if that were her only chance, she would just have to find a way of taking
it.
Her eyes automatically went to the cupboards set into the wall, showing that
the room doubled as storage space. In at least one of them were medical
supplies - Sabrina remembered that much from the rebel leader's visit, when
he had fixed up her bruised and battered face. That meant swabs, hydrogen
peroxide, suture needles, saline solution . . . . Suture needles? Sabrina
smiled thinnly to herself. Bingo, baby.
She had found her means of escape.
***
"Damn that woman! Why is she stubborn?" Remy LeBeau muttered, as he pushed
open the heavy door to the Training Room.
The room was empty, and he raised an eyebrow in surprise. He had thought
Mystique was holding a training session with her team here, and had hurried
across from the holding-cell to check on them. He wanted to see what Pryde
was capable of doing. She claimed to be the alpha supersoldier, the
prototype for a line of cyborgs engineered for fighting, and he wanted to
know exactly what that meant for them. After years of fighting sentinels,
did they have to adapt to fighting a new threat? More importantly, could
they?
Suddenly, he noticed there was fresh blood on the floor, red against the
brown mats, and he wondered with a momentary thrill of fear what had
happened. Had Unuscione's misgivings about Pryde been right? Had she been a
plant by the Emissary and had she attacked somebody? Then, he shrugged it
off. If it had been serious, someone would have informed him about it. Drake
had probably just got a bloody nose again, and had insisted on being rushed
to sickbay.
"I'll check up on him later," he told himself, squaring up to the punching
bag that hung limply from the ceiling, "Meantime, I need some therapy."
Experimentally, he jabbed at it with a left, followed by a right.
"One two. One two. One two," he muttered under his breath as he punctuated
each number with a blow, "Stubborn, no good femme."
It had been a while since someone had gotten under his skin like Sabrina
had, countering his most cherished beliefs with nothing more than
propaganda. He had hoped he would be able to get through to her and at times
it had seemed like he had almost succeeded, but he had not counted on the
extent of MPF brainwashing. He was not sure that his words would ever be
enough to undo the influence of her years of training. Worse, he was not
sure what he was going to do about her. He could not keep her in a cell
indefinitely, any more than he could release her back onto the streets or
bring himself to kill her. He thumped the punching-bag all the harder.
Then, there was the matter of the Contact. Since Sabrina had tried to
infiltrate the base in his form, he had to be in MPF custody. He was
probably being held in the big, concrete prison on their base for
interrogation, if he had not been executed on arrival. He would ask Mystique
to verify he still lived, and to find a way of breaking him out of the jail.
She had been an MPF soldier before she had defected to the rebellion; she
would be the only one capable of bringing them both back alive.
Finally, there was the problem of Unuscione . . .Feet dancing, he peppered
the punch-bag with a series of right crosses, followed by a left. Her
evident interest in him was unsettling - Remy never was sure whether she
wanted him under her in bed or under her control, although he suspected it
was both. Again, he regretted sleeping with her in the black and hopeless
time after Callisto had been murdered.
He stopped, sweat pouring down his face, his shirt soaking wet. More than
ever, he wished that Callisto were still alive and with him. He needed her
wise advice, her unique brand of common-sense, her direct and brutal
honesty.
"I miss ya, chere," he whispered, turning away from the punching bag.
When his parents had died, when he had only been seventeen and scared, he
had found a new home and a new family with her. They had been best friends,
lovers, comrades-in-arms. He had loved her with all that had been left of
his shattered heart, but the Emissary had taken her away from him as well.
She had been executed in public as a traitor, and buried in an unmarked
grave. It was then that Remy leBeau had learnt how meaningless love was - it
could not protect you or the person for whom you cared.
Tears rose in his eyes and he rubbed them away viciously with the back of
his hand. He needed to stay focussed, especially now when everything had
become critical, especially now that he knew he was beginning to care too
much again . . . .
****
The tunnels were dark and welcoming. Kitty Pryde ran down one of the many
convoluted passageways, not caring where she was going, only that it was
away from the rebel base. Her programming ran too deep, was written into the
very deepest parts of her soul. She could never be free from her past. She
collapsed to the floor, panting with exhaustion, pressing her hot cheeks
against the cool, damp stone. Tears streamed freely down her face from her
one organic eye; her other one, manufactured to the exact design
specifications of Dr. Essex, was dry.
She heard footsteps coming up behind her, and she scrambled back to her
feet. No matter how exhausted she was, she had to keep running. After what
had happened to Drake, she couldn't let anyone get near her. She couldn't
trust herself not to attack them, when her actions were not her own to
control.
"Stop, Pryde," Mystique sounded tired, "You know I can stop you with a
command, but I don't want to do that."
Slowly, Pryde turned to face the other woman. Raven was standing a little
way away from her, her arms folded across her chest. Sweat glistened on her
forehead, and darkened her combat fatigues. She was breathing heavily.
"Your programming kicked back in, didn't it?"
Biting her bottom lip, she nodded her head miserably, "It did. It shouldn't
have, but it did."
"Why?" Raven took a step closer to her, "Why shouldn't it have?"
"There's a chip in my brain that controls that sort of response. I paid a
backstreet surgeon a ton of money to have it disabled. He said it was too
deeply embedded in my brain for him to remove it without killing me, but he
said he could short it," her hand went to her head to trace the thin ridge
of scar-tissue beneath her short, spiky hair, "I thought it worked. But I
was damn stupid to believe that I could ever be free from them."
"Could the chip have repaired itself?"
"Yes . . . yes, it could have! It did!" she exclaimed in sudden horror, "My
systems are self-repairing, but only when I'm seriously injured, and . . . .
Shit, I know when it happened. How could I have been so stupid? My arm fixed
itself when those Sentinels blasted it to slag. My chip must have fixed
itself at the same time."
Mystique nodded, her face expressionless, "In that case, we need to put it
out of commission again. I think it's time to introduce you to another
member of the rebellion. His name is Milan . . . ."
*
TBC
*