Disclaimer: Not. Mine. Yet.
And I forgot to add that I borrowed the Latin phrase last chapter from Neil Gaiman's 1602, it's on the sign for that version of Xavier's institute. I recommend it if you haven't read it, it's got lots of Marvel characters but only the 5 original X-Men and a few of their baddies. Oh, and I should also disclaim, or whatever you say, by mentioning I've been using Though often it spouts it back wrong, so I have to double check it by then reverse translating. Just to clarify that whenever I use a language in this story, I am not such a genius that the translation is being done by myself. There, that's disclaimed, let us not speak of it again.
A/N: Reviews! Yeah!
Thank you to enchantedlight and Chica De Los Ojos Café for reviewing. Very much appreciated.
ishandahalf- I like playing with fate. I'm big on mythology, and I actually had for years this story I was writing, by hand, on page after page which had fate at its center. That got scrapped, eventually. And I read a lot. But it leaves me with very distinct ideas on it which I used on Destiny, 'cause she's fun since she can see the future and all. Sorry if its confusing at all, but it is so good for plot! The basic of what Irene was yabbering on about was that there were two distinct directions Rogue's life could have gone in, since the future's constantly in motion (there's the question where fate and AUs collide and seem to contradict each other- I figure the difference is things may happen differently if you turn left, or right, but you'll still encounter the same folk you were meant to and all that stuff), but one had been more likely than the other. And she and Mystique didn't like that one, so they were fiddling with things as best they could until the other one seemed the most likely outcome. But Rogue, herself, with the emergence of her powers slightly earlier than anticipated, although in the same way (fate can be sped or postponed, but rarely changed- so sixteen rather than seventeen, to a very different outcome, though there's more to it than that), threw that off. Irene's vision of the future changed- Rogue had basically ruined all chance for the future they wanted. Which left a future they want to avoid. But there's still a chance things could work out the way they want to- best chance being to send Belle. The question I'm leaving being exactly what this fate is, and whether or not it can be avoided- cause I've got this whole little idea on that. So they weren't exactly trying to change fate, or change it now, just edge it in the direction more favorable to them. Rogue could use your sympathy, so it's good you give it. After this chapter, she'll really need it. And fun to hear I got you with Irene and the knife! I thrive in being unpredictable whenever I can. And Gambit'll be about shortly, and Rogue has to deal with Belle below. And she'll be back. I hope I get her attitude right, since I wanted to go somewhere in between sullen and sassy, and she's fun. Carol Danvers might be from Boston, I actually thought she was New York but I could be way off base. Even so, she's not there. Good guess, but she's occupied elsewhere. I've got plans for her, too, and most of the X-Men, though they'll kind of be popping in and out. 'Cept a few. Yeah, and Mystique had other plans for Belle, 'cause if she'd known Rogue was going anywhere, she'd have been tied down, but yep- grand tapestry of fate weaving and unraveling itself. Appreciate the approval of rambling, since that's kind of what I did. A lot. And hah! I am fast. I got it up! Though it's doubtful I'll ever be this quick again. I am Speedy Gonzalez! Andale! Andale!
Jean Duex- Aw, shucks. Your compliments are really very much appreciated, particularly since you nail on the head some of the stuff I worry about. I'm really glad you liked my last line, 'cause a lot of times I have problems ending and go on and on and on… and you get the idea. But I'm glad you like the length, too. I tend to be kind of verbose. And I'm thrilled you liked the way I did her thought process and stuff, since I really focused on that a lot last chapter, since I've always been interested in what it's like for Rogue when she absorbs them, since she suddenly knows all this stuff she doesn't. So I tried to do that. And I really have always been curious about Destiny's Diaries, too, and I had some fun ideas with that, and hence this story sprang up. So thanks much and keep reading!
Thanks if you're reading this and surviving/ignoring my ongoing musings, so keep reading and I hope you like it! I had fun with this chapter, so I really hope you like it, but even if you don't, please review and tell me! Now, carry on!
It wasn't all that big a city, but she felt tiny anyways. Not liking that feeling in the least, Rogue scowled fiercely at the bright streetlamp which seemed ridiculously cheery.
It hadn't taken as long as she'd expected to get here. It had taken a ridiculously long time to get picked up, though, leading Rogue to start heading down the highway herself, concerned Irene would send the cops after her. Luckily, a trucker had stopped to pick her up just as it started to rain. She'd eyed him somewhat apprehensively, questioning his motives, but he'd been an amiable, big-boned guy who did not cease talking, unless it was to sing yet another rambling old song, mainly from the era of Porter, Berlin, and Gershwin. The next person to break out into "Don't Fence Me In" in her presence was going to die. But the time they'd made was remarkable, as the fellow was not about to stop for anything or anyone. Rogue had actually got out a bit prematurely when he'd stopped for gas, since the guy desperately wanted company and she really doubted he'd remember to halt when they got to the nearest city. Attempting to hitchhike the rest of the way was not productive at all. An old woman had pulled over to scold her about loose morals (she could, in retrospect, have referred to the woman in a more polite term, such as 'meddlesome old hag'), and some idiots about her age had come to their own conclusions over why a young girl would be wandering about in the middle of the night and pulled over to ask her what her going rate was. It had taken her a second more than usual to comprehend what they'd apparently mistaken her for, and then she went for their throats. They'd left in a bit of a hurry. So she'd walked for a couple more miles, until she reached a town that actually had a bus stop. It should have been a short trip, but considering she'd had to walk and all, five hours since she left home, or at least she figured since she never wore a watch, was not bad time.
And Vicksburg had a train station. Which was of the good.
But she didn't know where it was. Which was considerably less good.
The city was small, which was disappointing to a small-town girl who had to admit the thought of skyscrapers was enticing, and filled with lots of historical sights. Although it was apparently scenic, the area she'd landed in was somewhat grungy. She had only a book, not even a coat, and she was still shy one glove. Rogue tried to keep her left hand in her pocket, but it was still annoyingly sore.
One horrid little thought was nagging at the back of her mind, too. She kept trying to think of how to get away in a way that wouldn't be anticipated, but it was impossible to forget the new, alarming knowledge that Irene could see the future. Every move she made could be bringing her right back towards their waiting arms. Her guardian's actions back home- no, not home anymore- had made it all too plain they weren't going to just sit back and smile and go, oh yes, dear, run along..
Plus, she was hungry. She'd counted the money, just under a thousand bucks, but she had no idea when or how she'd be able to get anymore, so she didn't want to spend it. Instead, she'd bought discount candy canes from the gas station, the cheapest thing there, and was using the plastic bag to tote around the book as well. She didn't think it was a good idea, though, to drag one out and start nibbling on it in the middle of the street. It wasn't as if she really liked the things, anyhow. She preferred cinnamon to peppermint, and anyhow, they made her think of Christmas, little more than a month ago, when Irene had given her that sweater she'd knitted her. And, oddly, they made her miss her toothbrush. It was strange, the little things, but right now she'd have traded a Benjamin Franklin to have her own toothbrush back.
Jeez. She hoped to run into a McDonald's soon, but thus far no luck. The Dollar Menu actually sounded good about now. And sleep wouldn't hurt.
Noticing someone looking at her, she began to whistle jauntily, stalking down the street without a care in the world. Look like you own the place, and people will rarely figure out you're not where you're supposed to be. She'd picked up on that while skipping class to sit in the comfortable school library. That, at least, she didn't miss in the slightest. She wondered if they'd still call her name when Monday rolled around, or if everyone would be gossiping that she was missing. Frankly, she didn't give a damn.
Her eyes landed at last on a small telephone booth. Not the kind Superman would dive into to change in, but a rather less private phone on a post, with only two extending sides to give even an illusion of discretion. The slightest of grins escaping onto her lips, she darted over at once.
As she'd expected, there was a large, invitingly thick phone book. Pulling her ungloved hand out, she paged through the thin, clingy sheets back into the yellow pages. Bending over it, hair falling down about her face, she turned to T with confidence. Aha, there was Trailers, and…
She paused, finger traveling down the page,
Training.
Slightly unnerved, she carried on down, reading carefully, until with relief she spotted Trains.
It was a second later she noticed the words Miniature and Models next to it.
"Hellfire and damnation," she spat out quietly, looking about. No way was she stopping someone to ask for directions. She carefully scanned the page, assuring herself she had made a mistake, only to find she hadn't.
Irene would probably know where in the book to look. But she was not about to go digging into the woman's lingering memories to figure it out. She simply wouldn't. Not happening. She'd go through the entire book first.
Something very tiny and wet splashed onto Rogue's head. Wincing, she willed the night sky to be clear and bright, then slowly turned her face up.
The dark sky was covered by full-bodied, overlapping tufts of black cloud. Even as she turned her face toward it, she felt a few plopping drops land on her cheeks in cool, damp bursts, even as she belatedly noticed spots on her clothes. The few, lingering walkers of the night looked distinctly unhappy and began, one by one, to scurry away.
Rogue groaned slightly and stared at the book. "Why does Mother Nature hate meh?" she grumbled to herself, looking about quickly in all directions. Satisfied no one was looking, she closed the large phone book. Eyes casting warily about, she tucked the large book stubbornly under her arm and trying desperately not to look awkward, she stalked off. Vaguely remembering the bus stop just a bit back had a sheltered bench, she headed straight back the way she came, shooting death glares at any passerby who looked at her and the phone book and bag which obviously contained another large book she was busy balancing.
In something of a huff, she settled down impatiently once she'd reached her destination, trying to tuck herself all the way out of the rain. Her feet, unavoidably, would get wet, but her boots were water resistant, anyways. She'd wanted combat boots, but she'd gotten hiking boots instead. They were useful enough, though, and she was really glad she'd chosen to wear those to the party instead of the shoes Irene had suggested. Sneakers might have been best, but if she had to kick anyone, these would have a very pleasant effect.
She flipped through the pages, mind racing, trying to think of anything that might work. She tried Train under the white pages, but that wasn't even a last name. Bringing to mind everything she knew of trains, a word popped into her head, from Ms. Darkholme mentioning her dislike for traveling on them long ago. Amtrak. Hopeful, Rogue turned quickly through the yellow pages. Her shoulder slumped slightly. So much for that.
"Hey, girlie, yah gonna get on or not?" a voice shouted. She looked up. Rogue hadn't even heard a bus pull in, but the door was open and a clearly annoyed fellow was staring at her with a weary, pinched face. She was somewhat surprised they were still running at this hour.
"One second," she called back, a bit snappily, holding up one finger. She wasn't sure whether or not she would be, but she had one last chance. Doubtful, she flipped to the white pages, turning to the A's. The alphabet song Irene had sung endlessly when she was little was running through her head.
There it was. The listing for the station. Somewhat shocked, she didn't hesitate, jumping up before the bus left. Without bothering to think about it, she tore the page out in one smooth motion, dropping the rest of the book to the sopping wet ground.
The driver gave her a distinctly odd look as she took the steps onto the bus two at a time.
She tapped the address, handing it to him. "Can yah take meh there?"
He scratched his chin, looking at it. "We run past there, yeah. Make sure yah pay attention for yah stop, yeah?"
Rogue, glowing slightly with the small triumph, settled down as far back as she could, arms crossed over the bulging plastic bag. She narrowed her eyes, noticing the other few occupants of the bus, none of whom she'd have wanted to encounter in a dark alley, even the women. She looked at her free hand with a mixture of loathing and some small satisfaction. None of them could really threaten her. She paused. Unless they had a gun. That would be a problem.
It took surprisingly brief a time to reach the station, and Rogue, insuring she stayed quite alert, was up in a hurry. Noticing the bus driver's suspicious glare, she dug a five out of her pocket.
"Ah want every cent of the change," she told him fiercely, the driver looking apt to pocket it.
Scowling, he rattled around for a minute before he produced the last penny. She counted it swiftly, and looked up. "Y'all are a dime short," she said sweetly.
"Ah, for the love of-" He handed her the dime, beady eyes narrowed with annoyance.
She got off with something of a spring in her step. Clutching her plastic bag, she reviewed her sob story in case she needed it. Simple, but effective, with no elaborate lies to get caught up in. Her father hit her mother, she was afraid he'd turn on her next, and the cops were no good since her mother wouldn't press charges. Good. Plus, it was something she could quickly back up with facts. She'd enough people in Child Services who had loved to tell her horror stories and review how lucky she was, and that she ought to smile more. It apparently took more muscles to frown than to smile. If that was so, Rogue had pointed out on more than one occasion when faced with this cheery cliché, it was strange that retaining a smile caused the lips to hurt, while a frown did no such thing. This was usually greeted by silence while the adult figured out the quickest escape.
There were very few people there, just a few waiting about and a couple people who might have been homeless sitting on the benches. She didn't even bother glancing at the icily blond woman with sunglasses, ridiculous at this time of night, reading a magazine, or seeming to. The two sets of tracks were there, though, visible just a bit away through the boarding platforms, with a train waiting there, and there was a ticket booth right ahead.
She walked up to it, slapping her hand on the counter to get the dozing clerk's attention. "What's the next train out of heah?" she demanded, dark green eyes blazing.
He jumped. "Uh… that one there's leaving back to Nashville at six A. M. That's…" he glanced at the clock behind him, "ten minutes. It's mainly cargo, but there's some passenger cars up front."
Rogue nodded. Not as far as she wanted to get, but the sooner the better. She failed to notice a young woman rise gracefully, and begin walking over with clicking heels. She had long sleeves and high heels, the rest of her outfit a clinging black, showcasing her thin, tall, willowy frame. "How much?" she asked quickly, grabbing one of the hundreds.
He checked the price guidelines in front of him, his pimply, youthful face wearied. "Twenty dollars, miss."
Rocked, she stared. "Twenty?" she asked hoarsely.
"That's for a seat, only. A sleeper car is more. If yah don't have it, yah really sh-"
"Oh, Ah have it," she said, shaking her head. She handed him a twenty, trying not to beam.
"Plus tax," he added.
She handed him a couple singles, and took her change. "Thank yah," Rogue said, half of a smile bringing one side of her lips up. He hadn't asked to check her bag. Or for a passport. Just hand over the money, and bam! She loved the railroad.
He blushed. "Platform Three, miss. Ah'd suggest boarding at once."
"Sure thing," she said willingly, pulling the plastic bag over her shoulder.
Turning, she headed towards the train, opposite in direction to where the woman was coming from. Belle, annoyed, considered simply jumping over the benches that blocked her way, but had a more subtle idea. She slapped money on the counter, sunglasses dropping down the merest smidge on her nose to just reveal the venom in her ice blue eyes. "Same as her," she ordered to the young man in a hiss. "Put me on dat train. Now."
Something about the woman made him fumble to hand over the ticket. She snatched it. "Keep de change," she told him, not in the slightest way polite, and picked up her pace. The girl had the book Mystique had talked about, obviously in the bag, which its red leather was poking out of. She was a bit taller than Belladonna had anticipated, though not by much, and she had to be a bit older than she looked in the picture. Her walk was not that of an athlete, and it was neither self-assured nor the hunched posture which attempted to escape attention. Her walk suggested no challenge. She did not carry herself like a fighter, and certainly not like an assassin. Belle, subtly, shifted the weight she was placing on the ball and heel of her foot so that her shoes no longer clicked, but fell with complete silence.
Rogue ignored the uniformed fellow who offered to take her bag, stepping on board without any attempt to bar her or search what she carried. The compartments were relatively empty, except for a businessman talking on a cell phone and a couple sleepy people, one young fellow tightly clutching a guitar. No one even looked at her. So what was with the feeling she was being watched?
There was no warning noise, not even the slightest sound of the swish in the air. It was mere instinct that caused Rogue to look up and catch in the window across from her the slightest reflection of a figure behind her, raising the opposite end of a knife towards her head.
She dropped and dove to the side, leaving the woman to grasp air. Rogue, splayed on the ground, scrambled upright to turn and face her assailant.
Quirking an eyebrow at her from behind a pair of sunglasses, the woman, who couldn't really be that much older than Rogue herself, was plainly no deranged homeless person. She flipped the dagger the other way around, the remarkably flat but dangerously sharp blade grimly aimed at the girl. "I was rat'er hopin' yo'd do dat," she said smoothly. Rogue backed away, the woman didn't move, and everyone else on the train was now thoroughly alert. In fact, they were so alert they were already on their way out the door.
"We can do dis de easy way, or de…. y'know what, dere's pretty much only the hard way," she said with a shrug.
"That's real original, lady," said Rogue, eyeing the people scrambling out of the compartment, who didn't give her a second look. She continued to step back, noticing the woman, who stood still, legs slightly apart and bent the tiniest bit, was confident enough to not even bother to step closer.
She was about to say something else, but the woman spoke first. "Y'll have to forgive me. I don' usually speak wit' my targets. De dead ain't de best conversationalists."
That was clearly meant to intimidate her. It was working, but she'd be damned if she would show it. "Look, swamp snake," Rogue said in soothing tones, having recognized the woman's accent at once as Cajun, having heard it a few times when some passed through Caldecott County, "Ah got no quarrel with yah. 'Side from the fact that yah just tried to split mah head open, but bygones be bygones, right?" She was sliding further away every moment. The door to the next car of the train was getting closer, and the longer she could stall, the better. "So, y'know, be a good gal and slither off, maybe ferget yah ever saw meh, an' ah won't be forced to do y'all grievous injury."
The woman twirled the knife absently, other shooting from her sleeve to land in her other hand. She spun them both, somewhat flashily, in her black gloved hands. "How generous," she said in dulcet tones.
Rogue wondered if getting this woman angry would make her less or more dangerous. She figured the latter. And from the way the woman was twirling those flat daggers, with more skill than a cheerleader with a baton, she had the unhappy feeling that she'd already be dead if that was this woman's goal. Instead, she was toying with her, the way a cat toyed with a mouse. Her brows furrowed as she scowled. She was no mouse. And if the woman thought she was, she'd quickly find she was the mouse who roared. Maybe infuriating her would make her less calculating, throw her off, allow Rogue to get away. Maybe it would lead her to kill her target. Ah, well. Liberty or death and all that jazz.
"Better believe it, lady," she said, forcing as much of a sneer if she could manage. She flattened herself against the carpeted wall next to the doorway, and noticed the daggers had stopped twirling. They hung, poised, waiting to fly into her throat if she tried anything, like reaching for the sliding door into the next car. "Ah hope for yah sake Mystique warned yah about meh," Rogue said viciously, or in what she hoped was a vicious tone, holding her ungloved hand in front of her and slowly curling it into a talon. She held it stiff, the muscle straining, trying to remember the villain from all those movies she'd seen, but Irene had tried to keep Rogue strictly on Disney movies as a child, hoping it would normalize her, apparently. She looked up out of hooded eyes. "About what ah am."
There was the slightest, tiniest piece of hesitation in the woman's eyes. Exactly what she was hoping for. The woman didn't know what her mutant ability was, then. And Rogue, like everyone else, had read the stories in the paper of the 'horrific' things mutants were capable. Playing with minds, throwing fire about, all sorts of wild things. Rogue fervently wished her power was long range right about now. She kept on the most intimidating voice she could manage, bending her head to let her hair fall into her face slightly and smirking in the creepy way that kid in her class used to do. She raised her hand, as her right, the one holding the bag, snaked behind her. "See you in h-" She cut off midway as she flung the compartment door open and threw herself through. She landed hard, skidding on top of the book as it slid right out of the loosed bag. She grabbed it, forgetting the candy canes.
Scrambling upright to her knees, knowing the woman was a bit behind and blocked by the half-open door, she zigged and zagged, ducking her head to make herself as small a target as possible. "Someone!" she shouted to the empty compartment, wondering where they'd gone. Actually, they'd probably gotten off the train, she realized, that being the smartest thing, and were already forgetting about her. The human thing to do, she thought bitterly, particularly these days- pretend you didn't see what you saw. "Hey, help!" Although shouting as loud as she could, it didn't do any good, as the train, with loud chugs, started up. It hadn't gotten going yet, but the whistle was running.
She reached the door and tugged desperately at it with her free hand, finding it locked. A sleeping car, apparently. She swiveled, looking for the door off the train, only to see, in a split-second, two swift, screaming objects coming towards her.
They hit almost at once, one dagger a split-second before. It snagged the cloth of her shirt, pinning her right side perfectly to the carpeted wall. Before she could even feel relief, the second sunk deeply into her left shoulder, in one swift burst of pain. Gasping, she bit down on her lip so hard it bled, but didn't cry out. The book tumbled to the ground. She might have sunk to the floor, but the daggers held her up. Trembling, she eased her right hand under her left elbow.
The pain in her shoulder was sudden and intense, a terrible ache which erased all but the clear, bright knowledge of pain from her mind. She'd never been injured like this, not since she'd broken her arm trying to jump off a shed as a little girl, and that had gone numb with the shock. The dagger went clean through her shoulder, she knew, and only a faint trail of blood oozed out of the wound, which was visible through the sudden hole in her shirt. Rogue knew, in some corner of her mind, it would begin to bleed more heavily when the dagger was removed.
The woman slunk into the room a second later, sauntering with a little smile on her lips. Rogue could envision her purring without any trouble. The sunglasses were still in place. "Oops," she said, studying the pinned girl with a widening smile. "I missed." Rogue wondered which of the daggers she was referring too. The woman adjusted her sunglasses slightly.
Shaking still, her lips trembling slightly, Rogue managed to spit out, "A-ah'd imagine yah think t-those glasses make yah look awful s-sophisticated. H-hate to tell yah this, lady, they're somethin' of a fashion disaster ann-nd frankly make meh wonder if yah've been cryin' over somethin' so that yah have to hide y-"
"Silence, moufette." The woman glared, pushing the glasses up onto her forehead, revealing dangerous eyes like two chips of ice.
Rogue managed a smile. She couldn't move her left arm without causing bursts of pain, but she pressed down with her left elbow anyway, easing her green glove off but keeping both hand and glove pressed tightly against her body. "Seems ah got the advantage now anyhow," she gasped. "After all, ah'm the one with the daggers."
The young woman tossed her pale blond hair, laughing. "Fille drole," she remarked sardonically. Her hands went to the small of her back and came forward with two more daggers, longer than the last two.
Rogue breathed hard, trying desperately to ignore the splitting pain in her left shoulder. The woman needed to get closer. The train jerked, beginning slowly to move forward. "Got no manners whatsoevah, have yah, ma'am?" she asked conversationally, though her voice came out in a painful rasp. "Ain't polite to talk to someone in a language they don't know."
Voices were rising in the back of her mind, coming back as she felt like she might faint.
You fool, you couldn't just stay put! None of this would have happened if you'd just stayed where you were meant to! Now look at you, you daft girl! You don't listen!
Yah promised! Yah SWORE yah'd do something to save me! Newsflash, Rogue, that's not gonna happen if yah're dead!
She winced at the pounding noise, head rolling to the right.
The woman gave a sort of muffled laugh, lips together in a cruel sneer. "Y're quite amusin'. I wonder if y're screams are so entertainin'."
Rogue forced her head up, muffling the voices in her head. "Twisted sense of entertainment yah've got there. Maybe y' should get a hobby. Or a cat."
The woman laughed, fiddling with her blade. "Dis is mon passion."
"Greeaat," Rogue drawled, fighting back the burning edge of tears. Her chin was trembling, but she forced it up. The woman stepped closer, eyeing the book.
Just a little bit nearer…
Rogue jerked her leg out and swept the book closer to her. "Yah'll have ta kill meh to take that," she said in as strong a voice as she could manage, although it was wobbling, and she really didn't care all that much about the book, besides that Irene didn't want her to have it.
"Oh, dat does sound appealin'," the woman responded, giving her a venomous look. "But I don' t'ink y're worth da time spent cleanin' any mo' o' mon lames."
Rogue drew back her upper lip slightly. Her mind raced, trying to think of the word which had gotten the young Cajun girl who'd eaten in a diner in Caldecott County so furious. It took only a moment. "H-hate to inconvenience yah, madam coonass," she drawled with a smile.
Fury etching her perfect face, the woman jerked the knife blade around so that the thicker hilt was towards her. "Y' beginning to get tiresome," she snarled, and raised the hilt in one snapping movement at Rogue's head.
In a flash, Rogue's right hand snapped out and slapped the young woman on the face, dragging her palm across it for as long as she could manage before the woman pulled back, staggered only slightly.
It didn't give her much. She knew the woman's name was Belladonna Bordeaux, she was from New Orleans (no kidding), she was an assassin, she had a deceased brother named Julian, and Rogue suddenly understand the French she'd been flinging about. But importantly, it gave her what she'd been going for.
The woman's physical memory.
Bitch! a voice in her head screamed briefly, before fading, not having held on long enough to sustain much of a- what had Irene called them- psyche.
Rogue's arms reached up, the left one arching through the pain, and swiftly yanked the daggers out of her shoulder as if drawing them from a sheath. No longer pinned, the chugging of the train unsteadied her, and it wasn't helped by the steady stream of blood which suddenly rushed from her weeping wound. But Rogue forced herself to bear it. She stood upright, clutching the daggers, one slick with her own blood. She forced herself not to look at it, Cody's nausea rising up. She beat it back. Blood didn't bother her.
She spun the daggers and clinked them together. Belle, staggered somewhat herself, glared at the girl, raising her longer daggers defensively. "Parasite," she snarled.
"Non," Rogue corrected, grim. She gestured to herself with one of the daggers. "Mutant. Deal with it."
Belle lunged first, dagger expertly slicing for Rogue's side. She countered, Belle's memory telling her to hold the knives not as she would a sword, but reversed, the flat hilt clutched in a fist which allowed her to strike forward in jabs.
Belle kept her knives low, like a professional, rather than striking down from above as an amateur did. Rogue mimicked her with ease. As the taller woman slashed at Rogue's thigh with a knife, the girl met her blade and looped it around, the flicking movement intended to send Belladonna's blade flying. Of course, the woman held on easily, slashing up towards Rogue's face. She leaned back just enough, hooking her leg around in a blade kick, which forced Belle's right knee down.
She twisted on her knee instead, extending her other leg in a slashing kick. Rogue jumped up to avoid her leg, then stepped back as the woman sprang to her feet. She dodged, landing on one of the seats of the train as Belle swung with both in expert, crossing extensions and slashes. She scrambled over the seat, tumbling down in time to parry with her smaller knife the strike aimed at her heart. Instead, the long blade scraped painfully along her wrist, drawing blood. Rogue stepped back ever so slightly at the fresh pain.
Seeing an opportunity, Belle slashed for Rogue's legs, aiming for her tendons, which would keep her from running. Rogue, rather than stepping back, stepped closer, allowing Belle to overreach as she plunged one of her daggers straight into the woman's thigh. Belle, rather than reacting, countered by thrusting one of her long daggers straight at Rogue.
She surprised herself entirely as Belle's reactions led her to flip out of the way. It was a quick, bending of the knees and a push back, and suddenly she was looking at the ground upside down, her hair in her face, doing almost a somersault in the air. Next thing she knew, her feet were planted firmly on the ground and her shoulder, if possible, hurt worse than before, feeling as if the wound had been wrenched even wider. She stared, at the spot where she had been one moment ago, where the dagger had extended from Belle's hand to what would have been her stomach, had she not now been a good foot or so further back.
The other woman's eyes registered surprise. "Merde," she hissed, and spun the daggers wildly, trying to confuse Rogue. It was working. Belle's physical memory seemed to be fading, and she was left with her own, which was somewhat confused on what to with a dagger in this position. Her other dagger was still sticking out of Belle's thigh. She could only see the clashing, gleaming daggers heading for her head. She stepped back.
Her foot brushed against something. The book. Hating herself for doing it, she remembered Cody telling her he punted on the football team. Unlike the vague sense of Irene and the almost nonexistent sense of Belle, Cody's presence was easy to feel and only a brief, thin wall separated her knowledge from the remainder of his.
Cody! she thought as loudly as he could.
You're covered.
Instincts that weren't hers flipped the book forward and its edge up. Her foot drew back at a ridiculously high speed, sending the heavy book suddenly up and forward. It smashed into Belle's face, surprising her.
In the brief second's pause, Cody's instincts dropping back to leave only her own, Rogue launched herself forward, ignoring Belle's daggers. Her right fist impacted with Belle's jaw, the dagger still in it unintentionally etching a red line down the woman's face. The touch of Rogue's skin staggered the assassin even further.
Letting the dagger drop, Rogue let her flat palm rest on the woman's face as her own long daggers fell to the ground. As Belle wrenched her head away, Rogue, despite the pain, forced her left hand up as well, to clasp both sides of her face. She shook as the memories flooded into her.
"Non, like dis, Belle," a boy with ice blue eyes told her, adjusting her grip on the toy. "Essayer encore."
The plastic kitchen knife which had come with her pink tea party set plunged into the doll, shredding the cotton insides. The little girl squealed in delight. "I did it! Jules, I did it right dis time!"
He poked it disdainfully. "It's not much fun when de insides are only cotton," he said, disappointed. Then he brightened. "I'll get y' a real dagger, eh, Belle? Dat'll be fun, non? Can use it on dem annoying chiens dat belong ta dat id'jut down de street, huh?"
She crinkled her nose, somewhat horrified. "On de dogs, Jules? What'd dey do?"
He considered. "Yeah, y' right, mon soeur. Only worth it if someone pays us to do it, non? Ot'erwise, not wort' de trouble. Maybe y' can try it on a t'ief, den."
"Is a t'ief like a chat?" she asked, eyes wide. "'Cause I wouldn' mind doin' somet'in' bad ta a chat."
Julian laughed. "Yep, de ti'eves in N'Awlins are like chats. Y' go kill 'em, Belle, chere."
"'Kay. T'ink Angelique'll play t'ieves and 'sassins wit' me?"
"No relative o' Marius Boudreaux'll ever want ta play de t'ief," Julian told her, opening his mouth to add something else.
The man stared at her, eyes wide and fearful. He looked at the gun in her hand. "Please," he whispered. "Have pity. You're just a girl. Don't you have any mercy?"
She looked at him coldly, trying not to let those watching know the gun in her hand was shaking. She stared at the gun, paused a moment, and tightened her hold on the trigger. She'd fired a thousand times into test dummies. This wasn't any different. Still, she paused. "Pere?" she said, turning to the man beside her.
Disappointed, Marius asked slowly, "What?"
"De man wants pity," she said sweetly. "He don't want to be shot. Ain't dat right, sir?"
He nodded, fervently, down on his knees.
"So I'd like t' have de knife," she said, holding out her hand. "So all who see 'im'll 'ave pity."
Grinning, her brother handed her a dagger and sat back to watch.
"Y' a fool, Remy. Y'always been one an' y'always'll be one. Y' shouldn' turn down an offer like de one mon pere offered."
A young man swiveled around, eyes masked by sunglasses the shade of obsidian. He had youthful features, probably around the age of seventeen, with high cheekbones set into a face reminiscent of the classical heroes of old. A mass of unruly but short brown hair, lightened by the natural red mingled with it, fell across his face. "'E's mon pere, Belle. Y' t'ink I'd betray him 'cause y' daddy says so?"
She laughed, and he stiffened. "'E ain't y' fat'er. Y' know dat, no matter what de gossips say o' what y' want ta t'ink. Y' useful ta him. Y' a tool."
He stared at her, features tense, though the glasses hid his true expression. "Wouldn' be anyt'in mo' ta an assassin. Why would y' t'ink I want ta be like y', Belle? I don' wanna aid dis vendetta y' pere's got against mine, 'least not on dat man's side. I'm no killer."
She drew herself up, offended and hurt. "Dat how y' t'ink o' me?" she hissed. "A killer? Someone-"
"Y' know dat ain't de way I feel 'bout y', Belle."
"And in what way is dat different from how y' feel 'bout de ot'er pretty filles, hmm?"
He didn't blush, but he removed the sunglasses. His eyes blazed with a red iris, against black, but she didn't flinch or look away. "D'ere distractions. Y' somet'in else. But I'm not de sort o' homme who'd betray mon pere 'n frere fo' a femme. E'en you."
"Yeah, well, y're gonna go straight ta de top o' mon pere an' mon frere's list o' who should die."
He looked grievously offended. "I jus' saved his life! I went an' warned 'im 'bout de dat cousin 'bout to betray y' an' off y' pere, an dat's de t'anks I get?"
She scowled. "Y' conveniently fo'gettin' de bit where y' robbed us. An' de offeh was y' t'anks."
"Dieu. I'm e'er so t'ankful."
The light in his ice blue eyes was dimming as she cradled his head. "Jules," she whispered, fingering his white blond hair, identical to her own. "Wake up. Don' leave me here alone."
He gasped for air, eyes wild, clutching at the wound in his throat. He opened his mouth, yet again, trying to tell her something. It paused, frozen, halfway.
For once, no touch of coldness tinged her. She sobbed, brokenly, as she was forced to close her brother's eyes.
It seemed a long, long while before she felt the softest brush of a touch on her shoulder. A hand which had drying blood still on it.
"Belle," said a hoarse voice.
Her eyes closed as he began to apologize. He didn't notice her hand reaching for the dagger which he had dropped on her brother's chest.
He didn't notice it until she whirled around, eyes as wild as her brother's had been, to plunge it into his chest. His red eyes looked at her, bewildered and broken, as he staggered back.
She'd missed his heart. Clutching her dagger, she advanced on the injured man. "Le diable blanc," she hissed at him, and he looked at her, pained. "Regarder sur votre mort."
"Get out o' my head!" Belle shouted, shoving her hands off and bringing Rogue out of her memories. Her head reeling, she tried to advance towards the girl stumbling back, not even managing to move her feet. She was already halfway down to the floor. "Y'-y'- bitch," she managed at last, eyes distant, as she stumbled about. She sagged, out of it, and fell at last, completely unconscious.
Rogue, struggling with the screaming of French insults and cries to drain her further, apparently with the other psyches, staggered back. She hadn't held on that long, longer than she had with Irene, considerably shorter than with Cody. But the memories of this woman, the way she looked at the world, was oddly, terrifying in tune with the way Rogue herself viewed it at times. She stared at the woman, fighting her onslaught of memories, pushing them back, fighting to insure not an inch of this woman's character escaped into herself, because she did not want to have even the slightest bit of Belladonna Bordeaux within or, and if she did not rid herself of it now, she did not think she'd be able to recognize or lose it later. Every inch of Belle, she focused into going into an image of the woman herself, into the voice screaming at her in all kinds of unpleasant ways. It wasn't as difficult as she'd expected, but the girl still felt somewhat shocked. She had the feeling Mystique- Ms. Darkholme- would be quite happy to see Rogue be someone like Belle.
She looked at the woman, obviously breathing, and wondered how long she had until she woke up, because she knew she would wake up. There was a temptation to drain her all the way, she admitted. She knew Belle would come after her again, and that nothing would stop her. She'd be even more dangerous, since it was doubtful she'd care for keeping her alive anymore. But if Rogue killed Belle now, defenseless, if she killed her ever, would she be all that different from her? Self-defense, she thought argumentatively. Still, she couldn't. And the thought that every assassin Belle's father knew would be on her tail if she did wasn't what made up her mind instantly for her.
And she supposed, in a tiny bit of her mind, she felt sorry for her. She'd been raised to kill, and Rogue had definitely been raised for ulterior motives herself. Belle had lost her brother, and, she suspected, murdered the man she loved because of it. There was an element of sympathy, which she really did not want to have. She felt a lot more sympathy for the guy she'd killed. His eyes had ached with pain, and he'd seemed to have been a mutant, too. And he'd been painfully, painfully handsome.
She hated the new knowledge in her head. Hated it. She knew some fighting, and she'd taken a couple self-defense courses, all through eighth grade, but now she knew lots of ways to kill a man. She knew the spots to strike where the most pain would be caused. She knew what dead bodies looked like and that assassins did not stop until their objective was fulfilled.
She also knew where she could find help.
Her arm seemed to have gone numb, but was still bleeding heavily, which might be worse. She hoped she wasn't going into shock. Rogue grabbed the book. She had one thought- she had to get off this train.
Well, there was a second thought, too. She was tired, and thirsty, and her scrapes really hurt, not to mention her aching, benumbed left arm, which let to an almost uncontrollable desire for water.
Wisely, she chose to depart. Standing, she paused. She considered the daggers, dismissed them, then eyed Belle's gloves.
Bending, carefully, she yanked them off, holding onto the woman's sleeves to do so, and slid them on. "Lamb's skin," she commented. "Probably expensive." Rogue glanced at the unconscious woman. "Consider it payment for the shoulder, swamp wench." Weary, disheartened, but momentarily pleased, she headed off.
She raced back towards where she had entered the train, realizing at once when she saw it that she wouldn't be able to open the door and ramp they'd used for boarding. It didn't take long, though, to get back to one of the cargo holds, which seemed to be carrying computer equipment.
She was going to jump off the train. "Ah'm gonna be fine," she assured herself. "Of course ah'll be fine." With a great deal of effort, she managed to tug one of the sliding doors open.
Rogue gazed out at the grass rushing by, across the stony, pebbly track. It was shiveringly dark, lit only by stars and the thin brow of the moon. Oddly enough, dawn seemed to be late, or at least hidden by the dark clouds in the east. She could barely see, only the quick flashes as they passed. "Oh mah Gawd, ah'm gonna die."
Belle could make the jump easily, she realized. And she had to admit, she'd really liked doing the flip. She squelched the impulse. No. She wouldn't risk becoming her.
Okay, so she escaped an assassin by doing this. Possibly worth it to break an ankle. And the train wasn't going that fast yet. Not terribly, terribly fast. Just enough to kill her.
Rogue ignored the thought and stepped back. Clutching the book, trying to remember what she'd been taught about trying to avoid breaking her neck in a fall, she jumped.
It wasn't as bad as she expected.
It was worse.
There was a beautiful moment of hanging in the air, of soaring through in free fall, and then her feet were hitting the ground, knees bent, which sent her tumbling forward, knees hitting hard. She rolled, her shoulder impacting at one point sending shockwaves throughout her whole body, and her face went straight into mud, left from the earlier rain.
"Ugh," she croaked, clutching the equally muddy red book to her chest. Her neck wasn't snapped. Her head was still on. Her back wasn't broken. But she had nothing to use for a tourniquet or a wipe for her face, and her right knee really hurt.
Yet the train station was still visible.
She knew better than to risk walking on the tracks. Limp and all, she started making her way back towards the train station, hoping it was closer than it looked. One step at a time, trying to keep the voices in her mind quiet, especially now that there was one more in their number, she headed back, relieved when Belle didn't jump off the train and start coming after her.
When she at long last staggered into the train station again, the same clerk who'd helped her earlier looked up, recognizing the bleeding girl as one he'd assisted earlier. Business had been slow that night. She waved slightly, and limping, drawing the attention of even the homeless folk lingering around, staggered up to the ticket booth. Thankfully, her money was still in her pockets.
"Hey," she said, waving her punched ticket. "Too late ta get a refund?"
He stared. "Um, yes?"
"Pity," she sighed. "Yah got any vending machines around here?"
"Yeah, uh, there's a pop one and a Gatorade one over there, and a candy bar one near the phone?" he said timidly, gesturing and staring at her with wide eyes.
"Thanks, sugah, yah're a peach," she said, managing a grin. She'd just been in a dagger fight. And now she was back where she started. But it had been kind of cool.
But now there was an assassin who'd be after her again as soon as she woke up. And if not, Mystique would send someone else. Maybe someone more dangerous. Because Belle's memories had told her what Irene's had not: Mystique was deadly and had mutants under her command. Only that superficial information, nothing more, was provided about Ms. Darkholme by her contact with the assassin, but it was enough to make Rogue want to hurry. Particularly since Irene would apparently be able to send people after her, since that was her best guess for why Belle was waiting for her.
Still… she had a destination now. Belle was scared of someone, she'd felt. Nothing with a specific memory attached, just a knowledge. Someone who could apparently protect her. She didn't have a face with the name. The name LeBeau was connected with it, but the only images which came with that was that of an elegant, cat-like older man with a mustache and a younger man with short hair and a thinner moustache and goatee who looked like him. The name she'd gained had some other connection, too, but whoever bore the name hadn't been called that by Belle, since the association was a weak one. She could just ask her psyche of Belle, but Rogue sensed that was a bad idea. Belle's voice was already at the fringe of her consciousness, trying to get out. She had to leave her in the back of her mind until 'Belladonna' was weaker. And she didn't know how to make her answer, either. Cody'd made Irene answer her question back home, but she really didn't think pitting his football-playing psyche against the more recent psyche of an assassin was a good idea.
But she had a name. And a location. If not a face.
Of course, there was no guarantee this person would help her. But the impression that came with it suggested he would.
If she liked the idea of living for a while longer, she'd have to find this person named Gambit. He was her best chance for any kind of help. The first she'd even heard a whisper of about anyone who could get her out of this sticky situation.
"Ah'll also need another ticket," she said to the young man, though she was impatient to go examine the vending machines. "Whatcha got in the way of Boston?"
"Boston?" he repeated, checking the computer within his booth. "Uh, ah can send y' ta Atlanta- y' can catch a train straight to Boston there."
"Atlanta," she repeated, nodding. "Sounds swell. Twenty again?"
"Thirty, actually."
She reached to cough it up, then remembered. "How long a wait?"
"An hour," he told her blankly, still staring at the blood on her shoulder and the streaks of mud on her face.
"Fahne," she said tiredly. She took the ticket he printed even as she handed over the money. She eyed a piece of mud-covered hair. "Which direction's the ladies' room?"
Wordlessly, he pointed. Then, working up his courage, he asked, "Yah want me to call an ambulance?"
She looked at him, wide-eyed. "My gosh, whatever for?" she said earnestly. He looked at her, somewhat scared.
She eyed her shoulder. The blood flow seemed to be slowing, and she didn't feel too terrible, so it probably didn't hit an artery. But boy, did it hurt.
She looked at her scrapes and scratches sullenly, cast yet another careful glance at her throbbing shoulder, and then looked up.
"Happen to have any Band-Aids in the house?"