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PART 7
"Ah've nevah been a fan," the woman, lying curled up against
his pillow, told him as she brandished the tatty, well-thumbed
paperback in his general direction. The slightly lurid cover
proclaimed the novel to be The Vampire LeStat; one
of Remy's secret indulgences in a mansion where Beast was
forever foisting fine works of literature on his unsuspecting
team-mates. Remy still shuddered as he recalled the tedium
that was A Chronicle of Death Foretold, although Beast
had waxed lyrical about Gabriel Garcia Marquez's exploration
of gender, class and destiny. Personally, the only thing he
saw in the text was that it was short. Although not short
enough, he had mused while reading it.
"Naah, Rogue, s'pose ya taste runs more t'Curious George
Tries Terrorism," the flip comment covered a range of
emotions. Shock was giving way to an unpleasant cocktail of
fear and outrage -- mainly at himself for allowing her to
get this close to him -- but with a not-terrible tang of excitement
flavoring it. As countless detectives would have said, the
game was afoot in earnest and that lent a certain piquancy
to the situation, "Or would ya prefer Carol Dee, cherie?"
"Or Yvonne Montgomery, if you like," she said with a smirk,
prefixing the statement with a slight, self-conscious shrug,
"An' no, sugah, Ah'm fond o' Austen."
"Powers?" he quipped in an attempt to stall her while his
quick mind ran over possible scenarios. He had known from
the instant he saw her that Rogue and Yvonne Montgomery were
one and the same, that his suspicions had been justified.
Well, not from the precise instant, he thought honestly --
he was a healthy male of twenty-four whose first reaction
to a lovely woman in his bed was one that probably would have
required a cold shower to get over, had she been she anyone
else. As was, the knowledge that a terrorist was posing as
an agent of WEST was more effective than the most iciest of
dousings would have been. He could not see rhyme or reason
to her actions -- WEST was hardly in the forefront of security
operations, and it would be more sensible to attempt to infiltrate
SHIELD. Unless her posing as a member of their corps was a
step to that ultimate goal...
"Ha ha ha," she drawled, replacing the book on the nightstand
and rolling over onto her stomach to watch him, chin in the
cup of her hands, "Jane, actually. Still, th' book-club is
fun an' all, but Ah know you're dyin' ta ask me why Ah'm here.
So, ask me."
"I know why ya're here," he replied, keeping his voice light
as his hand slipped unobtrusively to his pocket to palm a
card, "Suspect it involves me not wakin' up t'morrow mornin'
after an unfortunate accident."
She chuckled, a low, musical sound, "Oh please, LeBeau, that'd
be too cliche. Besides, Ah know your teammates -- dense as
they are -- will figure out that somethin's up if they find
yo' bullet-riddled corpse. Which reminds me, how did that
Dudley Doright become leader when he ain't got more'n heroic
slogans between his ears? Sure, he's got that cleft jaw an'
steely look o' dogged righteousness an'\or constipation, but..."
In spite of his loyalty to the team and the potentially deadly
mess in which he found himself, Remy laughed. Cyclops, for
all his merits, was rather fond of spouting off the Dream
instead of dealing with problems in appropriate manners. He
privately wondered if Scott exhorted his tires when they got
a puncture to 'understand and accept others for what they
are', because that was certainly his approach to combat in
Remy's opinion. Her eyes were shrewd as they probed him.
"Oui, belle, dat might be true but de problem is dat, if
ya keep me alive, I 'll spill de haricots verts anyway."
"Hmmm, Ah'd normally agree," she appeared to be thinking
deeply, but then she grinned at him disengagingly: "But Ah
know you won't tell 'em."
"Pourquoi? Why?" He protested, knowing that every
word that she was saying was true. He would not go to Cyclops
or Storm with his suspicions, because they would hamper his
private attempts to deal with Rogue\Yvonne\Carol. He had learnt
years ago that in matters that were more than black-and-white,
it was best to plough through the shades of grey alone rather
than depend on the team who would attempt to reduce them to
absolutes.
"'Cause 1) they won't believe a word o' it," she flicked
a finger up to join the first one, making an ironic peace-sign,
"An' 2) you're a lone agent."
"I could be de model o' a team-player f'r all ya know me,"
he reminded her, unsettled by how much she seemed to have
seen and understood in the few moments they had spent together
at Mont St Francis and in his room. Oh, this woman was a worthy
adversary indeed!
"Pull th' other one, it has bells on," she remarked sardonically,
"Ah can read lips even on security cameras an' yours were
tellin' me that you wanted t'be anywhere else but there. Incidentally,
Ah suspect half o' what you wanted Dudley Doright ta do was
illegal in most states an' Ah doubt that his parentage was
quite that convoluted."
He raised an eyebrow, charging the card in his pocket with
biokinetic energy, preparing to end this ridiculous game:
"Vous parlez francais, cherie?"
She nodded with a slight, amused twist to her lips, "Tu
peux me tutoyer, Remy. Je penserais que les hommes sont moins
formal aux femmes qui se couchent dans ses lits." [You
can address me by the informal 'tu', Remy. I think
men are less formal with women who are lying in their beds.]
"Oui, ya do know how t'get ya average red-blooded
male's attention," he said with a smile, feeling the card
begin to pulse with energy beneath his fingertips. He wanted
a goodly charge on it -- she, if she had retained Ms Marvel's
powers as urban legend said, would require a fairly substantial
explosion to bruise her, let alone knock her unconscious.
Not wanting to blow up the wing of the mansion in which his
bedroom was housed -- it happened too much as it was, making
Xavier's builders the happiest and richest in New York (he
had heard they were buying an adjacent mansion in Westchester
with their payment) -- he would wait for her to leave via
the window and then tag her. Hopefully, he would have enough
power to take her down for the few seconds it would take to
collar and cuff her. If he were patient a short while longer,
he told himself, he would have Rogue captive.
"You like?" she indicated the white garment that she was
wearing. On closer examination, he could see that it was double-layered
-- a chiffon shift over a fairly tight linen underdress. Tiny
rosebuds were embroidered in silver cotton on the ... bodice
of the flimsy fabric and a wide belt cinched it at her slender
waist. He liked. Very much indeed.
"Seen better, seen worse," he shrugged non-commitally, then
widened his eyes as it shifted to a much tighter, much less
demure and much more interesting green spandex minidress.
Splotched with gold, it made her appear like a gorgeous bird-of-paradise
or orchid; a creature both rare and lovely. The clinical part
of him noted that her uniform was either made of unstable
molecules or that she had an image-inducer; the rest went
slack-jawed and drooled.
"Ah'll take th' stunned silence as a compliment," Rogue commented
with a teasing sparkle in her eyes, pretending a supermodel's
pout and wink. Reluctantly, he reminded himself that she was
the enemy, the greatest threat to the well-being of the planet
since the invention of the atomic bomb. That particular weapon,
however, did not fill out spandex quite as nicely as she did,
and probably was not quite as dangerous.
"If ya'd sent me a few glossies o' ya, I might have taken
de job," Gambit shot back with an equal wicked glint in his.
"Yeah, Valhalla," her mouth twisted, "Don't suppose you'll
consider forgettin' Ah asked?"
"Only if ya'll consider abandonin' ya plan f'r global domination,"
he shrugged, only half-joking. This woman was hardly the monster
that movies-of-the-week, newspapers and lurid paperbacks made
her out to be, although he suspected that she could be putting
on yet another flawless act for his benefit. Even if that
were the case, she seemed intrinsically someone with whom
he could reason, someone with whom he could connect -- less
fanatical than Magneto, less fundamentically twisted than
Sinister. In another time and place, he thought with a strange
sense of knowing that was more than instinct and less than
precognition [1], she might have been
an ally. Might have brought her considerable power -- both
physical and intellectual -- to bear against the team's enemies.
"Ah can't. You know Ah'm only doin' what y'all don't have
th' guts ta do. Th' current administration is rotten to th'
core. How long will it be before Kelly, Creed or whatevah
bigot du jour decides ta take his place decides that
it's time ta find a permanent solution to the Mutant Question?"
she said, then added with a slight smile, "Besides, who wouldn't
want t'be Goddess-Emperess o' th' world if given th' opportunity?"
"How very Che Guevara," he wryly remarked, "Was dat why ya
killed Ms. Marvel? Was she part o' a corrupt government's
conspiracy?"
Her eyes narrowed, muscles in her shoulders becoming visibly
tight. He kept his own expression impassive, but noted beneath
his cool exterior with a sense of triumph and guilt that he
had discovered her one sore point. Although Remy had never
been fond of such callous manipulation of someone's shame,
as it had been done so often to him, he also realised that
the more figurative cards that he had up his sleeve, the more
likely he was to be able to stop her. As was, however, he
hoped the very literal one in his hand that scintillated with
energy would be sufficient for the job.
"That was personal," she replied curtly, kittenish mien discarded,
"Necessary, but personal."
"Same reason ya came t'see me, non?" he pressed, "Had not'ing
t'de wit' ya little revolution an' everyt'ing t'do wit' cleanin'
up de mess ya tellin' me caused."
She sighed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, making
a triangle of slim fingers over which she regarded him. The
spandex minidress shimmered again to become a simple, green
bodysuit with white accents around the waist, neck and wrists.
By that token, he suspected that she was ready to talk business,
although he still could not fathom the motivation behind her
telling him the truth.
"Ah knew it wouldn't take you long ta realise that th' terrorist,
Rogue, was Yvonne Montgomery. Ah was stupid ta contact you
-- yeah, Ah admit it -- but Ah hoped that you were as greedy
an' immoral as yo' average thief tends ta be. Aftah all, Ah
was going ta offer you a plush position in mah new order if
you agreed ta help me. Power, riches, beautiful women, th'
whole nine yards. Who could resist it, Ah thought? When you
turned me down flat, Ah knew it had ta be outta some misguided
sense o' honor, an' that that same damn stupid emotion
would cause you t'try an' do everythin' in yo' power t'stop
me," she paused, "So, Ah decided t'play a gambit. Ah'd tell
all, show all, an' hope you'd come around ta mah point o'
view. Guess Ah was wrong."
"Guess I know too much den," he said lightly, but slipped
the card from his palm to rest between his index and forefinger,
"Ya can't risk me tellin' de team, so'll have t'either kill
me or make sure dat I get lost."
She chuckled, jumping up from her perch and walking closer
to him. Her movements had a spare, military elegance about
them, graceful but economical. He tensed the muscles in his
arm, preparing to attack her if she attempted to do what he
feared she would.
"Don't be absurd. You're far too cute to just randomly kill,"
her eyes were strangely brilliant, the playful tone back in
her voice, "Ah'd be hunted down by th' female half o' th'
population. Ah'd much rather..."
Actions spoke louder than inadequate words. To his surprise,
she pressed her lips against his, twining remarkably strong
arms around his waist. For a few brief seconds, he felt a
perfect, supreme sense of rightness, as if this had
happened a thousand times before in a thousand other worlds.
Surely he had kissed her before? Had traced the stripe in
her chestnut hair amazedly? Had placed his hand on the swell
and dip of her waist and hip? Had loved her more than any
other woman in his broad acquaintance? Then, however, the
universe seemed to melt around him as he felt himself being
sucked into a black hole, as he felt consciousness escape
him. Struggling desperately, he tried to break away from her,
but her grip was too firm, too sure. As he relinquished his
hold on himself, he thought with slight, smug satisfaction
that he had slipped the time-delay card into her uniform.
With a feeling approaching scorn, Rogue Darkholme removed
the flimsy piece of cardboard from where it was wedged in
the back of her uniform and drained it of energy with the
lightest touch of her fingertip. It had been a clever ruse
on his part, she thought, the card had been more than capable
of knocking even her out of the sky. Mind you, she thought
as she ran a finger over her lips, he needed only to kiss
her to accomplish that. It had taken all her willpower to
overcome the delicious sweetness that had come about once
she had ... made contact with him, to use her absorbtion abilities
on him. She had not robbed him of his psyche entire, having
learnt refinement since her encounter with Ms Marvel, but
the portions of it involving his knowledge of her. It had
been difficult to do, of course, but she had not been taught
by Destiny for nothing. The elderly woman, a weak psychic
herself, had nonetheless been able to teach her foster-daughter
one or two tricks about using her powers effectively and creatively.
"So, LeBeau, you've seen better an' worse?" she addressed
the supine figure, "Why do Ah just not believe you?"
With a triumphant smile, she scooped him up in her arms and
arranged him on the bed in something approaching a sleeping
position on his back. As a final touch, she flipped 'The Vampire
Lestat' open to a few pages after that on which she had seen
the bookmark and placed it on his chest. As the absorbtion
had only been partial, he would wake up in the morning, believing
that he had fallen asleep while reading, knowing little or
nothing about the connection between Rogue, Yvonne Montgomery
and Carol Dee.
She had better leave him nothing to countermand her hard
work, she thought, as she stripped him of his bodypack. The
laptop was a different matter, being passworded to a fare-thee-well,
and she doubted that she could crack it. Still, the gamesplayer
in her responded to the idea of giving him some version of
a sporting chance -- a get out of jail free card, a joker,
as it were.
With an ironic kiss of benediction to his forehead, she took
the still warm espresso from the table and prepared herself
for the tedious flight back to Mont St Francis.
Continued in Chapter
Eight.
Author's Notes
1] Actually, there is a basis in coda
for this if you look carefully at the Dreamscrape in Gambit
#8.
DISCLAIMER: The characters are
the sole property of Marvel Comics and are not used for profit
purposes. Rogue and Gambit belong together, but aren't and
won't be in this story. I, of course, belong to a secret government
agency who are researching tagging people through chicken-pox
vaccines. Feedback belongs at brucepat@iafrica.com
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