Wir Sind Keine Dämonen

He shivered. It was so cold. Kurt Wagner may love Berlin, and even appreciated the ambiance of the place in winter, but without a good coat he found himself in an uncharacteristically bleak mood, cursing as he slid down the side streets, keeping to the shadows to avoid being seen. He peered out into the main street, wondering if he should chance a quick teleport, but knew he was still too far from the church–his sanctuary. Fool, he told himself, persuade the circus to let you stay in Berlin until they return next season and it’s only two weeks before you’re half frozen, have no money and still smell like smoke and gunpowder from the last angry mob that decided you were a demon. Despite his accent, his thoughts–when in English–are surprisingly clear. His tail drooped near the dirty snow. Gott weiß, ich bin kein Dämon, he thought sadly.



Finally he spotted the sloping roof of the abandoned church he called home and sanctuary. Before he could teleport, he heard faint crunching of boots on snow. Melting back into the shadows, he waited. A figure under a thick, dark trench coat walked under the dim streetlights. A gentleman’s hat, slightly large, perched on the person’s head and obscured the face between the hat’s brim and the coat’s collar. Kurt stared at the figure. There was something odd about the person in that coat. It walked almost delicately, keeping its weight on its toes. The walk had the slightest sway. Kurt wondered briefly if it was a woman or a man, and found that he could not tell. He waited for them to pass so that he could teleport more safely–one less witness to correlate stories of the blue demon in Berlin.



The figure stopped before the alley in which he hid. Kurt felt a tendril of fear. The figure’s steaming breath came fainter, and he could swear he heard a distinct sniff.



“Boy,” the figure addressed, speaking in strangely accented English. Again Kurt was confused. The voice was harsh and stern, yet it might be a woman’s even if it was a bit deep. Also, they knew he was there. The brim of the hat tilted toward him. “Aren’t you from that circus?” the voice asked, less harsh, but still indeterminate insofar as gender. Kurt was speechless with shock.



“H-how…” he managed. There was a glint of smiling teeth from under the hat, but nothing more.



“You look very cold, boy.”



Boy, Kurt thought with disbelief, not demon, but boy.

“Where are you staying?” the voice was almost mild now, and Kurt thought it really might be a woman, but remained unsure. The figure stood tall, shoulders back and feet apart in a stance he had never seen a woman stand–it was confrontational, strong, and utterly confident.



“Ze church,” he said softly. The hat tilted to one side and the streetlight caught the lower half of the figure’s face. Kurt saw an understanding smile, full lips, but then the figure turned and its face was shadowed again.



“Let’s go, then.” The figure took its gloved hand from the coat’s pocket and adjusted something under the brim of the hat on one side, pausing briefly before shooting the best expectant look it could without showing its face.



“I could be seen on ze street,” he whispered. “In ze circus…it wasn’t make-up…or costume…”



“I know,” the figure said with a casual shrug. Kurt’s faintly glowing eyes widened and his tail lashed the air nervously.



“You…do?”



“Come on, then.” The figure began walking. Hesitating only a moment, Kurt muttered a quick prayer, thumbing his crucifix, and darted after the stranger, his odd feet silent even on the snow. As they approached the church there were fewer streetlights, and Kurt felt that strange peace that came with being cloaked in darkness. He wondered if perhaps he was a demon. His throat tightened.



“You worry,” his enigmatic companion said. It was not a question.



“I have much to worry about,” he replied, his accent thick. He could not place the figure’s accent, and he had quite the ear for them.



“C’est la vie, mon ami,” the figure sighed. Kurt looked at them oddly.



“You are not French.”



“No. I am not.”



“You are very strange.”



“That too, but am I any more strange than you?” the figure’s head cocked expressively, and in the increased dark Kurt’s eyes had adjusted so that he saw the lower half of the person’s face. It was either a woman or a young man. The comment made him sigh heavily.



“No one is more strange,” he murmured.



“Actually, I am, I assure you,” the figure said, perfectly serious. Kurt lifted his head to stare. What he could see of a face wore a solemn expression. The hat shifted, but he could see no reason for it to have done so; the head had not shifted, no hand touched it and no wind disturbed it. Kurt found himself wondering: if he had a tail, what might someone else have–someone like him?



“Vhat are we?” he whispered. The hat shifted again and he saw the tufted tip of a cat-like ear, formerly folded and hidden under loose hair and hat, pushing the brim up, but instead of soft fur like a cat the ear was covered in tiny scales of dark grey, perhaps tinted slightly purple.



“Wir sind keine Dämonen,” the figure replied, and Kurt got a glimpse of predatory green eye before the ear again tucked itself against the side of its owner’s head and the hat acted to conceal again as it dropped to its former place. His breath caught and his hand unconsciously curled around his crucifix as he looked away. A gloved fingertip touched his knuckle, and he sensed the owner’s curious gaze not on the strange two-fingered hand, but the rosary. The finger traced one of his scars. “I have never understood faith, but I do admire it. Yours, I think, must be beautiful,” the figure murmured, and then turned away as they walked up the steps of the church. Stone and sanctity, the holy building was dilapidated, and edged in a slow-moving ruin under the layers of ice and snow that blanketed it. Kurt watched that gloved hand push the door open, and followed his guest inside.



He heard a hard snort from under the hard brim, and a look of sympathy crossed his face. The air was heavy with age, dust, and a hint of mildew.



“Ugh,” his companion managed before snorting again. Kurt reached his frozen hand, the one not still clinging to his crucifix, under his thin wool jacket and found the lighter tucked in his belt. With a few sparks and a final, decisive click, the lighter’s tiny flame appeared, dimming some of the wetter smells and offering another light source aside from Kurt’s glowing eyes. He lead his guest, still giving the occasional snort, out of the main chapel and into a narrow hallway, explaining colorfully in German the precarious nature of the old wooden steps they would take upstairs where it smelled less. His guest did not truly laugh, but he sensed amusement and thought he occasionally heard a softly muffled chuckle. They did not speak going up the stairs. When he opened a door and lead his guest into the less offensive air, he heard a distinct and appreciative sigh. The room was warmer than outside, but barely. Kurt found the old gas lantern in the dark and lit it with a match from his pants pocket.



“I am sorry ze place is not better kept, but I have only just moved in,” he apologized. Again, just the softest, muffled suggestion of a laugh.



“I have been in worse places,” his guest offered, sitting idly on a wooden chair. Kurt gave a smile that was partially amused, but also curious and perhaps confused, and moved to start a fire in the cold hearth. The silence as he did so was not as uncomfortable as he might have expected. His hands shook as he fed the first small flames with paper, trying to light the logs. His tail moved in nervous patterns behind him, and he knew the stranger was watching it. This stranger who was…like him. He had to ask again…



“Vhat are ve?” This time his guest took time to formulate a reply.



“We are…still human in the basic sense. In America they have begun to really notice us…they call us mutants.”



“I have heard zhat vord,” Kurt murmured. “Kids vith superpowers. I did not think zhat I…”



“You are not alone,” the stranger said. Kurt looked away from the fire now as the logs finally caught. His yellow eyes seemed less startling in the light when their glow was harder to notice. The fire lit the room, and the lower half of his guests’ face. Full mouth, sharp jaw line: this was either a pretty man or a woman.



“Vhat’s your superpower?” he asked.



“Complicated.”



“Vhy?”



“Also complicated,” the stranger murmured. The hat moved a little lower, and Kurt suspected it was because those strange ears were pressed back more against the figure’s skull. He sighed heavily and turned his back to the fire, thawing out his half-frozen tail and facing his guest.



“I am blue. I have a tail, a strange skeleton, pointed ears, demon’s teeth and I can vanish in a puff of smoke. How complicated can you be, in compared?” he insisted. That brought a quirk of a smile to those lips, and not just in amusement concerning his use of the English language.



“You were born that way, for the most part.”



“Yah? And?”



“I was…actively designed,” his guest confessed, arms crossing over its chest. The added definition made Kurt’s eyes widen a little. It was a woman. “And even before I was altered, my mutation was strange. Not just the ears.” A long pause passed between them. Kurt tilted his head.



“Vhy do you hide under zhat coat?” he asked. “You are not blue as far as I can see…”



“I can go without it, but it takes effort, especially my feet,” she offered, her legs shifting a little. “The scales are easy in comparison.” Kurt blinked in surprise. “Also the Berlin Police are after me, and not because I’m a mutant this time.”



“Eh…do I vant to know?” Kurt asked carefully. His guest shrugged idly.



“I’m not a good person. I’m not a safe person. That’s all you need know,” she said quietly. “It’s safer for you that you know as little about me as possible.” He had to think about that one. He contemplated his crucifix idly.



“You say you are not a good person, but you vant to keep me safe?” he inquired. She sighed.



“I did not say I was Evil. I’m just not good in any real sense. I have certain principles and tendencies. I know a kind soul when I see it, and I saw you at the circus months ago. I caught your scent, how afraid you were, and knew there was a mob in the city tonight.” Her gloved hands rose to the brim of her hat as if contemplating lifting it, but after a pause she only tugged it down again. Kurt shifted so his now overheated tail moved away from the hearth and into his lap. He tilted his head, still looking at this stranger.



“Danke,” he murmured. She only nodded. “You have met others? Other mutants?”



“Yes. There used to be much fewer of us. No name for what we were. There are groups of us in some places. A small underground bar in India, a secretive dance club in England, many places in the United States…” she shrugged. “I’ve traveled.”



“I can tell,” Kurt murmured, slightly teasing. The corners of her lips quirked a little, then sobered again, and Kurt sensed a subject change.



“I can understand why you were on the streets of Berlin at night and I can understand the mob, but why don’t you have a decent coat?” she inquired. Kurt rubbed the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed.



“I…I am out of money,” he murmured. His guest nodded in understanding. “And my other coat got set on fire recently,” he confessed. She tilted her head at that, but shrugged it off. A silence passed.



“May I stay the night?” she asked suddenly. Kurt’s eyes widened.



“Vas?”



“I was going to return to the motel I was at, but the police…” she trailed off. Kurt found himself blushing. You perverted fool, of course she wasn’t thinking that, his brain scoffed.



“Ja, I don’t mind, but zhere isn’t really a bed,” he glanced at the pile of blankets near the hearth. The stranger only shrugged.



“I don’t need sleep,” she dismissed. “I’ll keep watch, as it were, being that we are both chased to some extent.” She stood and moved away from the circle of light into the more open parts of the attic, testing the stability of a rafter.



“Oh…okay zen,” Kurt muttered, watching her curiously as she slipped off her shoes, crouching a little and suddenly climbing the rafter with unusual ease. She moved around the other side of it, and he heard her doing something to the wood as she climbed a little further, out of sight.



“Go to sleep, Incredible Nightcrawler,” she called. He smiled a little.



“Gute Nacht, fremder,” he murmured back.



“Gute Nacht,” he heard her reply from high in the rafters. Surprised she had heard him from such a distance, he contemplated the dark above him under the high roof of the church before curling up amidst his blankets, warm from their proximity to the hearth, and falling into a surprisingly easy sleep. A heavy weight had been lifted: wir sind keine Dämonen.



He woke slowly the next morning, which was unusual. He usually worked his way out of the blankets overnight and woke because of the cold. Shifting under his coverings as he awoke, he realized it was not a blanket. His yellow eyes opened and peered at the coat the stranger had worn the previous night. It really was quite nice, and had certainly kept him warm.



“It’s yours,” the stranger said. She stood at the top of the stairs, her back to him. She had dark hair tied back at the nape of her neck, ears hidden under it, and wore little but what appeared to be blue jeans and a maroon sweater. Her belt was very strange: thick, scaly and wrapped around her waist twice outside her belt loops. “I left money in the pocket for letting me spend the night,” she offered. Kurt was speechless with shock as she began moving down the stairs. Finally he leapt up.



“Nein, no, I cannot-“



“It is no insult to your hospitality, and no pity-induced charity,” she said passively, still moving down the stairs. “I want to do it. You need it, and you owe me nothing.” She paused at last and breathed a sigh, as if refreshed. Kurt was confused.



“But…you vill freeze,” he insisted. She tilted her head and he got a glimpse of her grin before she faced forward again.



“I like the cold,” she purred, and strolled the rest of the way down the stairs. Kurt did not follow. As he watched, his hands moved mechanically, putting on the coat. It fit very well, not seeming so huge as it had on the stranger’s smaller form. He teleported down into the Cathedral in time to see her slip out the doors. He watched out a broken window as she walked carelessly through the snow, head held high–still wearing that hat, he noted, though it looked strange with her casual attire. Her breath steamed in a thick cloud around her. Kurt murmured a prayer for her strange soul.



He returned upstairs, slightly dazed, and found himself walking over to the rafter she had climbed the previous night. Staring at the strange, deep marks in the wood, Kurt let his tail swish back and forth. He recognized marks like that from the circus; the big cats would leave them in the training equipment, especially when they had to climb.



Finally he explored the pockets of the jacket and froze in shock.



“Gott in Himmel,” he choked, pulling out several stacks of bills, gaping at them. He remembered what she said again: wir sind nicht Dämonen. He wondered if she might be an angel. Far in the distance he heard police sirens. A tremulous movement went through his tail and he thought: Nein, not an Angel–just a good person.



~



Marie hated Meridian the moment her family said they would be moving there. She hated it even more when the move took place. She was seven years old. The other children in the small down teased her, treated her like an outcast. They had all known each other nearly since birth, and Marie may have been the first ‘new kid’ they had ever met. It did not matter that a few of them were her cousins–her mother had been the family’s one wandering element, and she had returned. Marie took up the mantle of “weird one” in the family.



She had been walking the neighborhood, still just getting familiar with it as it was still within her first month or so of residence, and she had run across a group of neighborhood kids staring sadly over a high wooden fence, standing on an unwheeled car to do so. Marie could hear vicious barking. The kids shouted angrily at the barking. One of them spotted Marie and made a sound. The rest of them, as a single unit, turned to look at her. Marie decided then that she really wanted out of this town.



“Hey, new girl!” one of the boys called. Marie approached cautiously.



“Hi,” she said. “What’re y’all doin’?” The kids proceeded into a wheedling tale of lost toys: Frisbees, footballs, soccer balls, water guns, and the odd stuffed animal–often interrupting each other in the process. All of the mentioned toys had gone over the tall wooden fence and into the domain of the vicious, stupid dog with teeth of doom. Marie, who preferred animals to people most days, peeked through a hole in the fence. A large dog, a pit bull, continued barking at the children visible over the fence. They shouted back at the dog, saying how bad ‘he’ was. Marie, observant, noted that is was a female dog, but did not correct the others.



Her eyes scanned the yard and back porch beyond the fence: baby blanket hung off a bench in dog-reach, a sandbox with dog paw prints as well as tiny hand prints. If the owners trusted this dog around a baby…



The other children tossed sticks at the dog, interrupting Marie’s thoughts. She scowled.



“Hey! Don’t throw things at her!” she commanded. One or two of the boys laughed. Marie stomped her foot. “I mean it! Just ‘cuz y’all afraid of her don’t mean she’s a mean dog!” The kids looked perplexed by this. One of the larger boys puffed up his chest in childish indignity.



“Fine! You go past that nice doggy and get our red Frisbee!” he crowed, confident she would falter. Marie pouted a little and looked through the hole in the fence again. The other children began to jeer. Spotting the Frisbee, and mentally noting the length of the dog’s chain, Marie pulled away from the fence again, nodding.



“Alright. I will,” she said simply, and began to walk along the fence. The other children grew quiet as she began to climb an oak tree that pressed in near the fence, with thick branches reaching over it. She winced when she scuffed her knees, but kept going. The dog spotted her and came around, barking madly. Marie watched as it stopped five feet or so away, at the end of its chain. She smiled and leapt down from the branches of the tree. She landed awkwardly, stumbling and falling to the other kids’ amusement, but she ignored their laughter, stood up and moved very slowly toward the dog.



The pit bull strained at the end of her chain, growling and huffing at the invader. The children watching began to egg her on. Marie reached out a hand carefully, slowly, and without fear, palm upward. Straining further and moving up slightly onto her hind legs, the dog sniffed within an inch of Marie’s hand. The other children held their breath, anticipating bloodshed. It was a dumb, vicious animal, and the new kid must be an idiot. They could only gape as the dog eased, and changed her attitude entirely, lowering her body a little, tilting her ears back in submission instead of anger, and panting heavily around a canine smile–friendly. Marie smiled and delicately patted the dog’s neck, and moved across the yard to pick up the Frisbee, dog following her.



Finally she approached the other children at the fence, who looked at her with awe and a little fear. She handed one of them the Frisbee and turned to the dog, which still growled at the other children. She moved away from them and stroked the dog’s neck again, soothing her, and opened the back gate from the inside, and closing it behind her. The other children scrambled off of the car and moved toward her, still awestruck. Marie put her hands on her hips.



“If y’all hadn’t never teased that dog and been all afraid of her, you’d never have any problems loosing your toys,” she told them sternly. They scarcely listened, and began questioning her incessantly about how she had tamed the evil stupid beast. One of them, though, had listened.



“It’s just a dumb animal. Ain’t like it feels anything,” the large boy scoffed. Marie bristled as only angry seven-year-olds can.



“Humans is animals. I guess you’re just the kind that can’t feel, then,” she huffed. The boy gaped, and Marie spun on her heel, heading home.



~



Sometimes it wasn’t what he didn’t remember that concerned him. It was much more disturbing to know things, but have no reasoning behind it. He was a personality without a history–a character, but not a whole person. He knew how to drive. He could not remember learning to drive, and he knew he should, but not why he knew even that. He knew how to fight–really well. He knew how to make money off of it. Everything was familiar: brand names, objects, vehicles, buildings and animals. He understood people, knew how to take in everything about them with a critical but cursory glance, and he did it automatically–sizing them up. Everything was instinct. He instinctively knew which of his own aspects and instincts were not ordinary before he heard the word ‘mutant’ on the news. He knew the instincts that belonged to the animal.



It was the animal that really unnerved him. It answered to the name on his dog tags, and almost never spoke. It had told him their real name was Logan. The rest of the time it was merely a seamless sense of knowing or intention that they shared, the way animals communicate. From the animal came instincts, nightmares, and urges he could either share or restrain.



He was disturbed by how well they got along, sometimes. The cold focus shared in the corner of the ring as another opponent approached, the anticipation, and the burst of excitement when the first blow was struck. They shared the thrill of the hunt when they chased down someone they thought might have connections with the metal in their skeleton. But he sensed more terrible things within the animal. The few times it took control were the only memories he knew he wouldn’t mind loosing like all the others.



The cage fighting he did to fund his search for his past, his origin, kept them focused, kept their violent tendencies managed and lured women to their bed. None of them stayed. He didn’t ask them to, they never expected him to ask, and the Wolverine could scarcely stand the artificial scents they so often wore.



Once or twice he caught a strange scent somewhere. A man shrouded in winter clothing, face hidden, who smelled like a reptile. Logan had caught a glimpse of yellow eyes edged in scales. He met other mutants in passing like that, but only very rarely, and most of them smelled normal, smelled “human” as it were. None of them smelled like adamantium. None of them had tags like his.



He kept searching.



~



Marie slid into the prostitute’s car without hesitation. She trusted rides from women more than men, and the time she had spent on the road so far told her this woman worked either freelance, or as part of an escort service. Her well-made appearance, and the time of day, told Marie this ride would not be a long one.



Cody in her head was shocked and disturbed. Marie had expected that. She hadn’t expected the effect it would have on her–the expectations she suddenly held herself to because of him. She had adolescent awkwardness where there had been none before, and strange increases and decreases in the ones she had. It lead to long arguments amongst herself, him, and the increasingly ambiguous space between that made her fear loosing herself, not to mention the voices of the two men who had tried to take advantage of her.



Cody kept asking questions. Stupid questions, Marie added. His questions were stupid and they were not conducive to getting her a ride. It was bad enough when she already had a ride and his questions became so invasive that she spoke aloud when she answered him. That had gotten her tossed out of two cars, but had also served as an intimidation method on a couple of others. Cody had not been pleased. He wanted her to go home. He made her feel afraid. He saw her as a damsel in distress. It did such strange things to her mind. She was getting better at blocking them out. Music helped immensely. Marie wished she hadn’t been forced to leave her guitar back in Meridian. Cody had asked her, before he was in her head, why she liked the Blues, and why she wrinkled her nose at any Country that wasn’t like Johnny Cash. She couldn’t explain to him then that it took her out of the small town of Meridian, out into calm and dark rooms she instinctively loved–the close atmosphere, the smoothness, the warmth and openness her town lacked. The feelings of repression, conformity, and alienation went away when she closed her eyes and saw those dark places with small stages. The Cody in her head argued with the pride of a boy born and raised in Meridian about the belonging he felt there, the home, the way everything fit–the girls giggling and demure, everyone good Christians, the boys born Southern Charmers…



Marie told him that she thought she might be an atheist, that the “good Christians” he had imagined had called her an uppity attention-monger but either stared at her breasts or sought to be great friends with her mother because of her position at church, and that the Southern Charmers disgusted her by assuming she put out because of the one time she sang Janis Joplin and someone videotaped it…



Cody was quiet for a while. He would return soon, thought. Her voices were never really persuaded. They were often portraits in time, not seeming to evolve past their immediate thoughts upon entering her mind. The same arguments, the same confusion–it would be back. She thought it might be because of how briefly she had touched them all, how little she took, but decided irrevocably that she wanted no more.



Music, she thought, I need music.



“Thanks again for the ride,” Marie said sincerely. The woman smiled, and Marie saw faint lines at the corners of her eyes. Marie returned it, and her expression told the woman her hitchhiker was aware of why she had been given a ride. Marie had learned to spot people who would help her. The innocent, almost childishly youthful appearance that had formerly irritated her appealed to the few honest people out there, especially those with unpleasant occupations–they wanted to prolong the innocence they saw, the innocence they liked to remember having. Pushing aside the memories of the men she had been forced to use her mutation on, Marie found herself valuing that innocence as well. It made it harder to push Cody’s insistent morality and ideals out of her head.



“It’s no problem. I’m Madeline,” the prostitute offered. Marie’s lips quirked. She had thought for a long time about who she was after leaving Meridian. She had listened to her CD player with the volume at an unholy level to drive Cody out, and she had put together her identity. She had always wanted out of that town, and held dislike for it, but she had allowed herself to sink in after a while, care about some of its people. She missed her family. She missed long walks without glimpsing a highway. She missed the cleaner air. She missed the sound of Mississippi drawl. And yet, had been a black sheep all her life. This was just her first time completely cut off from the flock.



“Ah’m Rogue,” Marie said. The woman arched a brow.



“That’s some name,” she said. Marie shrugged.



“I’ve got some family,” Marie countered. The woman laughed, clearly assuming her parents had been druggies or something. Marie adjusted her thin gloves, knowing the real reason too well.



“So, aside from North, Rogue, where are you headed? I need a place to set you down in the city,” Madeline said. Marie considered. She looked out the window. She had made it pretty far north by now, and she was thinking about warm dark rooms and Blues. A smile met her lips.



“Well, since we’re hittin’ Chicago, do you know a Blues place that might let me in?” she inquired. Thoughtfully, Madeline considered, her tawny brows furrowing a little. Cody, far back in her mind, still influenced the glance Marie swiped from the woman’s slightly pouted lips to her impressive bust, and made her then feel both guilty and unnatural for doing so, and she looked away quickly and sought to distract herself. Her fingers moved on invisible guitar chords, and again she missed her guitar. Looking at her hitchhiker again, Madeline saw her fingers moving distractedly, but rhythmically. She had seen it before, and it took her a moment to place it. A face swam in her memory. Madeline smiled warmly all of a sudden.



“I know just the place, Rogue.”



~



“You, darlin’, got to be crazy,” the dark man sighed, eyeing Madeline critically. The prostitute rolled her eyes.



“Look, you know how I am, how I just…I know how things will work, alright?” she pleaded, running a hand through her hair, smoothing it unnecessarily. Her brown eyes were wide and open. She hadn’t told Jack that she’d gotten tested once, that her ‘knowing’ seemed to be a low-level mutation. Lucky, she supposed, that it wasn’t so severe as her hitchhiker’s. It just let her know things. A doctor had talked about cognitive functions in between the left and right sides of her brain, heightened ‘eureka’ moments and intuition. Madeline just stuck with that last word he used. It got less attention. She had hit the ground running from the world after those tests, and look at her now. Somehow, she had decided to help Rogue do better. Maybe if she could help Rogue, she could forgive herself. Jack looked at her for a long time with those startling pale eyes of his that stood out against his dark brown skin. He was old but aged very well, his handsome face wizened with wrinkles rather than ruined by them. His heavy lids lowered a little.



“Maddy, you know dat I trust you, but what makes you think I need a runaway trailin’ along wit’ us? We all barely fit in the van anyhow. We’re lookin’ at a spare car to make room, despite how much you know I hate them caravans. We a popular band, darlin’, but we ain’t real money-makin’ folk. A teenage kid…”



“Jack, please,” Madeline said quietly. “I’m pretty sure she plays guitar, she’s real pretty, and from what I’ve seen she’s frugal, too. She already acts too old for her face, Jack.” The old Blues singer sighed, rubbing the back of his head with calloused fingertips and knocking his hat askew. Maddy looked out into the crowd and seemed to catch sight of the girl she mentioned. “Look at her, Jack.”



Jack followed her gaze, and immediately recognized the girl from Madeline’s description. Long brown hair, dark and shiny, and an angelic youthful face with porcelain skin, the girl looked soft, vulnerable, and alone. She kept her distance from everyone, even flinching when someone got too close; but she carried herself strong, like a naked blade despite being covered from toes to throat in fabric of some kind. He took note of the long gloves, the thin scarf. She sat at the bar with a glass of water, eyes on the stage. He saw her fingers moving, her right hand on her knee holding an invisible pick and her other curled and resting on top of the bar playing the chords she heard from the band on stage. Recognizing self-taught when he saw it, Jack wondered idly if she played wearing gloves.



“You know if she sing?” he asked. Madeline arched a brow at him.



“Ask her, Jack. I’m just her ride.” She stood up slowly. He knew right then that Maddy could tell he would take the girl. Internally cursing the woman as she strode into the crowd to start work, he wandered toward the girl. She looked up at him and met his gaze before he came within ten feet. She was wary. What did Madeline say her name was? It was some strange thing…



“Why you lookin’ at me?” the girl asked. Jack shrugged his wiry shoulders with casual grace.



“I was talkin’ to an ole friend. She say you need a ride,” he said easily. Her suspicious nature led her to bristle a little. He remembered her name. “Rogue, right?” Jack relaxed a little when she gave a passive nod.



“Madeline a friend o’ yours?” she asked, still very wary. Sweet face and youth aside, she was suspicious. Rogue wondered idly if she had been mistaken about Madeline, but this man didn’t look like a pimp. He was smooth, with deep laugh lines around his mouth and eyes. His voice had a faint rhythm to it, and an accent from the South, but different from hers, maybe from Louisiana. Jack smiled and his teeth were very white.



“Maddy done me favors, but none of the ones you thinkin’. She knows what she be talkin’ about when she try to help people out, and she think you’d be good ridin’ with me. I got a little band, and we get good play, and we headed to tour fo’ a while.” He watched her appraisingly as she looked at him, her eyes never shifting from his. She tugged at her gloves.



“What would Ah do, travellin’ with y’all?” she murmured. Jack sat down at the bar, leaving one barstool empty between them even as he faced her. He saw her shoulders relax a little with him at that distance.



“That depend. Maddy think you play guitar, now.”



“Ah…I do. I’m real outta practice,” she confessed. Jack nodded. “Most’a my callous is gone.”



“That come from wearin’ those gloves, girl,” he teased. She smiled a little, but it was sad.



“It’s better I wear ‘em.”



“It ain’t that cold.”



“Ah don’t wear ‘em fer warmth,” she said. Jack leaned on the bar top, tilting his head.



“What you wear ‘em for?” he asked, voice real quiet. Her eyes shifted around and, finding no one else in hearing distance, still hesitated.



“Ah…I’m a mutant,” she whispered. Jack’s brows raised in surprise, but then lowered again; that explained it. Her teeth worrying her lower lip, she didn’t meet his eyes. Jack nodded slightly.



“So’s my brother,” he said. She sat up quickly, brown eyes wide in astonishment. “He used to play drums fo’ us, long time ago. He work for our record company, now.” Jack smiled at Rogue, whose mouth hung slightly open, and then quickly shut when she noticed it. She swallowed thickly, face flushed with relief.



“Oh,” was all she could say. Jack offered her his hand over the empty bar stool.



“I’m Ole Jack Madison, not famous, but hell,” he said. Rogue looked nervous, but extended her own small, gloved hand. She could feel warmth and callous even through the gloves as they shook hands.



“Ah’m Rogue, but ya knew that,” she returned, smiling a little. Her eyes were a little too shiny. Her family had thrown her out, and this man seemed all the more ready to take her in because of his brother. Smiling past the tightness in her throat, she felt almost at ease. He released her hand, and she pulled back almost reluctantly. It was the first time she had willingly touched someone since Cody, and it had been nice.



“That’s alright, it’s always good to tell yo own name,” he said, and Rogue decided he was a good guy. He seemed to have decided something similar about her. “You sing, Rogue?” He saw her blush a little.



“Uhm, not in front of nobody. Ah can play in front of people, but singin’ is usually just…me getting’ somethin’ outta my system when I’m alone,” she explained, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly. Jack nodded.



“You good with electric things? Stage equipment?”



“Ah did some technical work back in Mer-in my hometown. For the theatre. Ah got a lot of the basics.” She felt a twinge of excitement. As much as she had babbled to Cody and those who passed as her friends in Meridian about her long tour to Alaska, the idea of traveling with real Blues players out of Chicago gave her a faint thrill. Another band started up on stage, and the voices of those she touched were pushed aside by it and by her own will as she focused on Jack as he smiled, his beautiful white teeth showing again.



“I think you can earn yo keep if you go wit’ us. You think yo wan’ to?” he asked politely. Rogue gave her first purely genuine smile that reached all the way to her eyes since she started running.



“Yeah, Ah think Ah do.”