Sabine

I've always been enamored with the name "Sabine." There's just something alluring about it, something exotic. For some time now, I've desired to write a character bearing the name but I've not been able to conjure a suitable image of my Sabine in my head. A number of recent events, coincidences, and happenstances, however, have finally given me the inspiration to write a Sabine that will (hopefully) be worthy of her name. It is the combination of spending time with friends, the new season of Star Wars: Rebels, and the revisting of Joss Whedon's Dollhouse that has inspired me to at last put my Sabine to paper. I look forward to your thoughts, ideas, predictions, etc. for the character. And with that, I give you... Sabine.

*****

Chapter 1.

            She couldn't remember a time when she'd has so much trouble opening her eyes. Of course, she could neither remember a time when she'd been caught, or at least been caught and hadn't been able to escape. This was a day of firsts.

            Muffled voices in the corridor stirred her senses and she brought herself to the highest state of consciousness she could muster. In some ways, she wished that she hadn't. Every muscle ached. Using the methods she'd been taught, she closed her eyes, breathed deeply and slowly, and assessed her situation. Starting with her toes, she worked her way up, envisioning every bone, every muscle, every square inch of flesh. "Listen to your body," she'd been told. In that moment, her body screamed.

            Each time she passed a point of pain the process, she winced. Her right knee was swollen. Nothing was damaged though, and the joint remained functional. There was a contusion on her left shin, but again, nothing too damaging. The throbbing in her right hip reminded her of when she was thrown into a stack of crates. That was presumably when she damaged her knee, and obtained the cracks she sensed in two of her ribs. No, she thought. She squeezed her eyes more tightly closed, and remembered. No, that was from the punches. "Idiot," she muttered under her breath. "You should have seen it coming."

            Pushing her self-admonishment to the side, she continued her analysis. Her arms were sore, not from the fall, but rather from the blows she attempted to inflict. The knuckles of both her hands were bloodied, and it was the shock from her closed fists striking the body armor she hadn't been able to tell he was wearing that sent the painful shock up through her forearms, as if she'd punched a brick wall with full force.

            Aside from the drug induced pounding in her skull, her head and face appeared to have escaped unscathed. And she only knew her headache was drug induced because of the fleetingly residual pain in her upper left arm where they'd injected her; that, and the trickle of dried blood she could feel on her flesh.

            Thankfully she remained fully clothed; though they'd drugged her, they'd not violated her. It was for that reason only that her vengeance would be swifter than she'd prefer. There was three of them as best as she could tell. It all happened so fast, and she'd been careless, so careless. It was a mistake she'd never repeat.

            When she opened her eyes, she could see clearly again. Whatever drug they'd given her had run its course. They'd regret not using a higher dosage, but she'd not let on to that fact until it was necessary. The room in which she found herself was sparse. Painted, concrete walls surrounded her, and it reeked of rotted flesh. The large, stainless steel door opposite her confirmed her assumption – She was in a meat locker, the refrigeration for which had long since expired. What she smelled was the residual effect of the sides of beef that had been removed a few days too late. Her hands were cuffed above her head and her feet barely rested flat on the ground; her body was suspended. Though they were only draped over the meat hook, she had no leverage with which to thrust herself upward to free the cuffs that bound her. Her body heat had warmed the steel than encircled her ankles and it was only the sensation of the weight of the cuffs resting on her ankle bones that informed her she was bound to the floor as well. It wouldn't matter.

            Perhaps their biggest mistake was placing her in a room with no cameras – They'd have no idea of her true state of awareness when they entered. The second she heard a key in the lock, she dropped her head and feigned incapacitation. Two men entered a moment later.

            "She's still out? I thought you said this chick was tough." The speaker walked over to her and forcibly lifted her chin before slapping her, causing her eyes to open wearily. "Wake up, sweetheart, we've got some questions for you." He removed his hand and she took a deep breath, pretending that it took exertion to keep her head held up. He blinked several times and waited.

            The other man approached this time. "There's no need for further violence, Patrick."

            Patrick, she thought to herself. Now I have a name.

            This one was much gentler in his approach, but he still exuded evil. The other was nothing more than a henchman. This one, he had some authority. He reeked of overused but expensive cologne and, from what she could glean through her barely-opened eyelids, his hands were meticulously maintained. The fingernails of each hand were trimmed to perfection, and clean. Torture and interrogation were not among his usual duties. That he was there told her that the thug hadn't gotten anything from her while she was drugged. At least there was that.

            He reached into the inner breast pocket of his suit and withdrew a handkerchief. When he, did she spotted the sliver sheen of the Beretta that hung in a holster just beneath his left arm. "Here, let me get that for you," the man said almost apologetically. He wiped away the spittle she'd let escape from her lips in furtherance of her illusion. "There, that's better. Now, miss, I'd like to have a little chat. Do you think we can do that?" She nodded, meekly and affirmatively. "Good. Can you look at me?"

            It was all she could do to suppress her grin. He'd opened the window. Once he looked into her eyes, she'd have him, and have him, she did. She was among the one percent of the population that exhibited Heterochromia Iridum – she possessed two differently colored eyes. Her left was emerald green, and her right a cobalt blue. They were mesmerizing, and the gentleman, using the term loosely, that stood before her was no less immune to their wiles than any other man. His stare fixated first on one eye, and then the other. And then her game began. "I'll answer your questions, but not with him here." She spoke with a purposeful slur to conceal the fact that her metabolism had already eradicated the effects of the drugs they'd given her.

            "Why you little bitch," The thug replied, providing her with the exact response she'd hoped to illicit. He lunged towards her, meaning to strike her again, only to be stopped by the other's outstretched hand. Mr. Manicure, as she'd named him in her mind, spoke angrily.

            "I said, my dear Patrick, that there is no need for further violence. Wait outside."

            Patrick grimaced. "Boss said I wasn't supposed to leave you alone."

            "I am quite capable of handling myself with a bound and medicated…guest. Now, if you will?" Mr. Manicure gestured towards the door. Reluctantly, Patrick acquiesced and pounded on the steel. From beyond, another underling unlocked the door and allowed Patrick to exit. Once the door was once again closed and locked, Mr. Manicure spoke again. "There. Now that we've put that ugliness behind us, are you ready to talk?"

            She nodded. "Yes."

            "I'm glad to hear that. First, I'd like to know for whom you work."

            "I don't work for anyone. I work alone."

            He scoffed. "Let's not lie to each other. We both know that you don't work alone." The implication of condescending misogyny in his voice riled her. Though he didn't speak the words out loud, he might as well have ended his statements with "you're a woman." Nothing motivated here more than when someone underestimated her. "So let's try this again. For whom do you work?"

            "I said I work alone."

            He smiled and turned his back on here. "I abhor violence, myself. My colleague, he thrives on it. I'd call him back in, but I fear his methods would be counterproductive to our discussion. He can be a bit heavy handed." Without warning, Mr. Manicure swung his right arm around and struck her across the cheek. The blow stung more than she expected. "Still, physical forcefulness can have its place." His demeanor changed and he stood with his face barely inches from hers. For a moment he again stared into the uniqueness of her eyes. "I'm going to ask you one more time, and I'd greatly appreciate it if you'd be truthful. Are you ready? I'll even ask politely. Please," he began. "Tell me who you work –"

            He'd not be able to finish his sentence before she would have her handcuffs wrapped around his throat. So fixated was he on her eyes that he'd not notice her shifting her hands above her head. He'd taken no care to realize that she'd popped her left thumb out from its socket and had been slowly sliding her hand through the shackle that bound it. With the swiftness and grace of a jungle cat she withdrew her hand and shoved Mr. Manicure in the shoulder, spinning him. With a flip of her other wrist, she swung her right hand around and caught the other end of the cuffs with her left. In an instant he'd gone from the aggressor to the prisoner, and his breath left him rapidly as she tightened her grip on his throat.

            "Now, let me ask you a question. How do I get out of here?" she cooed in his ear.

            He gasped for air and his vision grew cloudy. With what breath he could summon, his voice raspy, he begged to know her identity. He needed to know the name of the woman who he feared was about to end his life. "Wh…who are you?"

            She laughed. "You know, it's funny, I thought the eyes would have been a dead giveaway."

            He thought of her eyes, and suddenly revelation overwhelmed him and widened his. The last word he spoke before he lost consciousness was her name.

            "Sabine."

 

© 2015 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.