Disclaimer: Fortunately for me, I do not own the X-Men. I can't handle that amount of responsibility. But, all the Juventud are my creations and therefore belong to me. Just try and steal 'em. I've been wondering what Ruckus the Bad Kitty can do when she's really mad.
Author's note: The title of this story is dedicated to Jesse Manson, for entertaining me in sophomore year Spanish; "rascacielos", "juventud", and "modelo" will always be my favorite palabras de español. This story has been fermenting in my brain for…well, since fifth grade, but I've been writing so many college papers lately that I haven't had time to regurgitate all these AWESOME thoughts, so…complete apologies to my brain.
I'm giving this an R rating for language and possibly other stuff to come.
I guess this has to be an Alternate Universe story, cause it's pretty much my own little world. No X-Treme, no Ultimate, Remy did the whole Antarctica thing, but I'm not sure about the rest of the Gambit title. Oh well. We'll see how it goes.
"Jazzie! Jazzie, hide me!!!"
Snow flew in all directions as the panting figure haphazardly scurried across the park. Strange, Storm thought quizzically, the owner of that panicked voice seemed to be running on all fours. But, she reasoned, it was very hard to see anything through that thick cloud of white powder that was being kicked up. Very reminiscent of buffalo across the prairie. Storm smiled.
"Jazzie! He's gonna catch me!"
Storm estimated the trajectory of the running body and placed its final destination at a bench that was already occupied. A girl of about eighteen sat serenely, bundled up against the cold in a fetching navy blue jacket and matching scarf. Her face was beautiful, and faintly familiar, framed with auburn hair the hue of the autumn woods at sunset. The frigid breeze blew it across her face for a moment…and it struck Ororo that the last four inches of the girl's hair was pure, blinding white. She turned the pages of Gregory Maguire's Wicked rather clumsily, due to the black gloves that shielded her hands from the bitterly sharp December chill. With a decidedly resigned air, she closed the book and looked over her right shoulder…
…just in time to see the frantic flurry of snow disappear under the bench and behind her feet.
"Ginger, what the hell is wrong with you?" she asked, bending over and peering beneath the wrought-iron bench.
"He's after me again! I don't want to lose this time!"
"You always lose; better get used to it, curly." Startled, and almost ashamed to be spying on these strange children, Ororo glanced at the newcomer to the scene. The boy was short and gruff, with hair of two shades. Close to the roots it was a midnight black, but most of its six-inch length had been dyed a violent shade of crimson. He grinned, showing off a menacing snarl. "You can't hide from me."
Exploding from under the bench, the 'snow buffalo' seethed with indignation, and Storm could finally see her true form. Ginger was a girl with snapping golden eyes and gorgeous, tangled dark-blonde curls tumbling down her back. "You'd better watch yourself, badger-boy; one of these days I'm gonna get you!"
"Not in this lifetime, Ginger-Kat," the boy sneered, beginning his advance.
"I'm older than you, and I say I win!"
"By one day, and I say I win!"
"Alright, enough!" The girl on the bench stood, brushing off her coat. "Let's continue this age-old battle someplace else, children. Hopefully Penny started dinner, and even more hopefully…"
"…Matt didn't destroy the house?" Ginger suggested.
"…Simon came to visit?" the boy suggested suggestively, eyebrow raised.
"No," the girl said, blushing slightly, "hopefully Ashelee started up the fireplace, hopefully Yo-Yo made some cocoa, and hopefully we can all fucking sit down like a big happy family and have a nice evening together."
Ginger and the boy exchanged a dubious look, then burst into giggles and guffaws.
"In your wildest dreams, Jazz, in your wildest dreams."
They strode off through the park, arm in arm, and Ororo Monroe watched them go, a smile playing across her lips.
