Disclaimer: Don't own Gambit
A/N: Do own Blaze. Random criminal part of my mind keeps coming up with these ideas; hope you enjoy reading them as much as I do plotting them!
Geisha
Venice, Italy. The sun dropped low over the Basilica de San Marco. The stray strands of sunlight illuminated the gold paintwork of the elaborate statues and monuments that lined the ramparts of the Cathedral. The Grand Canal shimmered with oil, and in St Mark's Square a splattering of string quartets fought over the late season's tourists' few Euros. Visitors hovered on the edges of the restaurants, enjoying the music, but refusing to sit down and actually pay the extortionate prices of refreshments for the privilege.
Venice, City of the Masquerade. Tonight was no ordinary night. At the most elaborate canal-front hotel the city had to offer, the forefront of Italy's rich and infamous were gathering for a masked ball with a difference. A costumed ball, brainchild of Franco di Biaggio, richest man in Venice. It was his hotel as much as it was his city. He stood alone, his wife of some years in America again with her corporate 'friends'. Younger than most people realised, his custom-made cowboy costume was straight from the designers of Rome, his dark hair slicked back over a proud forehead reminiscent more of a Serie A footballer than a billionaire businessman.
The Geisha had barely set foot upon the steps to the hotel's front door when he spotted her. As if knowing his eyes were on her, she raised her chin, brown eyes sparkling in the light of the many firebrands about them. It was only a costume, he knew; the long traditional Far Eastern dress in red, black and white, the thick white makeup that hid her true cultural identity, the lashings of straight dark hair pinned up high over her head, but the effect was astounding. Long but curvaceous figure, slight build and not too tall or too short; she was beautiful. Her silk-slippered feet faltered on the ivory marble steps, and he found himself offering her a supportive hand, waving away his employees that asked her for her invitation.
She spoke perfect Italian, introducing herself to him as Maria, daughter of a businessman he'd vaguely heard of. She laughed at his jokes, smiled and nodded to his acquaintances, drank champagne with him and looked up at him with those big chestnut eyes straight from some renaissance masterpiece. And when he suggested, huskily, that they take their conversation somewhere more private, she nodded nervously, wafting herself diligently with an Oriental fan.
Yet still she led him to a room she chose herself, a conference room, small but perfectly formed. The thick crimson carpet stretched out before them to the large French windows, opening onto a balcony over the Grand Canal. Even this late at night, with the starlight reflected in the murky water, the ferries and pleasure craft were negotiating each other with deft skill. For October, the air was warmer here than it would be in many places in Europe, and it was with a sigh of pleasure that the Geisha flung open the French windows, letting the stale air of the city of canals waft around her.
"Maria..." Franco oozed, stroking her long pale neck with a fingertip, leaning in to kiss her skin with all the collective Italian charm. She let him for a moment, before pulling away with a sigh, dark eyes not even noticing the thousands of dollars worth of artwork in this one room. Their conversation was in the richest Italian, a pleasurable addition of language to the night. "What's wrong, Bella?
"Your security guards are watching us." She barely whispered, watching the slow movement of the lagoon's water against the ebb of the canal. Franco turned abruptly, noting where a small video camera was silently recording everything. He smiled.
"That is not a problem, sweet lady." Franco oozed slickly, removing his cowboy's waistcoat and walking across the room to where the camera was positioned. Smiling up to his staff, he made sure they had time to see it was him before flinging his jacket skyward to cover the camera's lens. It caught, hung there with precision, and Franco was impressed by the Geisha's happy smile. Her shyness appeased, he went back to her side, to take a glass of champagne from her with a flourish. He sipped it slowly, eyeing her up, wondering how far he dare take this. As she watched, he wavered, feeling suddenly faint. She helped him to a seat, stroked back his oiled hair and whispered comforting words. Then he blacked out.
"Help me!" The Geisha cried, bursting from the room with no CCTV back into the main body of the hotel. "Help me! I think he's had a heart attack..."
Soon, Franco had been removed from the room, swung unresisting out to receive medical attention, the Geisha wandering a lost soul in his wake. The soft curtains still billowed on the gentle breeze in the conference room; nobody had thought to close the French doors. The security camera whirred in endless darkness, Franco's waistcoat still hung over its lens. And then with agility no leopard would lightly dismiss, a young man landed on his feet in the room with his heavy trench coat whirling around him. His fingers moved slightly, the long metallic pole in his hand gradually retracting to be stowed in an inside pocket. Gambit had arrived.
It took him seconds to spot what he was here for. This was no random hit; he was a better-trained thief than that. The Thieves Guild of New Orleans had excelled in teaching its members how to hit targets worth the effort, as well as how to not get caught. Gambit may no longer owe anything to the folk he had once called family, but the lessons they had taught him were not forgotten.
He moved the spiked glass of champagne carefully, hoping his bag was big enough to shroud the almost priceless icon that stood proud on the same shelf. His fingers closed carefully around the artefact, and he gave a slight grunt as he lifted it from the dusty shelf. It was heavier than he'd expected, this ugly head-and-shoulders effigy. Casually he charged it with his mutant power, just to know that he could destroy it in less than a breath if he wanted too. But then he retracted the energy that made the historical masterpiece glow orange with power, and reluctantly put the object in the bag.
At the front of the building, at the hotel's main entrance on a small stone- flagged street, an emergency ambulance pulled away baring Franco to the nearest hospital. The crowd of worried guests was lacking in one important figure in the saga. The Geisha was nowhere to be seen.
In a ladies rest room not far away, fasteners were unhooked, and the rich Oriental costume slid temptingly to the floor. The girl inside stepped out, shaking a toe delicately to rid herself of the outfit. Soap and water smudged, then rinsed her free of the clinging face paint, showing her to be of Northern European origins, with pale skin dusted very lightly with freckles. Carefully she adjusted the straps of her black cat suit in the room's full-length mirror. Only then did her long fingers reach up to her hairline, grab hold of the flaxen black hair and peel it off with energy. Underneath the wig a million tumbling red curls fought for their freedom, reaching in a sheen almost to her own waist.
Eighteen-year-old Blaze smiled briefly at her own reflection, knowing a job well done when she was involved in one. Then, picking up the dress and hairpiece, she dropped them in the bin and attempted to set fire to the evidence. Dispiritingly, as always, her mutant power wasn't interested when the only life at stake was her own. It didn't really matter; she'd brought back up in the form of a lighter. But just once it would be nice for her powers to be there when she needed them. To have control. But not tonight.
She left the building via the bathroom window, a tight squeeze even for one so small, but she dare not show her true face to the security guards watching the CCTV outside. At least this way, even if the caught her leaving the building, they had no way to prove that she was the Geisha who'd spiked Franco's drink. He would recover, the chemical carefully chosen, but to find the artefact in question stolen to order. Lifting a valet ticket from where she had secreted it inside her top, she smiled and chatted evenly in Italian to the doormen as she waited for the car to be brought round. Not her car, she'd lifted the ticket earlier from some other dignitary. It was therefore a pleasant surprise when she got in the sleek black estate and clicked on the CD player to hear an English band she'd grown up loving pumping out the stereo. Music she could sing along to...
Gambit was waiting, bag slung over his shoulder, not so far away on the road out of the city. Almost mindless of the value of the goods he'd successfully lifted from the unwatched canal side of the building, he chucked the bag on the back seat and grinned. His apprentice was coming good, much as he liked working alone. The would-be Geisha didn't even acknowledge he was there, put her silk-slippered foot down firmly and driving for the Swiss boarder...
A/N: Do own Blaze. Random criminal part of my mind keeps coming up with these ideas; hope you enjoy reading them as much as I do plotting them!
Geisha
Venice, Italy. The sun dropped low over the Basilica de San Marco. The stray strands of sunlight illuminated the gold paintwork of the elaborate statues and monuments that lined the ramparts of the Cathedral. The Grand Canal shimmered with oil, and in St Mark's Square a splattering of string quartets fought over the late season's tourists' few Euros. Visitors hovered on the edges of the restaurants, enjoying the music, but refusing to sit down and actually pay the extortionate prices of refreshments for the privilege.
Venice, City of the Masquerade. Tonight was no ordinary night. At the most elaborate canal-front hotel the city had to offer, the forefront of Italy's rich and infamous were gathering for a masked ball with a difference. A costumed ball, brainchild of Franco di Biaggio, richest man in Venice. It was his hotel as much as it was his city. He stood alone, his wife of some years in America again with her corporate 'friends'. Younger than most people realised, his custom-made cowboy costume was straight from the designers of Rome, his dark hair slicked back over a proud forehead reminiscent more of a Serie A footballer than a billionaire businessman.
The Geisha had barely set foot upon the steps to the hotel's front door when he spotted her. As if knowing his eyes were on her, she raised her chin, brown eyes sparkling in the light of the many firebrands about them. It was only a costume, he knew; the long traditional Far Eastern dress in red, black and white, the thick white makeup that hid her true cultural identity, the lashings of straight dark hair pinned up high over her head, but the effect was astounding. Long but curvaceous figure, slight build and not too tall or too short; she was beautiful. Her silk-slippered feet faltered on the ivory marble steps, and he found himself offering her a supportive hand, waving away his employees that asked her for her invitation.
She spoke perfect Italian, introducing herself to him as Maria, daughter of a businessman he'd vaguely heard of. She laughed at his jokes, smiled and nodded to his acquaintances, drank champagne with him and looked up at him with those big chestnut eyes straight from some renaissance masterpiece. And when he suggested, huskily, that they take their conversation somewhere more private, she nodded nervously, wafting herself diligently with an Oriental fan.
Yet still she led him to a room she chose herself, a conference room, small but perfectly formed. The thick crimson carpet stretched out before them to the large French windows, opening onto a balcony over the Grand Canal. Even this late at night, with the starlight reflected in the murky water, the ferries and pleasure craft were negotiating each other with deft skill. For October, the air was warmer here than it would be in many places in Europe, and it was with a sigh of pleasure that the Geisha flung open the French windows, letting the stale air of the city of canals waft around her.
"Maria..." Franco oozed, stroking her long pale neck with a fingertip, leaning in to kiss her skin with all the collective Italian charm. She let him for a moment, before pulling away with a sigh, dark eyes not even noticing the thousands of dollars worth of artwork in this one room. Their conversation was in the richest Italian, a pleasurable addition of language to the night. "What's wrong, Bella?
"Your security guards are watching us." She barely whispered, watching the slow movement of the lagoon's water against the ebb of the canal. Franco turned abruptly, noting where a small video camera was silently recording everything. He smiled.
"That is not a problem, sweet lady." Franco oozed slickly, removing his cowboy's waistcoat and walking across the room to where the camera was positioned. Smiling up to his staff, he made sure they had time to see it was him before flinging his jacket skyward to cover the camera's lens. It caught, hung there with precision, and Franco was impressed by the Geisha's happy smile. Her shyness appeased, he went back to her side, to take a glass of champagne from her with a flourish. He sipped it slowly, eyeing her up, wondering how far he dare take this. As she watched, he wavered, feeling suddenly faint. She helped him to a seat, stroked back his oiled hair and whispered comforting words. Then he blacked out.
"Help me!" The Geisha cried, bursting from the room with no CCTV back into the main body of the hotel. "Help me! I think he's had a heart attack..."
Soon, Franco had been removed from the room, swung unresisting out to receive medical attention, the Geisha wandering a lost soul in his wake. The soft curtains still billowed on the gentle breeze in the conference room; nobody had thought to close the French doors. The security camera whirred in endless darkness, Franco's waistcoat still hung over its lens. And then with agility no leopard would lightly dismiss, a young man landed on his feet in the room with his heavy trench coat whirling around him. His fingers moved slightly, the long metallic pole in his hand gradually retracting to be stowed in an inside pocket. Gambit had arrived.
It took him seconds to spot what he was here for. This was no random hit; he was a better-trained thief than that. The Thieves Guild of New Orleans had excelled in teaching its members how to hit targets worth the effort, as well as how to not get caught. Gambit may no longer owe anything to the folk he had once called family, but the lessons they had taught him were not forgotten.
He moved the spiked glass of champagne carefully, hoping his bag was big enough to shroud the almost priceless icon that stood proud on the same shelf. His fingers closed carefully around the artefact, and he gave a slight grunt as he lifted it from the dusty shelf. It was heavier than he'd expected, this ugly head-and-shoulders effigy. Casually he charged it with his mutant power, just to know that he could destroy it in less than a breath if he wanted too. But then he retracted the energy that made the historical masterpiece glow orange with power, and reluctantly put the object in the bag.
At the front of the building, at the hotel's main entrance on a small stone- flagged street, an emergency ambulance pulled away baring Franco to the nearest hospital. The crowd of worried guests was lacking in one important figure in the saga. The Geisha was nowhere to be seen.
In a ladies rest room not far away, fasteners were unhooked, and the rich Oriental costume slid temptingly to the floor. The girl inside stepped out, shaking a toe delicately to rid herself of the outfit. Soap and water smudged, then rinsed her free of the clinging face paint, showing her to be of Northern European origins, with pale skin dusted very lightly with freckles. Carefully she adjusted the straps of her black cat suit in the room's full-length mirror. Only then did her long fingers reach up to her hairline, grab hold of the flaxen black hair and peel it off with energy. Underneath the wig a million tumbling red curls fought for their freedom, reaching in a sheen almost to her own waist.
Eighteen-year-old Blaze smiled briefly at her own reflection, knowing a job well done when she was involved in one. Then, picking up the dress and hairpiece, she dropped them in the bin and attempted to set fire to the evidence. Dispiritingly, as always, her mutant power wasn't interested when the only life at stake was her own. It didn't really matter; she'd brought back up in the form of a lighter. But just once it would be nice for her powers to be there when she needed them. To have control. But not tonight.
She left the building via the bathroom window, a tight squeeze even for one so small, but she dare not show her true face to the security guards watching the CCTV outside. At least this way, even if the caught her leaving the building, they had no way to prove that she was the Geisha who'd spiked Franco's drink. He would recover, the chemical carefully chosen, but to find the artefact in question stolen to order. Lifting a valet ticket from where she had secreted it inside her top, she smiled and chatted evenly in Italian to the doormen as she waited for the car to be brought round. Not her car, she'd lifted the ticket earlier from some other dignitary. It was therefore a pleasant surprise when she got in the sleek black estate and clicked on the CD player to hear an English band she'd grown up loving pumping out the stereo. Music she could sing along to...
Gambit was waiting, bag slung over his shoulder, not so far away on the road out of the city. Almost mindless of the value of the goods he'd successfully lifted from the unwatched canal side of the building, he chucked the bag on the back seat and grinned. His apprentice was coming good, much as he liked working alone. The would-be Geisha didn't even acknowledge he was there, put her silk-slippered foot down firmly and driving for the Swiss boarder...