The Guild Massacre

Author's Notes: This is a continuation of Honor Saga and Broken Chains: all stories about Honor LeBeau. As the legitimate child of a Thief and an Assassin – and the only living heir to both the LeBeau and Boudreaux clans – Honor is in the unique position to unite the Guilds like her ancestors tried but failed to do. But creating unity and keeping it are two different things.

Chapter One: Lucky Number 13

In spite of Mystique's not-so-secret hope, my little brother and sister were the spitting images of my father. Even with infant padding, they had his sharp and dark features. Ollie especially had his eyes: not the coloring, but the narrowness and intensity. Becca adored Papa. Her little face glowed at the sight of him, and she always stopped crying when he held her. But Rogue's silent prayer was answered: her children didn't look like mutants.

I tried not to take offense, but I looked like a mutant. I wasn't as obvious as my friend Uri – he was huge and green. I was just tall for my age, and I had my father's red and black eyes. (I would've liked to blame him for my inability to hold a tan, too, but that came from my mother.) Otherwise, I was rather normal looking: ten fingers, two breasts, strawberry blond hair, and regardless of my mutations, thought I was pretty.

I'd spent the summer touring with my godfather and his band, and it had been a blast… But I was glad to be home and with my family again. Even though my parents were divorced, they still lived together for my sake. My mutant abilities were extremely potent, and any instability could set it off. Rather than put me on zombie-making drugs, they learned to work as a team. Momma was still single, but Papa had re-married. His new wife, Rogue, recently had twins, and we needed a bigger place to live. So my father built a beautiful house in the country that was large enough for everyone. Unfortunately, it was so spacious that we couldn't turn away Mystique, Rogue's mother, when she asked to move in with us. She said Rogue needed help, and the X-Men were eager to get her off their hands. Papa didn't like it, but he'd made a lot of sacrifices lately. I felt like I hardly knew him anymore.

My friend's had also changed since I last saw them. Uri was the most dramatic: he'd lost twenty pounds and shot up another six inches, so he now stood at seven feet even. Nate devoured everything within reach. He seemed to be filling out a little bit more, but said he'd started working out. I couldn't be sure. Ethan cut his hair short and returned with a tan. He looked like a brand new man. I immediately ran my fingers over his soft black stubble and told him: "I'm gonna miss all your pretty hair!"

"I picked up surfing," he said, "Had to wash my hair twice a day to get all the salt water out. Trust me, 'On, you'd shave your head, too."

If my sweet Tess changed, I saw the progression so slowly that it escaped detection.

High school was a lot harder than I'd expected. Even though I had classes with my friends now, I didn't get to talk with them any more than usual. Not only were the students nasty, but the classes were hard. I dropped astronomy and started taking piano lessons on the weekends. Dr. McCoy arranged for me to practice with an old colleague of his, Mr. Bobert Anderson, who taught at Juilliard. Mr. Bobert was a short and stout man with hairy eye brows, coke-bottle glasses and a little bit of brown hair on his head. He wore the same outfit every time I saw him: pressed khaki pants and a brown flannel shirt.

The first time he listened to me play, he watched me with crossed arms and a lowered chin. When I finished, he said: "How old are you, Honor?"

I told him I was twelve.

"Twelve? Twelve… Well, there is potential. Tell me, how serious are you about making music?"

"Not at all, sir," I told him.

He dead panned and then laughed. "Well, you are just a child. How serious can you be about anything?"

September arrived, and no one said anything about my birthday party. It wasn't completely beyond Papa to forget, but Momma never would. Was I too old for birthday parties? Maybe it was going to be a surprise. As the day got closer, I picked up on the tension from my parents. They were hiding something from me. Reluctantly, I resumed my lessons with Mystique. Whatever her intentions, I was learning how to access the river of knowledge within me. Sometimes I saw bloodlust in her eyes. She still hated me, and wanted to kill me. Was it love of Rogue, or the chip, that stilled her hand?

I hacked into my parents' minds. With Mystique's help, I learned that my thirteenth birthday meant I was an adult. As an adult, the Guild required certain things from me. I would no longer be accepted and cherished for my youth: I would have to earn their protection and support.

I had to be initiated.

Of course, as an adult, I could have refused. No one is forced to join. But that idea was completely alien to me. The Guild was my birthright. My legacy. I would be the best Assassin/Thief the Guilds had ever known!

My birthday that year fell on a Monday. I went to school and did my homework as usual. When I got home, Momma spent all day making my favorite meal, but then she didn't eat a bite. Papa chewed on his fingernails until they were bloody. (He wasn't allowed to smoke in the house anymore.) They were terrified, but they couldn't stop this. It was my decision now.

After dinner, I went upstairs and packed a bag.

Momma stood in the doorway. "Where are you goin', petite?"

"I don't know. How long d' you t'ink I should pack for?"

She watched me for a moment. Then she rushed to me and embraced me. "Oh, ma tite fille! What would I ever do if anyt'ing should happen t' you?"

"Momma, nothin's gonna happen t' me."

"Dis ain't nothin' t' take lightly," Papa said. I hadn't heard him enter. "My cous' died on his initiation. A girl died on mine. And it's a requirement dat someone die on your Momma's. Don't do dis outta obligation, chere. You gotta be ready t' die for dis."

A pale-silver Bentley Mulsanne with heavily tinted windows pulled into our unfinished driveway. The driver opened the back door, and Marie Therese and Franco stepped out. Franco looked older than I remembered, and now walked with a cane. His light brown hair was brushed with silver, and pulled back in a harsh pony-tail that accented the lines on his face. He wore a three-piece designer suit with leather shoes and a silk tie that I could only assume someone chose for him.

Marie, on the other hand, looked as beautiful and comfortable as ever. Her inky hair had grown past her shoulders and spilled around her full bust. She'd spent the summer soaking in the sun, and her mocha skin had a deep, rich glow. She wouldn't confine that skin to noisy heels or useless skirts. Non. Her attire consisted of silent boots, flexible leather pants and a silk blouse. Although I couldn't tell where, I knew her had a knife on her body.

Momma, Papa and I walked off the porch. My parents fell behind but I continued to the vehicle.

"I brought some clothes and homework," I said, indicating my bag. "I hope dat's okay."

"You won't be able to contact anyone you know once we leave," Franco said harshly. "You need to tie up any loose ends."

I kissed Rogue and the twins good-bye. My parents held me so fiercely that I thought they'd never let me leave. But they did. Mystique irritably asked what the hell was going on; I didn't bother to tell her good-bye. I left a note for Tess with my father, and then took the back seat with Marie.

My parents told me I was braver, smarter and stronger than they were at my age. But would it be enough?

Melbourne, Australia

Stark Industries is the largest manufacturer of biotechnological warfare in the world. Headquartered in Melbourne, the company employs some ten thousand scientists, hundreds of thousands of interns, and an unknown number of government officials. Naturally, the company is on the cutting edge of security detail. Every genius, lone gunman and black ops organization that has hacked the world's best computer systems are employed by Stark Enterprise. Yes, every one. Just to walk through the front door requires a back ground check, credit check and eye scan. That's the security clearance for janitors and school children on a field trip. To get within reach of their precious weapons, one must put in years with the company. One is subjected to constant surveillance: on and off the job. There are degrees to earn, tests to pass, and sacrifices to make.

Obviously, infiltration was out of the question.

No one would endure so much for a job, and then risk it all for me. A nobody. A common thief. No one would help me make my escape, and then stay behind for a federal trial and prison. No, I was alone in this. My age and ignorance were my biggest disadvantages. I couldn't do anything about my age, but intell was my specialty. If the information existed in a mind or a computer, I could find it.

Franco and I stayed at a hotel in the city as "Frederick and Rita Sanchez". He could provide companionship, but offer no advice or assistance in my mission. I soon discovered that Franco did not like to discuss anything other than Guild business. Since that was the only thing we could not discuss, we didn't talk much.

I spent the first day and night in deep meditation, trying to focus and discover.

To him, I appeared to be stalling. I learned that he'd chosen this mission for its difficulty. He wanted me to fail. In order to keep the LeBeaus from returning to the Guild, he'd practically sealed my fate. This mission was time-consuming and required a team of well trained, experienced Thieves.

At first, I was resentful, but I later learned he did not want me to die in my attempt. For my mother, he would protect me. That was a kind gesture.

I learned that the Headquarters building was invincible. The security systems were even in place to prevent telepaths from mentally infiltrating. Lucky, I thought, that I'm not a telepath. The halls were blindingly bright, and no corner unmonitored. The temperature was kept at a chilly 62 degrees Fahrenheit: both for scientific and security purposes. The rooms were built with plexi-glass walls, and the elevator shafts had security locks and brakes. Whoever designed the Headquarters didn't mind turning the fortress into a prison. The architects had been deterring thieves since before my father was born, and they had funds exceeding most governments.

I had to face the facts. I was not getting into that building without getting caught.

Long Island, New York

The sun receded into the west in a glorious blaze of oranges, pinks and yellows. Tony Stark tried to enjoy the view with his Cabernet Sauvignon. The heavy wine was not generally to his preference, but he needed a bitter drink to forget the bitter day. His life was currently the focal point of powerful people with long arms. These people could take things away from him; most importantly: his pride. Hence, he had agreed to this investigation. Of course, he was no fool. He had an investigation conducted beforehand, and all unscrupulous evidence was destroyed. Still, it was unnerving to be so exposed.

The glass door behind him slid open and shut again. A pair of heels approached, and a trusted woman took a seat across the balcony.

"Tony," said Pepper, "I need to tell you something that I know you don't want to hear."

"No you don't. You know why? Because it can't be proven. I don't care what they think they've found; I know they can't prove it."

She smothered her laugh with an open smile. "Then let's keep it that way, shall we?" She handed him a heavy folder. Inside, he quickly skimmed over plane ticket duplicates, credit card receipts, blood tests, and handwritten police reports in French.

"What the hell is this? You couldn't sum it all up in a single, 12-point font page? I hear they do that for the President. How much does his staff make?"

"You wouldn't want this in writing," she countered. "Remember that Australian doctor we investigated last year?"

"Why would I remember that?"

"Victor Kurslow. Head of the biotechnological warfare division in Melbourne. He put one too many personal expenses on the business books."

"Now, why wouldn't I remember that?"

"We settled out of court. He agreed to pay everything back and took six months' severance."

"That's why."

"Except with everything 'Stark' open to investigation, we've been keeping a close eye on everyone. Apparently, Kurslow wasn't charging the company for personal business trips. For the last three months, he's been purchasing 'test subjects' from Eastern Europe. These 'subjects' fly in coach, but never leave the country. Kurslow really was using company funds for company advancement. But his methods are such a clear violation of medical ethics that he'd rather suffer the financial repercussions."

Tony went back to the police reports, which were in Russian. Combing through, he picked up a few key words.

Child.

Promised work.

Melbourne.

Vanished.

No contact.

Disappeared.

"Ready the jet, will you, dear? And pack your khakis."

"All ready done, sir."

No company really likes for the CEO to show up unannounced, but Tony Stark happens to be an especially intimidating man. He strolled right through the building's extensive security blockades. The receptionist couldn't dial offices before he arrived. He and his entourage of black suits shot directly to the third floor. With a quick flash of a badge, they began confiscating computers and log entries.

"What is the meaning of this?" Victor Kurslow huffed. He could only watch as his colleagues and students were pushed aside and interrupted like illegal laborers.

"Mr. Kurslow," Tony announced loudly, "Have a preference for underage children?"

"I beg your pardon!"

The man looked over a pair of ridiculously expensive sun glasses while smacking a piece of gum obnoxiously. "For work, I mean. You buy children from the European slave trade, and use them to test your theories. I've read some of them. Quite gruesome. I wouldn't want to be at your mercy. Or mine."

Kurslow allowed the investigation to continue into his house and personal life. He had no choice, really. The contract he signed with Stark Industries forfeited any privacy, but Kurslow had nothing to hide.

Or so he thought.

In his basement was a tiny door that he'd never been able to open. He assumed it once held to a wine cellar or to the insulation chambers, and was later nailed shut. He assumed decades of inactivity must've sealed it shut. He was wrong. Tony Stark managed to open the door, and found a filthy little girl crammed into a tiny cellar. She gasped and scrambled to get away, screaming in broken English. The moment she opened her eyes, it was clear she was a mutant. Now Kurslow was facing hate-crime charges in addition to slavery, kidnapping, embezzlement, fraud and torture.

"You're okay," Stark told her as Kurslow was arrested.

"I've never seen that girl before in my life!" He shouted vainly as he was drug away. "I've been set up! I've done nothing wrong!"

"It's all right," Stark told the girl.

Finally, she seemed to understand. She collapsed into his arms, crying and rambling in fluent French.

"You're okay, honey… You're okay."

What to do with the girl?

First, she was hospitalized. An examination revealed evidence of extensive abuse: burn scars, sexual trauma, and a particularly nasty scar across the lower neck. The doctor believed the neck injury was self-inflicted. What kind of horror did a girk have to endure before resulting to such extremes? Despite her appearance, the doctor believed she was barely a teenager. He saw evidence of scientific experiments: artificial aging and cranial surgical scars.

What had Kurslow done to her?

She kept saying the same thing over and over: Her name was Nina. Here on vacation with uncle. A translator was brought in and identified her accent as a Nice dialect. The woman told her she was safe, and the authorities would reunite her with her family. But they needed a name, a city… anything.

"My name ess Nina. 'Ere on vacation with oncle."

The social worker said maybe the girl had no family. Or maybe she was too frightened to speak openly. Whatever the case, there were few options on moving forward. Most likely, the girl would be institutionalized and rehabilitated.

"Institutionalized?" Pepper was aghast. "Tony, no! We can't let that happen!"

"I knew this would happen," he waged a finger at her. "I told you we were just coming to look at the puppies, and now you want to bring one home."

"Think about it," she snapped. "This girl finally starts talking, her foster parents see a quick buck, and they run to the media. The story's going to be all over the place, and everyone's going to want to know why you covered it up!"

"Might end up that way anyway if the police find any bodies on Kurslow's property."

"Tony, look at her! Kurslow was on your payroll. This happened on your watch. You don't feel the slightest bit responsible?"

"Should I?"

"Tony!"

"Look, I don't care how long you stand there with your hand on your hip, shouting my name. She's not my responsibility."

Thanks to Pepper's bleeding heart, I went home with Tony Stark. I couldn't help but be impressed by his Australian house. It was so modern. So sleek.

Pepper gave me a tour of the hallways, kitchen, and bathrooms. She said my room would be adjacent to hers, and I could wake her for anything. She offered me her food, her services, her undivided loyalty and devotion.

I almost felt guilty for exploiting her.

Guilt is a strange thing. I've heard most people feel a strong association between guilt and love. When most people love something, they find it difficult to disappoint or hurt that object of affection without experiencing guilt. I don't. I was able to be completely sincere with Ms. Potts: I showed gratitude, admiration and adoration. All the while, I knew I would betray her. That betrayal would be ruthless and direct. But the two conflicting emotions never diminished the power of the other.

Does that make me a pathological liar?

The very next morning, Pepper busied herself with planning Mr. Stark's day while I helped myself to toast and orange juice. She asked me if I would be comfortable talking about my experiences with Kurslow.

"Oncle?" I said stupidly.

"What did he do to you?" She asked in French.

I grabbed her breasts.

"Holy smokes!" Mr. Stark shouted, "We've got a live one!" He confined my wrists while poor Ms. Potts tried to recompose herself. Then he said in French (actually, in the correct dialect, too): "We know men have touched you… Don't care. What I want to know is what they did to you scientifically. Understand?"

I nodded. "I can show you. Take me to his lab."

I couldn't really call the mission easy, but once I got inside the laboratory, I was dizzy with relief. I couldn't believe my own good luck! It had worked! It really worked!

Once inside the headquarters, it was just a matter of using my precognitive abilities to locate the blueprints I was after. The papers weren't far from Kurslow's lab, but I knew Mr. Stark wouldn't let me out of his sight. Not for an instant. I wandered the halls, pretending to recall the experiments. I told them some non-sense about hearing other girls but never seeing them; about mystery injections and electric therapy. Whenever I needed inspiration, I just thought of Sinister's insane experiments.

I also said Kurslow would take me into an office and force me to perform oral sex, but I couldn't quite remember which one… They let me walk right into the room containing the blueprints. I watched a team collect "DNA samples" from underneath a desk, but I was never out of Mr. Stark's eye sight. I could feel the camera on me. Mr. Stark watched me like a hunting falcon. The security guards in the hallway saw me.

But time was running out.

Moment of truth.

Weaponless, and without a back-up plan or escape route, I grabbed the disk from shelf and slid it down my pants. I did it in broad view of dozens of people.

I couldn't believe my luck!

No one saw it happen, but I knew time was quickly turning against me. I had virtually no time in which to escape the building before someone noticed the disk missing. My actions were plainly recorded. Before Mr. Stark saw that footage, I needed to be out of the country. But before I could leave the building, I needed to ditch the evidence. A "nervous break-down" encouraged Ms. Potts to take me into the restroom. While she wet a towel for my face, I dropped the disk in a pre-labeled envelope addressed to a PO Box in New Orleans. Then I more carefully concealed the package behind my belt, and re-arranged my clothes.

I dropped the envelope in a mail cart in the hallway.

Outside the building, I was escorted to a different car from Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts. My hands left wet prints on the leather interior. I inquired in French to our destination. The driver didn't understand me, but answered: "Mr. Stark's returning to the States. We're going downtown. They're going to find a home for you. Understand? Home."

I rode for a few miles, noting the streets and subway entrances. Then at the busy intersection, I bailed from the car and ran like mad to the train.

Hong Kong, China

The Mid-Autumn Festival was like a weeklong Mardi Gras. Never in my life had I seen so many people celebrate so enthusiastically! How had the Chinese obtained a reputation as uptight, miserable sheeple? It made me wonder if they were not wrong in their opinion of American propaganda. Unfortunately, I wasn't there to celebrate. I had a job to do. Compared to my Thieves initiation, this mission was a cake walk. Marie provided me with a name, picture, location, weapon, and plan. Was she helping me too much? Or had Franco been too harsh? Maybe killing was just easier than stealing.

My target was the wife of a wealthy business man. The wife herself had no hobbies or responsibilities worth mentioning. Mostly, she was a pretty face to keep the house clean and the newspapers interested.

Why would anyone want to kill her?

An Assassin never asks such questions. Acceptable questions are: Who? Where? When? How much? But 'why?' is strictly off-limits.

Still, I wanted to know.

I watched her get ready for the nighttime celebration. She brushed her teeth, carefully chose her outfit, decorated her ears and neck with heavy jewelry, and spent forty-five minutes on her hair. When it came time to paint her face, she was an artist. Her sweet lips were the deepest red. Her eye brows were as slender as a waning moon. Her dark brown eyes bore into the looking glass, and I saw her watching me. Suddenly, we were one, and I could not avoid the truth. Her husband had a mistress. He wanted a divorce, but could not afford to dispose of his wife. She would leave him with nothing, and without his fortune, the mistress would be gone, too. The wife had considered choking the man on his own wedding ring. She should have given into her impulse. A life in prison was still a life.

I watched her get into the vehicle with him. From my binoculars, I saw the car fade into the city. I followed the pair to the party, where the assassination was to take place.

The man needed plenty of witnesses to verify that he had not murdered his wife. He wanted the impression that the attempt had been on his life. After all, many people wanted him dead. Only two people in the world wanted his wife dead, and only one person had the means to hire a hitman.

With live rockets popping in the streets, a gunshot would be easily concealed. But I hesitated. I watched them through my scope for a long time. This unknown man and his unloved wife. I could've killed him. Did I really want to? Did I really want to burden this woman with a dead spouse? Or did I just want to kill a man? I hated all men. I hated Franco and Sinister and Nate and Mr. Summers and Professor Xavier and sometimes even my father. Given the chance, I would kill six men before one woman.

I don't know why I decided to dedicate myself to that random thought. A sniper's mantra is 'One shot, one kill'. I should have done my job, collected my pay and gone home. But I guess I've never been very obedient. I shot the husband, his two body guards, the driver, the P.R. photographer and an unlucky party dancer. While the crowd morphed into a panicked mob, I reloaded and found my target crouched over her husband's body. I took the shot.

Pandemonium reigned in the streets.

Luckily, I was several blocks away. The extra time allowed me to dispose of the weapon, change my clothes and disappear into the crowd. At five foot six, I was taller than most of the men. Blonde hair and blood-and-black eyes didn't help me blend in with the Asian majority. Not only was I visible, but I was also a foreigner and a mutant.

I heard the police shouting at me. Then the whistles blew, and alarms followed. My feet moved as quickly as they could. Black combat boots pounded the smooth city sidewalks: crushing paper lanterns, fallen flowers and unfortunate bystanders. I moved blindly into the historic district, where the sidewalks were not so smooth.

Fantastic! Now I was a lost foreigner who couldn't speak or read the language!

The little Chinese policemen in crisp brown uniforms were close on my tail. No matter how fast I moved, they multiplied faster. I had to shake them. Fast.

I made a quick turn in between two run-down buildings. The alley dead-ended with an eight-foot high cement wall. While my pursuers funneled into the narrow entrance, I leapt and kicked off one building to the other. Launching from the second wall, I had enough height to clear the wall. I landed blindly on the broken pavement on the other side of the wall.

Snap!

"Merde!" I wept for my broken ankle. What rotten luck!

Limping out the other alley, I leaned against the building and looked around helplessly. Those bastards would be over the wall any second. Running was no longer an option.

I felt a pair of eyes on me. To my left, I saw a man sitting alone in the dark. He was so comfortable in his environment that at first, my mind said he was Chinese. Unkempt silver hair fell over his eyes, casting a shadow over his face. He was so still that he completely vanished, even in plain view. If his eyes hadn't born into me, I don't think I would have ever seen him. But as our eyes met, I saw into his soul. The white man sat on a little stool, his elbows resting on a large wooden crate. Between his yellowed teeth he held an authentic opium pipe, and smoke slipped around him like little blue-silver snakes.

"Please," I groaned, "Help me."

I didn't even know if he understood.

After a moment's hesitation, he lifted his little wooden crate. I quickly crawled across the street and pulled myself under the box. I was sure the police saw my feet slide away. There were voices, shouting, and then the pounding of feet. I clamped my mouth with both hands, trying to quiet my labored breathing. I was so sure that my little haven would be kicked over at any moment. The man would turn me in. The police couldn't be so stupid!

Silence.

"It'll be safe t' come out now."

The box was surprisingly heavy from the bottom, but I managed to push it over. Wood loudly slapped the broken street, sending dust and ashes away from the landing site. I sat still for a moment and watched the man. He smoked steadily from his hookah, unconcerned for my well-being. His clothes were dingy and too large for his withered frame.

I tried to get a read on him. Just like Mystique, this man gave away nothing. Was he the sort to beg, threaten or… proposition?

"Proposition, yes," he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "But not in de way you think."

A telepath!

I scrambled to back away, and then crawled to a building which I leaned on for support as I hobbled away. This man gave me the willies. I did not want to get involved in him – even if he would help me.

"Where will you be goin' on that foot?"

Suddenly, he was behind me, although I hadn't heard him move. He lifted me with supernatural strength and threw me over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes.

Jean-Luc?

No, it couldn't be. Jean-Luc had a tendency to show up at one's weakest moments, but this man didn't smell or move or sound like Jean-Luc. My grandfather had a very strong and powerful presence. This man had a ghostly presence. His very existence was like the smoke he blew away: here for a moment, and then invisible.

"I'd be a friend," he said, "That'd be all you need to know."

I decided not to fight him until I was sure I had an opening and escape.

He took me into a shanty without light and clumsily laid me on a mattress. The third-world house smelled like a rat cage and opium. My host/abductor moved across the room and struck a match. A moment later, he lit the room/house with a single Chinese lantern. I took the opportunity to examine my surroundings. The floor was compacted dirt, and the mattress was the only piece of furniture. However, the little shanty was crammed full of things I couldn't identify. Large objects made of steel and metal were hidden by this unassuming residence. Whatever those things were, they were more durable than the walls. I knew if things got too hairy, I would have no trouble at all blasting away the entire building. The walls were weak aluminum, held together by rusted bolts. In lieu of a front door, the occupant hung up a bed sheet. It must've been the only luxury item in the whole neighborhood. My cot didn't even have sheets or a pillow.

Meanwhile, my host/abductor gathered some supplies and mumbled to himself: "Come half way across the world to bandage up some lost kitten. Ridiculous! Suppose to be my vacation! 'Spend a little time in de twenty-first century', she said. 'Things are so simple then.' Ha!" He turned to me and said, "I should pay someone to do this for me. I'm no doctor, you know, but I employ many. I'm a very important person."

Then he stormed out, and I wondered if he really was looking for a doctor. A moment later, he returned with the hookah. He said nothing, but held out one of the hoses.

I merely looked at him.

"Don't play innocent with me," he said irritably. "Take the damn thing. I didn't comfort you through de pain, so just take a hit."

I took the ornate hose and wiped the mouthpiece with my jacket. Then I took a deep breath of the substance. I exhaled slowly and took another puff. My head felt light. My whole body felt wonderful. I fell back on the cot, a smile on my lips and not a worry in my head. He loosened my boot as much as possible before removing it. I felt the back tap against my heel. He peeled away my sock. Then he put on each palm on my broken ankle and pressed it back into place. I heard a crunching sound, followed by an acute pain. I tried to jerk away from him, but he easily pulled me back and began bandaging my foot.

"I told myself I wouldn't come," he rambled on. "You've been dead longer than you've been alive. Best to leave dead things buried. I never did like graveyards, but here I am. Always was a masochist. You look just like her, you know. My eldest. I had many, but she was de first."

My powers took control of my voice. I heard myself responding without understanding.

"Where are they now?"

"My babies all died in de war. All but one and he hates me. Just as well. I'll hate my father, too; it's just the way of de world. He was like God on this throne: always shouting down orders and pulling the strings. Never mind how I helped him. I'll always be overlooked. But I got his attention…. Do you know why God kills his son? It wasn't for the love of de world. No. He was afraid Jesus would surpass him in power and greatness. Had to take him down a notch. But I'm no martyr. I knocked that old geyser off his throne. He had no business out living his children, anyway."

"What about you?" I asked, again ignorant of my motivation. Maybe it was the opium speaking. "You outlived your children."

"Not yet, but I will. Man's got no business in it."

"Homme…" My head lolled side to side. "You're not makin' any sense."

"You'd be an idiot to trust me," he said. "I'll be born under the unluckiest of stars. You'll never phantom the things I'll see. And I'll tell myself that won't matter. All that'll matter is de dream… De dream. What will happen when I outlive the dream?"

Suddenly, I was flooded with emotions and alien thoughts. However this man had blocked me out, he had now lowered those defenses. His life and spirit were unlike anything I'd ever experienced. The mere presence of him blared in my head like white noise. I felt bile rise in my chest. My eyes wept unexplainably.

I hate you! You broke her heart, and you don't even care!

He didn't mean it, Pop. He's just…

I'll ask you one more time, old man… Who killed the X-Men?

A real kiss, damn you. One… last… time…

I'm sorry I'm not her, okay? You should've known that when we got together! You can walk out on me, but he is your son! Your son, you sorry son of a-

Then it all ended abruptly.

He pulled me into his arms and held me fiercely. Just as fiercely as my father had held me the last time I'd seen him. This man pressed his face into my hair and inhaled deeply. His strong hands clamped my tender limbs almost to the breaking point.

"Are you real?" He whispered.

I pushed him away, my skin cold and crawling. I grabbed my boot and a walking stick that had been waiting for me in the doorway. I hobbled away as quickly as I could.

This time, he didn't follow.

Author's Notes: Yes, the creepy old guy in China is Witness. In his thoughts, the first line is Ollie; the second is Becca; the third is Bishop; the fourth is Rogue (from 'The End'); and the final one is still undetermined. Since Witness is Gambit from a very distant, dystopian future, I thought it'd be fun to have him switch his tenses… For example, he talks about the past like it's the future and vise versa. I don't usually enjoy time-traveler stories, and this is probably the closest I'll ever come to writing one. But I did enjoy creating the time paradox. Witness is great in small bits. Once you try building a plot around him, the foundation starts to crumble. So Honor will most likely never see him again.

As for Tony Stark, I based that entirely off the movies. Sorry, I don't know anything about the comics. When I found out Honor would be stealing from him, I did some quick investigational work, and put together the background. But as far as his personality? Yeah, that's all Robert Downey Jr. If anyone's a big Iron Man fan, I apologize.