X-Men: Noir
The year is 1940 in the city of Westchester, New York. It is a time of fear and war, and in this particular city, there is tyranny and a whole other kind of war against its kingpin, Don Eric Magnus. All citizens submit to rule, or end up eventually dead. To fight is to commit suicide. The people look anywhere they can for hope: the law, the press, even vigilantes. It is all, thus far, to no avail, for Eric's shadow is vast.
Fade in.
The scene through the window paints a serene skyline of the calm night city, with the horizontal blinds cutting into the view, shadowing stripes of light and dark through the entire room. Only a small lamp glows in the dark room, with a massive wooden desk catering to a single, broad-shouldered man. There is a gloomy feeling in the air, a storm on the horizon, and the stress of this makes the muscular individual rub his head. He scratched his mutton-chops, opened a drawer beside him to pull out a cigar and light, and after a deep inhale, gave out a sigh.
He slaps down the newspaper he had been reading, with a bold headline about a hero cop, the "Man that Won't Die", right above an article about a professor winning the Nobel for a second time, and how high crime rates have risen in the city. Beside the headline is a picture of himself, which he abhors to the point of dabbing a burning hole into his face. This article, published by a pushy reporter named Jean Grey, has cost him his job. Jean not only knew him, but was fond of him, and thought she was doing him a favor by glorifying him publicly. She didn't know he wasn't supposed to even be at that warehouse to begin with, that he had been give specific orders not to, that he was already on thin ice with his boss. It was like the girl was psychic, always knowing where the action was, were he was going to go next, what he was thinking...
In the past, he liked to pretend that the media response was the real encouragement to throw himself into the middle of a gunfight, that he jumped ahead into the fray for the attention. But this expose' had ruined all that, painting him as he truly was… A trouble seeker, a gung ho warrior for violence, badgering witnesses, antagonizing criminals, purposefully getting in the mafia's bad graces…
She knew, and now the rest of the world did too, that it was the heat of the battle, that imminent danger of really and truly dying, where he felt most alive.
He abruptly put the paper down when he heard the door open. It was a younger man, with a dark brown trench coat reached down far to the floor and a wide brim fedora always seeming to cover most of his face. Remy, his partner, an ex-street thief with a knack for undercover work. It took a long time for Logan to trust him as a partner, and the fact remained that he still didn't quite trust him, what, with his record…. but the blinding truth was Remy always had his back just in time and was good at his job, as far as Logan could tell.
Remy was about the opposite of himself in appearance: taller, leaner, more handsome, and definitely more congenial, especially when it came to women. Logan wished the papers had picked Remy instead, God knows he had the face for the media attention. They could've made him look like a real hero, like the Goddamned bachelor of the year. He wished every day that those story-hungry pencil pushers were putting someone else in the spotlight.
"Logan," he said, thick with the accent of France. He was a mascot of Cajuns, his Louisiana upbringing deeply rooted to his very core, most evident every time he spoke. "It is very late, mon ami."
He knew what that meant. Time for Logan to leave the office and for suspension to commence. He snatched up his briefcase and angrily stormed out, without so much as a goodbye. But Remy was not offended by this, no, he knew him all too well for that.
"Wait," Remy called after his friend. He took a small box out of the inside of his coat, and held it out to Logan graciously. "A small gift, for what you did for me back at the warehouse."
"You mean saving your ass for the eighth time?"
"By my count, seven, but yes."
Logan opened the small wooden box and saw a very thick, very expensive cigar awaiting him inside. Something to ease the pain during the boring uneventful days surely to come. It was a pity gift, one that he would gladly accept, but feel no need to be outwardly thankful for.
"I'm getting a drink," Logan said instead. There was a bar just across the street that they made regular appearances at after shifts. "Remember to turn out the lights when you close up."
Remy nodded assuredly and turned to go.
"Oh, and Remy…" Logan called after him. Remy paused to glance back at his comrade. "Try to get some actual work done around here, would ya? And not the kind of work you usually do."
Remy smiled and shook his head.
"Why, Logan. Whatever do you mean…?"
Later that night, back inside the office, Remy reached out a hand to very shapely woman's leg on his desk, stroking it upward and followed the line up to her pale hips. He brought a match to the cigarette in his mouth, and flicked the match in his fingers until it went out. He let out a smoky sigh, as he smiled at the brunette, who showed her teeth as she smiled back, stealing the cigarette from his lips and bringing it to her own. As they shared a glance of common, blissful knowledge, she let the cloud of smoke drift from her lips.
"Always a pleasure, Genevieve," Remy passed a nod in her direction. "Oh, and do remind me next time you're here to place you undah arrest."
She took the hint, and grabbed for her shirt, taking her time to put it on over her exposed lavender bra.
"Sounds like a date," she replied with a wink. She smiled again, and was encouraged to come back for one more kiss. She made it count, knowing she had to try hard to be remembered among the list of women that wanted him. Then she grabbed her coat, gave him a lingering glance, and took her leave.
As the door closed after her, Remy sighed again, louder this time. It was the middle of the night now, and he hadn't even begun his paperwork. It was a typical procrastinator's tale, really. There were too many cases that needed solving, too many cases bound together by the same group of people, with no real evidence to convict any one of them. It was the most frustrating thing to see, not to mention most unmotivating. Plus, flashes of the sweat and pleasure that had just happened not moments before were very hard to ward off in his train of thoughts, if only for the memories of another certain woman they ensued.
Maybe it was time to call it a night. Everyone else here had long since gone home. In his fatigue, thoughts trailed off too much beyond his control.
His eyes became glued to the warehouse in the black and white photo on the flat surface of the desk before him. Logan had swore this warehouse was vital to their case, but upon investigation, they had found it deserted and empty, with only incriminating gunfire and a standoff with the mob to surround it. It was obvious they were protecting something, but what? It didn't make any sense.
He heard the door open and it hit him like a swift kick in the nuts. That scent, like mountain springs and wildflowers, a bold breath of fresh air. The distinct clack of a heel much too high for an honorable woman. Definitely not the same woman that has just left. He let his eyes take their time with the first look upon that green satin dress, tight in all the right places to hold all her charms at bay like a perfect tease. A fur-lined collar that rubs against her pale cheeks. A crooked brimmed, netted hat hid away most of her most likely spectacular facial features, except for a pair of ruby lips, wonderfully rosette in color and texture.
She was perfect. A little too perfect.
Remy leaned back in his chair. He knew the mob picked up and hid away only their most magnificent women for secret weapons, for moments just like this one. And boy, was she a lovely distraction. She showed too much breathtaking leg, too much fantastic cleavage, to be here for anything but foul play.
She looked up at Remy, and showed her young face, her pure porcelain skin, her emerald eyes, and a snowy blonde streak in her otherwise auburn head of hair. A very distinguishable stripe, that one does not soon forget.
That was when he recognized her, and a flood of memories swarmed over him.
He had been new in town once, a stranger that transferred in from another bureau. He knew no one, had no friends. On his first lonely night in this new city, he had unwittingly wandered into a bad part of town. Crimes happening in plain sight, decaying buildings, and prostitutes on every corner. She had been one of those streetwalkers, though hardly as desperate, seeing as she came out looking like a million bucks even in her dark state in life. A few thugs came out of nowhere, started demanding her services for free, and backed her into a dark alley. Remy warded them off one by one, warning them never to touch her again, lest he blow them sky high. She had thanked him the only way she knew how, starting with a passionate kiss and somehow ending up in bed, and he had savored every moment of it.
He had never seen her again, until now, but this was hardly the same woman from his memory. This woman was dripping with obvious wealth, jewels and silk clothing screaming that a benefactor had done work here. It came as no surprise, for a bombshell body on display for sale was bound to get a bombshell price to match.
She had paused in his doorway, not moving until she was otherwise invited. She seemed to take little mind at his staring, and waited patiently for him to speak first.
"Hello, chere…" his voice cracked under the pressure of his racing heart, his hot veins, and sweating pores. His fingers tingled with the muscle memory of what they had once touched. "A little late for you to be here, ain't it?"
"Usually, I'm right on time no matter where I am," she said with her sweetheart Southern drawl, closing the door behind her without breaking eye contact. He awkwardly shifted around the papers on his desk just to give himself something to think about other than the slit in her dress and how high it went. Then, after he allowed himself have a breather, he let the shock of her pass over him, and set his mind back into the game. He was too good for this distraction. There were too many women out there to let himself get caught in a tizzy over one dame.
"Is dere somethin' I can't help you with dere, belle…?"
She took a seat in one of the two the leather-bound chairs placed before the desk. She leaned forward in the chair, chest presented properly towards him.
"I need your help, sugah," she explained in a low voice. "And I need it bad."
"Before you go any further, let me kindly interrupt," Remy put up a hand to stop her. "Am I to believe that on the day our best detective here gets suspended, a sexy outfit like you shows up to his notoriously hot-blooded partner in a tight little number like that, at this time of night, and I am supposed to suspect nothing?"
She bit her finger thoughtfully.
"The least you can do is enjoy it, hon."
Remy shook it off with a shrug.
"What can I do ya for?"
She cast her eyes downward, a streak of innocence flowing into them a little suddenly.
"Let me stay with you?"
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Signed,
RedRogue