Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the song. I receive no profit from this. Enjoy!
1. IT'S A LONG WAY TO RICHMOND
Wolverine held the tablet at arm's length, squinting his eyes at the pixilated image on the screen. On occasion he would flip the direction of the devise and then curse in frustration under his breath as they picture switched from landscape to portrait mode without properly formatting itself.
"Who the hell is this?" Wolverine grunted in frustration.
Emma Frost snatched the tablet from his grasp before he could break it, "That's the thing, love. No one really knows." She held the tablet at her side as she crossed her arms. "The Press calls them The Mutant Bonnie and Clyde. The only chatter about them that exists is that she can't control her skin based powers and he can charm his way into- or out of- damn near anything."
Wolverine leered at her in annoyance, "And why the hell am I lookin' at a shitty screen grab of them?" he demanded. He hadn't been back at the Institute for but an hour, but there he was, summoned to the War Room. All he wanted was a shower. And a beer.
"Because we need to find them." Scott muttered, tapping his fingers against the table. In that moment, Wolverine noticed how far-away Scott's gaze was. He continued to inspect Scott's uncharacteristic fidgeting.
"There somethin' yer negelctin' ta tell me?"
"Oh, we will get to that." Emma interjected, "Turns out you miss quite a lot when you fall off the radar for six months."
Wolverine tisked his tongue, "Yeah, well before I left we weren't Law and Order: Mutant Crimes Task Force. They're stealin' shit, so what?" he snapped, pressing his hands against the table and leaning forward on them.
"That's the thing, Logan. We're not hunting them. We need to hire them." Scott said coolly, looking up at him for the first time.
Wolverine blinked. "Well, shit." He sat down slowly. "Read me in on what's so bad we have to contract watered down Mercenaries… If we need an assassin I know a guy."
Emma laid the tablet back down on the table in front of Wolverine. This time it had a map of the Eastern seaboard and Southern part of the United States littered with little red dots spread out among the states.
"Let's see if we can only toe the line for now." Emma remarked dryly. "That can always be Plan B."
In her twenty odd years, the beautiful young woman in an elegant blue cocktail dress accented with elbow length white gloves had gone by many different names. The first had been Anna. Anna was her given name, specifically the name her parents had given her. For a brief period in her rebellious early teens she only answered to Marie. But it was Anna Marie when she fled the heavy hand of her father into the arms of an arguably lesser evil. There had even been a minute where she tried Marion on for size.
A plethora of names, yet not one of them she identified with. At least, not a real, Christian name.
Rogue sauntered around the Gala like she belonged there. She held herself proudly with her nose lifted upward at the sight of any cater-waiter in her near vicinity. She had worked very hard to fit the part, even going as far dying her white streak.
She scanned the room for her date. It didn't take long for her to spot him chatting up a hot piece of ass near a priceless piece of art. Rogue rolled her eyes, typical. Irritation shading her face, Rogue started to make a bee-line for him.
A hand caught the crook of her arm and forcibly turned her to face its owner. It was a man with dashing blue eyes, a devil-may-care smirk and shoulder length hair that was pulled back into a ponytail.
"May I have this dance?" he asked chivalrously with a polite bow.
Rogue glanced from him to her date, who was still flirting with the other woman. "You may." She replied.
The man led her out onto the dance floor. He placed his hands on her waist in gentlemanly fashion. The music started and they swayed rhythmically to the beat. She led.
"Tell me, why is a woman as radiant as you standing alone?" he breathed into her ear.
Rogue surveyed the entire room as they danced, counting the Art works, the number of security guard in uniform, the number of guards dressed like everyone else, the number of wait staff, the number of guards dressed as wait-staff. So on and so forth.
"Because my date is a creep who always goes for the tightest ass in the room." She muttered.
"Then he obviously hasn't been paying the right woman his attention." He laughed. They continued to dance around the room and after a few beats he continued, "Why come with him at all?"
Rogue rolled her eyes, "I'm told that it's all a part of the plan."
He held her at arm's length and then pulled her back to him so that their faces were inches apart, "It's a rather clever plan, if I do say so myself." He replied smugly.
Rogue gave him a tight smile, "Ah, good to know that your change in eye color doesn't alter your personality, Remy."
Remy grinned, "You love it, Cherie. And if it makes you feel better, these full eye contacts itch like a bitch."
She contemplated that statement, "A little. However, that handsy bastard keeps groping me and I have to pretend like I like it." She deadpanned.
Remy's grin fell, "Well, that doesn't make me feel any better."
"S'matter, suddenly don't like your plan's all it's cracked up to be?" Rogue replied with a ghost of a smile on her lips.
Shrugging, Remy said, "Gotta take one for the team every now and then, hein? Don't worry, I'll make it up to you later." He winked.
Rogue scoffed, "That better entail ah-lotta chocolate and ah Rom-Com." She said accidentally slipping into her accent.
"Careful." Remy chastised quietly.
Rogue glared at him, "I know. I know how to run the con." The music stopped before transitioning into the next song. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go get my date alone." She said with a faux smile.
She left Remy standing alone on the dance floor and made her way back to Franklin Morrison, her date. Frankie was the benefactor of the Gala. The man had married into his money, his ailing wife in a hospital in Germany for some unpronounceable experimental treatment no one had ever heard of.
Frankie was a conventionally attractive man in his early 50s with a hypnotic voice and roaming hands. He was also one of the few people who had complete access to everywhere within the Gala. Which was why he was the mark.
Rogue strolled over to Franklin, coming up from behind him. She slipped her arms around his waist with her chest pressed against his back. She lent in toward his ear and whispered something rather risqué and seductive.
Franklin perked up and completely forgot about Tight-ass Woman. He turned to face her with a roguish smirk hat encompassed a man's lips when he thought he was about to get laid. Rogue took his hands and led him to a "random" door.
The guards at the door started to stop them, but Franklin puffed out his chest and demanded to know if they knew who he was.
Franklin Morrison, that's who.
Rogue pretended to be enthralled by his blatant bullying and batted her eyes at him.
Smug and proud of his authority, Franklin brushed passed the guards, Rogue in tow. He led her through the door and down an adjacent hallway.
"Let's get a room with some privacy, eh?" he said in attempt to be charming, but still tried to showcase his status by pronouncing "privacy" as "priv-ah-cee".
Rogue fought the urge to throw up in her mouth, "Sounds perfect."
Franklin, using his keycard, took them into a locked room full of un-displayed Artworks and secured lockers for the more expensive works. Shutting the door behind them, Franklin turned to Rogue, stripping his jacket and loosening his tie.
"I'm gonna screw you so hard you won't walk straight for a week." He boasted.
Somehow, she seriously doubted he were capable of that.
Rogue grabbed him by his loose tie and pulled him closer. She kept the distance between their faces at mere millimeters, forcing herself not to recoil from his unpleasantly warm breath that smelled of caviar. Her lips parted and her teeth were dangerously close to grazing his mouth. She ignored the urge to stop and pretended he were someone else. Anyone else, really.
She took a step back and shimmied out of the thong she had been wearing. She held it out on her finger and waved it in front of him. He was entranced by it. Like a dog being baited with a bone.
"You know what I've never done?" she said cheekily, "I've never fucked in front of a million dollar painting. You and I should definitely have a first."
Franklin grinned, "You are absolutely right." He pulled out his keycard and went for one of the lock boxes, swiping his card and in putting a 10 digit pass-code. "Madelyn, meet-"
He didn't get to finish his sentence. Rogue bashed his head against the locker before he could. Saving herself from any more of his incessant conscious presence.
Rogue shivered with relief, thankful the plan had worked. She had no desire to have that creep roaming around in her head for the sake of a pass code. She slipped her underwear back on and checked the watch on Franklin's wrist. Remy should be arriving at any minute
Rogue rubbed her arms with her hands in attempt to sooth herself as she waited. She was doing her best to fight off unwanted memories. Her breath quickened as she fought the losing battle. Flashes started to consume her head. Her fingers began to tremble as her breathing became erratic.
A knock pulled her from her hellish trance. Remy.
Rogue flew to the door and opened it just wide enough for Remy and the waiter's cart to make it in. Remy was now dressed as a waiter. He shut the door behind him and tossed an outfit to Rogue.
"Ain't got much time, Cherie." He said hastily as he deposited the Artwork under the cloth of the cart, adding any lose works in the room to the stash.
As Rogue took off the dress and put on the plain black and white staff clothing, Remy eyed Franklin with a grin on his lips.
Remy took Franklin's watch, wallet, keycard and then his pants. He stuffed Franklin's pants into the empty lockbox and shut it. He bent down over Franklin and smacked him on the cheek playfully. "You really oughta treat de femme's better, mon ami." He mused.
Remy paused his humiliation of Franklin to look at Rogue. He whistled, "Damn, cher you make anyt'ing look hot."
Rogue smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, yeah. Now let's get outta here."
Irene Adler woke in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. She slowly drew herself up into a sitting position in the full sized bed that she did not currently share with anyone.
She had just had a terrible nightmare, but found herself unable to recall any specifics of the dream. All she knew was that she felt and overwhelming sense of dread and would be unable to fall back asleep anytime soon with the pressing anxiety causing her heart to flutter so offbeat.
She slid out from under her covers, placing her bare feet onto the carpeted floor. She held her hands out as she exited the room so not to accidentally run into anything as she made her way toward the small kitchen in the apartment she was dwelling in.
Irene worked her spatial awareness to find the cabinet that held her cups. Shakily, she reached up and took one, closing the door. She side stepped toward the sink, turning on the cold water. She let her finger linger under the water to ensure she had actually gotten the cold this time. She often forgot which knob was hot and which was cold in her old age. So it goes.
The water was satisfactorily cold, so Irene held her cup under the water, counting the seconds as not to overflow her glass.
However, a familiar tingling sensation stemmed from the nape of her neck that soon consumed her entire body. An ache right behind her eyes was her final segue into her new surroundings.
She could see. She could see the blinding white light overhead, the sterile environment of a hospital room. A quick glance revealed a huddled mass of a young woman quivering on the floor. Her face ashy and sullen, as if she were to soon take her final breaths. Irene gasped when she recognized the girl's white streaked hair. Anna Marie. Anna Marie was dying. Irene saw the life slowly fading from her eyes as a content smile began to encompass her lips.
"NOOO" the blood curtailing scream that erupted from Irene's throat caused the scene to disintegrate before her eyes. As quickly as it had come, it had gone. The familiar blackness was back in her vision.
Irene stumbled back, dropping the cup. The glass fell to the floor and shattered everywhere. She needed to get to a phone. She needed to warn Anna Marie. To warn Raven. Raven could save her. Irene stumbled over the broken glass, cutting her feet as she went.
The sensation of drowning washed over her as she found herself unable to breathe properly. Her vision had upset her so that her chest had tightened. Irene clutched her chest with her right hand, unable to move her left due to a sudden numbness.
Phone. She needed the Phone.
Her body did not obey to her mind's commands. She was nauseated, dizzy and unable to remain upright on her feet. Irene fell to her knees, her screams now a hoarse whisper. She didn't even feel the glass cut into her side as she slumped over, her breath becoming labored.
Raven. Anna Marie. Phone.
Irene lay there, helpless and alone, tears streaming down her face as she was forced to reconcile with the imminent demise of her beloved Anna Marie.
The faucet was still gushing cold water into the sink as Irene's head pressed against the floor, unable to be held up any longer. The blind woman's unblinking gaze transfixed on nothing in particular in the direction of the old wall phone just feet from her.
It seemed that not even Destiny had the power to interfere with the fate this time.
A/N: Some general housekeeping info: I intend to update this story every other week, occasionally once a week, all depending on how much work I have.
Forewarning, this story is dark at some points, that wasn't my original intention but that's what happened when I wrote the outline. That said, I don't want to upset anyone so I will include an (*) in the title at the beginning of the chapter as well as before the paragraph in question as a trigger warning. I'll note what the possible trigger involves down here using another (*) so not to spoil anything. Most of the things in question will be allusions to and/or insinuations of events that could be triggering.
