Disclaimer: I tried to steal them once, but Remy was a better thief than I, so all the X-Men characters still belong to Marvel. Évariste Gavet is my creation and belongs to me.

A/U Setting: The Phalanx invaded the Earth at a much earlier time than as it occurred in the comics. The result of this difference was a three-sided war between Earth, the Phalanx, and the Technarch that lasted over seven years. Earth won, eventually, but not without major repercussions.

Five years have passed since the last of the defeated Technarch and Phalanx retreated from Earth. Much of the destruction has been built anew. Cities—half destroyed, half reformed—are regaining the familiar formalities of day-to-day life. Life is continuing on. And while relations between humans and mutants have improved significantly due to the mutants' role in winning the war, it doesn't take much to drive fear and animosity to a fever pitch. A series of murders, old grudges, innocent coincidences, and hidden agendas will boil frayed nerves quite effectively...

Author's Notes: As this is a mystery, there are parts that are misleading on purpose. Not everything is as it seems and not everyone is who he or she seems. In unraveling the mystery, these things will be revealed and explained.

And finally, each chapter will begin with lyrics of a song, mostly by Portishead. Please take the time to read them because they really do have significant atmospheric, thematic, and conceptual purposes to the story. All the better, though, if you could actually find a way to listen to them while reading. -wink-

Chapter One

It's a fire,
These dreams they pass me by,
The salvation I desire,
Keeps getting me down.

'Cause we need to,
Recognize mistakes,
For time and again.

So let it be known,
For what we believe in,
I can see no reason,
For it to fail.

'Cause this life is like a farce,
I can't breathe through this mask,
Like a fool,
So breathe on, sister, breathe on.

From this oneself,
Testify or tell,
It's fooling us now.

("It's a Fire," Portishead)

-

"They don't think it's him," Detective Bishop said, handing Logan the ID the police found on the victim. The ID was in a clear plastic bag. It was muddy, but there wasn't any blood on it.

"That's why I'm here. Right, Bub?"

As they walked, Wolverine learned the victim's stats from the ID. He ignored the name and picture. If Bishop called him for help then that meant the name and picture were no help to them so far. Once he had the stats dully noted, Wolverine handed Bishop back the ID as Bishop continued to lead him towards Recovery Fountain.

The fountain, located in Recovery Square in Central Park, was one of the first memorials built after the Phalanx war. It was solid marble, veined green and black. The centerpiece was a life size statue of two females in the fighting-for-life pose made famous by journalistic photographer, Peter Parker. One of the females in the statue was a teenager dressed in sneakers, tattered jeans, gloves and a turtleneck. Her two-toned hair, cleverly marked by the marble veins, was in pigtail braids. One braid was half undone and disheveled, missing its ribbon from the end. The other female in the statue was a young woman, a heroine, in a formfitting body suit with a bird—its wingspan fully opened—etched into the chest. The heroine's wavy mane was reminiscent of fire, sprawling out around her. The teen, atop the centered crag, was squatting and digging her heals into the precipice for leverage as she dragged the unconscious heroine from out of the pool in the base of the fountain. One of the heroine's hands clutched the missing ribbon from the teen's loosened pigtail braid. When the fountain was operating, more than twenty shoots of water would pass over and swirl around the statue to drip and tinkle down into the pool. The memorial was completed with a plaque secured on its pedestal:

"Heroes, aren't we all."
Henry McCoy.
Dedicated in memory of Phoenix and Rogue
for their heroic efforts against the Phalanx invasion.

Logan, along with Bishop and several of the X-Men, had aptly attended the unveiling ceremony. McCoy had given a speech. The President of the United States had presented appreciation plaques engraved with the dedication to Scott Summers, in honor of his deceased wife, and to Charles Xavier, in Rogue's honor since no living relatives of hers were ever uncovered. Logan had stayed to see Scott accept Phoenix's plaque, but abruptly left when Charles stepped up to receive Rogue's. The site of that had sickened him. They had rejected Rogue and all but chased her out of the mansion when she had gone nuts, attacking everyone, after she awoke in the medlab. They claimed they had suspected she was responsible for Phoenix's death in the very battle, the very scene, which the statue was based on. Then, later, after Rogue had died while helping to save the Morlocks, they had suddenly mourned her, proclaiming that she had made up for her former diablerie. Logan had grumbled that they were a bunch of hypocrites too caught up in their own problems to see the girl had been scared and made a mistake with Jean. In his opinion, Rogue had never needed redemption. She had needed their help.

Logan shook his head free of the memory and focused on the task before him.

To reach the nucleus of the crime scene, Logan and Bishop had to weave through a crowd. There were too many people trampling all over the area surrounding the body. New York's boys in blue were gathering up bits of debris, mud and water samples, and anything else that could possibly be a piece of evidence. All those people and their activity were an assault on Logan's hypersensitive senses—the very reason for calling him to the scene—until the smell hit him. Once that happened, he had no problems filtering out all the blues.

Wolverine wrinkled his nose in disgust. The body smelled over a week dead. Its appearance supported that theory as well. According to the ID, the victim was male, nineteen, blond hair, blue eyes, six foot one inches in height, and one hundred eighty-five pounds. Some of that description fit the man lying dead in front of him. He was blond and his one eye was blue and he looked about six-three, but his body had been so far converted over to organic circuitry he had to weigh over two-fifty, easy. He appeared to have been in the advanced stages of the Phalanx Assimilation Virus, most commonly referred to as Lanx. His entire left side and most of his face had been transformed into circuitry, making it hard to identify him. On top of that, he was emaciated. The remaining flesh was gaunt and shriveled, sucking on the muscles and bones underneath it. The organic circuitry was crystalline, parched and flaking, ready to crumble to dust.

Logan asked, "All the others were like this?"

Bishop nodded. "This is number nine."

Leaning down for a closer look, Logan noted there wasn't any blood. Despite the dryness of the corpse, there appeared to not be any leakage of any kind of body fluid at all. Suspicious, Logan tested the dampness of the pool bottom with his fingers. The remaining water was nothing more than a glaze, so he asked, "How long ago did ya drain the fountain?"

"Forty minutes ago, give or take," answered Bishop.

"And the body was in the pool like this? In the water?"

Bishop nodded, his eyes flicking over to the face of Rogue's statue, then back to the body.

Logan caught Bishop's minute gesture and huffed. He didn't want to get on that subject just yet. Instead, he glanced over at a hysterical girl who was pleading with some of the officers at the do-not-cross tape. She was mostly hidden from his view but he got flashes of her blond hair as she hopped to see past the officers.

"That the girlfriend?"

"No," Bishop said, "His sister."

Logan noticed that Bishop was watching his reaction to that, but he didn't know why.

Finally, Bishop added, "She reported him missing two days ago. He went to work, never came home, and didn't show for work yesterday or today."

"And you think it's him," Logan asked. He gestured for the ID again.

"Yeah, I do," Bishop said with a sigh.

The sigh made Logan raise his brows in question. He looked at the ID again, reading off the more personal information. More to himself than to Bishop, he asked, "Lanx negative?"

"That's what it says," Bishop answered.

Logan checked the date on the ID. It wasn't even a week old. "Mutant. Thermal, kinetic shield," he read from the ID. "These are his," he said as he touched some of the scorch marks on the ground and the marble. Back to the ID, he read, "Alpha: base three," then translated, "He's a flier with limited invulnerability?" He finally matched the name and picture with the powers, the connection forming in his mind. "Cannonball?" he asked, puzzled.

"Yeah, Sam Guthrie... According to the ID," Bishop reminded him. "The others think the ID's stolen."

Logan was skeptical either way. The body sure didn't look like Cannonball; didn't look like much of anyone really. It looked more like a mummy half-dressed in cybernetics instead of cloth strips. "The sister got something personal of his, a jacket or something," he asked, "So I can match his scent."

Bishop motioned over one of the blues, who brought over a pair of leather strapped flying goggles and then left. Although neither Logan nor Bishop had spent much time with Cannonball since the war ended, the goggles were very familiar to them.

Logan, grimacing, sniffed the leather, then knelt down and sniffed the body. A moment later, his shoulders sagged.

"They can tell her it's him," Logan said, sounding faintly defeated. He hadn't expected it to be him, hadn't wanted it to be him.

"No," Bishop said.

Logan looked up, miffed.

"It's Paige," Bishop explained, "Husk. She should hear this from us."

Logan nodded and Bishop gave the blues the signal to let Paige through.

"You sure we should let her see him like this," Logan asked, "He looks a lot more than two days gone." A thought occurred to him and he added, "If they're not looking for the right thing, autopsy might just agree."

"This is a very public place," Bishop said, following Logan's train of thought. "Families come through here all day long."

Logan gestured to the smashed up marble and the scorch marks. "This happened here," he said, "Tonight."

"I figured as much," Bishop agreed. "But..."

This time, both of them flicked their eyes to the teenage face of Rogue's statue.

"You think the killer's trying to tell us something?" Bishop asked.

"Who knows," Logan said, shrugging. He looked up to see the blues let Paige past the do-not-cross tape and head towards them. She swayed as though she were dazed or drugged. He gauged his timing with Paige's speed, and figured he was still safe to talk.

"Any suspects," Logan asked.

"Nobody living," Bishop complained.

Logan huffed, his eyes flicking to Rogue's statue again.

Half-annoyed, half-satiric, Bishop added, "We're considering getting the Underground's help."

"No, that's a good idea," Logan said. Seeing that Paige was almost to them, just a few more blues to pass, he stood and added, "We'll do it. Ain't no way Cyke and Cable aren't gonna want to get in on this."

Bishop looked like he was going to try to talk Logan out of the X-Men's involvement, when Paige finally stumbled up. Seeing her brother, she cried out, "Sam! No, no, no, no..."

Logan grabbed her and held her as sobs wracked her.

The door to the lounge opened. Out stepped Magneto and his most frequent private visitor, her features concealed by her ever-present hooded cloak, to enter into the common area. Magneto knew that the residents of his province, in whispers, speculated she was the fabled Fausse, co-leader of the Underground, but he had neatly ignored them. He gave the rumors no credence by either affirming or denying them. Still, the residents never dared speak their suspicions of the visitor's identity within earshot of Magneto nor her. So, when the two of them emerged from the lounge, the nearby group of children and teachers merely glanced, nodded, or smiled to acknowledge them before returning to their previous activity. The teachers were telling the children the fairy tale of 'The Unrecht,' a superstition that had grown popular during the end of the Phalanx Invasion. Magneto and his visitor paused in their farewells, momentarily caught up in the retelling of the familiar story.

"Well, now that the boy's skin and bones had become metal circuitry, just like her, the Unrecht found him beautiful and special and kindred." Despite the metallic flavor of the teacher's voice, it was still markedly feminine. The quality of her voice wasn't a part of her mutation. It was a result of surviving Lanx, the Phalanx assimilation virus.

"She was happy she had made a companion," continued the teacher, "a son of her very own, for she had been so lonely before making him like her."

"The more she watched him the more she loved him," a second teacher said. "And the more she loved him the more she felt sorry for him... for forcing him into a life like her own."

The first teacher took up the telling again, saying, "She decided to rescue him from the harm she caused him. She laid her hands upon him and tried to remove the virus she'd given him, she tried to draw it back into herself."

A dramatic pause for emphasis, and then the second teacher said, "But, it was too late. The virus had spread too far."

"So, she did the only thing she could do to end his torment," the first teacher said, her metallic voice taking on a dismal tone. "She called upon her mutant powers and drained him of his life, ending his pain."

"That's so sad," one child, hearing the story for the first time, said. The other children looked at her like she was an idiot.

"That's stupid," said a second kid.

"Yeah," said a third.

"Why?" Asked the first child, defensively. "She learned her lesson in the end, didn't she?"

Both teachers calmed and soothed the group.

"But, she didn't, little one," the first teacher said. "She was so lonely she tried over and over again to make herself a companion. And every time it ended the same. That was the pain she caused and that was her suffering. Forever searching for a companion. Forever killing the ones she chose to love."

Hearing that, Magneto looked to his visitor. As he feared, she had turned away to take her leave.

"It's just a superstitious story," Magnus abated, trying to keep her there.

The visitor stopped, but didn't face him.

He moved closer, coming up behind her. It was better if he stayed behind her. She was such an expert at concealing her face in the shadows of the hood he knew he wouldn't gain anything by facing her anyway. He also knew that if he faced her directly, she'd take it as a challenge, as a threat.

"Well, it's stupid," she said, her southern twang revealed with her annoyance. "I wish people would stop telling it."

A moment of consideration led him to say, "No, I suppose you wouldn't like the fame."

"It's not the fame," she said curtly.

Magneto was always regal, always in control, always the powerful, calculating leader. In her presence, though, he was a little softer. He found he had to be careful when he was around her. He had to work at keeping reign over his reaction to her presence. If his opposition ever noticed the difference in him it would surely become a canyon of vulnerability to his leadership. Evidence that he was, after all, just a man. A man who, in the three years span of peace, had begun to envy the very families he governed in his successful mutant refugee camp, or rather, city, now. The leader in him wagered that the compelling sensation, though premature, was only natural in the sustaining absence of war.

Thoughtful, affectionate, he said, "Perhaps not."

Lord Magneto, the leader, knew all too well her reasons for disliking the story. Erik Lensherr, the man, however, more than sympathized for her evident pain, and wanted to ease it. Like it did more and more frequently than the leader liked, the man won out.

Erik rested a hand on her shoulder, momentarily savoring the feeling of the soft and supple texture of her hooded cloak. When she didn't shake him off, he took further advantage of his precarious status with her and gently squeezed her shoulder. He did it to comfort himself as much as to comfort her.

Insinuating the leader, the man said, "My offer still stands."

"So does the answer," she replied.

"I expected as much," he said, removing his hand from her shoulder. He saw that she visibly relaxed in response. He let his bitterness at that show when he said, "Give Narcisse my best."

A deep breath, exposed to him by the shift of her ever-concealing cloak, preceded her practiced response. "The situation is fixed, Lord Magneto."

He recognized the emphasis she'd put on his title, his mark of leadership. He knew it was her way to distance the ruler from the man, her from him. She did it whenever their conversations broached that particular topic, whenever it boarded on the personal. It all came back down to the set of terms she had dictated for their continued association. Despite the years of their acquaintance, she still insisted that he maintained his propriety, his commanding bearing, throughout the course of their meetings. Sometimes he thought she did it for his protection, to keep her from becoming a vulnerability to him. Other times he believed she did it to protect herself and the group she represented when she associated with him. He even, once or twice, decided that she was just that professional and formal. This time, though, he was undecided. It seemed a mixture of them all, equally.

There was nothing else to say, so he nodded, and she left.

Gambit moved through the dark tunnels. He was on his way to meet the X-Men's contact to the Underground. It was his first time. In his five years with the team—having joined on at the tail end of the seven-year war—he'd never been sent to meet with one of their messengers before. He had been well aware that the X-Men made use of the Underground. Most everyone in the defense racket during the war had requested the Underground's assistance, which wasn't an easy thing to do. Narcisse and Fausse were called the fabled leaders because nobody outside the organization had ever gained their direct counsel. So, the only way to gain the Underground's assistance was to send a request via one of their messengers. And, the only way to obtain a dictated meeting time and place with a messenger was to convince one of the only seven people who regularly met with the messengers to set it up on their behalf. Those seven people were Lila Cheney, Magneto, Deathbird, Victor Von Doom, Mystique, Silver Samurai, and Carol Danvers. Gambit had found it intriguing that Xavier, as powerful a figure as he and the X-Men were, especially during the war, was not counted among them.

The X-Men were on fairly good terms with three of the seven: Lila, Magneto, and Danvers. This time, they had gone through Magneto, who reported the parameters back to Xavier, who had Storm fill Gambit in on the assignment. Apparently, he'd been requested by name.

At first, Gambit's cocky ego had reared when Storm had told him the messenger specifically asked to meet with him. But, Storm dashed it when she told him why.

"Other than Jubilee, Illyana, Jono, Roberto, and Kitty, you are the only one of the current roster who has not met with a messenger," Storm had told him. "She demands to meet with someone new, but will not meet with a child. You are then her only option."

"She?" Gambit asked, his cocky grin reappearing.

Storm frowned, serious, and said, "Do not flirt with her, Gambit. Do not talk at all if you can help it. Our plea rests on this initial contact."

"Dey turn us down just because of dat?" Gambit asked, disbelieving. Women were his specialty. He could always charm them.

"Yes, Gambit. The messenger works within inflexible rules placed upon her by the Underground. She can add any further guidelines as she sees fit. They are severe and they are not negotiable."

Storm continued on, briefing him on the meeting protocols. He was to go alone. He was not permitted any possible kind of weapon, not even his cards or lock picks because they knew of his mutant powers. He could not wear a watch, his communicator, his gloves, battle armor, any clothing with pockets, or even his trench coat. The only thing he was allowed on his person, other than just enough clothing to keep him from being naked, was their formal request, which was to be handwritten on plain paper. He would have to pass through hidden sensors that would scan and verify his identity, the items he carried on his person, and his powers. Thanks to the Underground's association with Deathbird, they even had use of Shiar technology to make sure he was not secretly gifted with either telepathy or hyper senses. Because Xavier, Psylocke, Cable, and Wolverine possessed those powers, they could never made contact with a messenger.

Storm explained to him that when he reached the meeting place, the messenger would give him the rest of his instructions for handing over the note as well as the procedures for his exiting the meeting. These details were not given out ahead of time for several rather paranoid reasons, but mostly it was to give the messenger of the Underground the power and authority.

By the time Storm completed the briefing, it was time for Gambit to head out, just as the Underground messenger had planned. Nightcrawler had teleported Gambit down into the tunnels and from there he made his way to the designated spot.

It wasn't an easy journey to make. Though it was early afternoon, no daylight reached down that far into the tunnels, rendering them pitch black. There were work lights on the earthen walls, but all the bulbs had been broken. Gambit had nothing to see by and he only had the sound of his own movements to keep him company. He didn't even hear water trickling or rodents squeaking. He may have considered whistling or humming, but Storm had warned him that any vocalizations would alert the messenger's suspicions and she would leave. Storm had also warned him that any use of his powers would be taken as a threat and would thereby end the meeting, so, though he was very tempted, he didn't charge any pebbles, broken light bulbs, or handfuls of loose dirt to help him see. He had to feel along the walls to make his way through. At junctions he had to walk blindly, only able to hope he didn't end up on some stray connecting hallway when he was supposed to be going straight. Because of the lack of visual or audio stimulation, within only fifteen minutes of traveling the tunnels, Gambit's sense of sight and sound were acute enough to make him think he was being as paranoid as the messenger's rules had made her seem to be. Every breath sounded like he was gasping for air. Every step scratched like nails on a chalkboard. Every touch to the wall was like a ringing slap across a face. His heartbeat thumped in his chest, a rhythmic base in a blackened dance club. It was nerve-wracking, even to an expert thief like him.

The memories Gambit had connected with the tunnels didn't help matters either. He expected the messenger knew what had happened in these tunnels just over five years ago. It wouldn't have surprised him to discover she had chosen this particular location for the added emotional stress it would have on him. However, the abrupt sound of the messenger's voice did surprise him.

"That's far enough," she said. She had a strong and confident voice. It had a hint of a southern accent to it.

Gambit tried to find her by the direction of her voice, but its suddenness and brevity startled his piqued hearing enough to make it impossible. By the time his senses got over the shock of sound from a source other than him, she'd stopped talking. He couldn't even hear her breath; he was sure she was holding it. It set his already irritable nerves so far on edge his palms itched to reach out for her. He managed to control that particular urge, but, even though he knew it was futile, he constantly searched her out with his red on black eyes. It did no good, like he'd known. The darkness was complete, and she, its interruption.

"Leave what you have on the ground at your feet and back up ten paces," the voice instructed, startling him again.

Gambit didn't like the idea of just leaving it there without even getting a look at who was to pick it up. But, he did as he was told. Still, he picked up a handful of dirt in the process, just in case. It wouldn't make for a powerful defense if he needed one, but he'd at least be able to surprise her with a flash of light that could buy him time to flee or to work out something bigger.

He heard the quietest steps and a rustle of paper he assumed was the messenger retrieving the note off the ground.

Then he heard nothing.

He didn't know how long he waited, but wondering if he'd been tricked, if she'd just left, he asked, "Now what?"

It was a simple enough and non-offensive question. Or so he thought. The surprising blow to his jaw told him otherwise.

"Merde!" Shit!

It had been quite a blow. It had knocked him into the wall, hard.

"What de hell was dat for?"

No answer. No movement.

He felt along the dirt floor and gathered a few pebbles in one hand, still holding the handful of dirt he got when he laid down the note in his other hand. Intending to save the pebbles as ammunition, he was about to charge and throw the handful of dirt as a distraction, when the messenger spoke again. It didn't come from where he expected her to be.

"Don't," she said. A shuffle of feet, and then she spoke from further down the tunnel, saying, "If you want our help, you will stay perfectly still."

Another shuffle of feet signaled she'd moved, but Gambit couldn't pinpoint where. He decided to try to feel her with his empathy. He'd never used it like that before, and he wasn't sure if she would take it as using a form of telepathy. But, he figured since he had been asked for by name, they had to know it was part of his charm powers and thus it was their own fault if he used it.

It worked.

Anger, bitterness, distrust, and a yearning for acceptance was emanating just to his right. It was getting stronger so either her emotions were strengthening or she was moving towards him. He didn't know which, but guessed it was the latter.

Crack!

He'd been right. He clutched his side, sure a rib was broken.

"This meeting is over," she said, "Your request is denied."

"I t'ought dat Fausse and Narcisse decided," Gambit retorted angrily. He'd worked closely with Sam and Paige during the war. He'd supported their wishes to leave the team and live normal lives after the Phalanx had retreated. He wanted Sam's murderer found. He wouldn't accept that this ridiculous meeting run by this paranoid, trigger-happy woman was the only hope for getting the Underground's help.

The crumpled up note bopped him in his forehead. It had surprised him, but that he'd caught it after it had hit him astonished him.

"I decide!" The bitterness and contempt in her voice synched with what his empathy sensed. "Tell Xavier he's on his own."

Under his breath, he swore, "Bec mon chu! Dis a été maudite dès de debut!" Kiss my ass! This was cursed from the start!

He charged the balled up paper and threw it where he estimated her to be. It hit the wall and exploded. It was small and it had missed her completely, but from the light it created he now had a clearer idea of where she was at that moment: Right in front of him.

A kick to his shin, a punch to his already injured rib. He blocked the one at his face. His strained senses were adjusting. He could feel the wind off her jabs and kicks; hear them cut through the air.

She swung again and he caught her wrist. Her following kick caught his hip. A punch from her free hand got his jaw again. He grunted through the pain, and snagged her other wrist after it had connected. He now had a hold of both her wrists.

"Gambit don't want to fight you." And he didn't. He needed to convince her to bring the X-Men's request to Narcisse and Fausse. "Don't know what you have against Xavier," he continued, "But don't let more people die because you got a grudge."

She spat in his face.

He yanked her arm to him and wiped his face on her cloak. He was a bit surprised to find its texture was soft and supple like suede. As he pulled back, her knee caught him in the groin. He couldn't just grunt through that pain.

He released her, doubled over, and clutched himself in a vain attempt to ease the spikes of pain that shot through his groin and the gut-wrenching ache that hollowed out his lower abdomen. Though, his instinctual reaction to the blow was immediate and quick, he was sure she was already gone.

He was wrong.

Just as the pain was subsiding, he heard her say, "Kiss mah ass, Cajun."

Her words and the humor that his empathy felt from her amazed him.

"Yeah, I know what you said. I did study up on you for this."

"Mais, Remy didn't t'ink you learned his native slang," he said, his cocky grin sliding right into place on reflex. He was reverting to his usual tactics of charm since he'd had her attention and she wasn't pounding him anymore. He didn't use his charm power though, just his words, tone of voice, gestures, and expressions.

"And wipe that grin offa your face," she said, "It won't work on me. I know all about ya."

"How is it you can see me," Gambit asked as it dawned on him. "Dis whole fight you knew exactly where I was. Is night vision one of your powers?"

His empathy picked up on her immediate jolt at his question. He worked his empathy, trying to figure her out, gain something he could use to his advantage. He found her agitation was attached to a deep-rooted loneliness and distrust. He felt those emotions intermingle with her yearning for acceptance and understanding, giving it precedence. Then he felt her fear, stronger and more deeply ingrained than the loneliness, surge up to ignite suspicion full throttle. He felt her holster her wits against his charm.

"We're not here to discuss me, Gambit," she said, using his title.

Gambit understood the intent of her words, sterile professionalism. His empathy doubled it though. Her need to distance herself from him was staggering, yet still, just underneath the surface of that, he could still feel the hurt and betrayal and bitterness that fostered it. It made him realize the strength of her resolve. It earned her a little of his respect.

He took her hint and returned to the business of their meeting. "De X-Men's request?"

"Yes," she answered. "But I'm not promising anything," she added quickly. "I'm just saying I'll bring it to them."

"So, what now?" He cringed as soon as he said it. It was the same thing that set her on him to begin with.

"Wait ten minutes before leaving," she ordered. "Do not leave early. Our sensors will see it and your request will be ignored. And next time we may not answer your call for a messenger. We'll contact you when a decision has been made."

"Any idea when dat could be?"

"You want me to ask the leaders of the Underground to hurry it up?"

Gambit didn't need his empathy to find the incredulity in that.

He started to say, "Mais, dis t'ief was—"

A grunt of exasperation cut him off, and he chuckled. She sighed, and his empathy felt her giving into him, before she said, "I'll see what I can do."

She left, calling behind her, "Don't forget, ten minutes."

He waited what he hoped was fifteen.

His long slender fingers swept camber and plumb, pen to paper, as he signed, Évariste Gavet, Patriarche du Elysium, Le Souterrain, The Underground. He looked over the contract one more final time before pushing them over to his assistant.

Locke picked them up, shape shifted a portion of his techno-organic body to encase them, then asked his leader, "Tell her something, say you?"

The Underground's interstellar and cybernetic translator, Cypher, who stood beside Locke, tittered at the funny shape his best friend's face took when he asked that.

Évariste smiled good-naturedly and said, "I have not been impressed with Deathbird myself as of recently. Tell her that if she does not fulfill the Shiar technology quota for both last contract and this one by the end of the month, then both contracts will become void and she will lose her visit privileges."

Cypher and Locke's answering expressions—they were aghast—made Évariste laugh. During all the time of their friendship, he still shocked them.

"Ne la craignez pas ainsi," do not fear her so, he told them with a gallant wave to dismiss them of their concerns and wipe away those looks they had. "Elle est une pouffiasse." She is a bitch/whore.

Cypher's responding blush elicited another bout of laughter from Évariste. Cypher was rather bashful and conservative, and since his mutant power was the innate ability to immediately translate the language of any culture—human, alien, or cybernetic—Évariste found it amusing to say bawdy phrases in French around him.

Évariste was born and raised in Avignon, France, yet still, he spoke English as fluently as he spoke his native French. His English lacked enough of an accent that, if he so chose, he could easily prevent anyone from suspecting his true origins. At most, his English exhibited an enchanting lilt that soothed and lured the attentions of whomever he spoke to. His command of these languages was in no way part of his mutant powers, but was the result of the frequent and lengthy trips to the states that his parents' business had brought the family on. During the last such trip, his parents and two sisters contracted Lanx when a Technarch-Phalanx battle broke out too near them. They died, leaving him here alone. The tragedy led him to meet up with Locke and Cypher, and to later help found the Underground.

Évariste's laughter ceased and he stood. He was already gliding to the side door of his office, somber and urgent, when he told them, "Go out the front."

Cypher and Locke instantly complied.

Évariste was confident that neither of them would take offense at his terse instructions; repetition had desensitized any animosity or offense taking, since Évariste would, as usual, apologize once the familiar crisis that was its cause had been resolved.

One door closed, confirming Cypher and Locke's exit, only moments before the side door opened to announce the arrival of a desperate, disheveled, and quavering young woman who looked as though she had just been in a fight. She barely remembered to push the door closed as she rushed into Évariste's expectant embrace.

"Facile, prenez-le facile," easy, take it easy, he cooed, stroking her back and hair. "Il est bien maintenant. Vous êtes sûr." It's all right now. You are safe.

She tried to pull back from him, so he released her. He looked her over carefully, examining her emotional and physical well-being. His initial assessment assured him that her ragged breathing was calming, so he began to restore her appearance.

He sidled the fallen strap of her tank top back onto her shoulder, and said, "Aucune crainte, d'accord." No fear, okay. He wiped a smudge of dirt from her cheek with his thumb, and promised, "Je le rendrai meilleur. Je fixerai." I will make it better. I will fix.

He watched her eyes light up with relief, and felt his own reflect the same. He gave her a small tug and she dove back into his embrace, burying her face into his neck. He all but crushed her to him, and he shuddered along with her. When he felt her tension dissipate, his own tension dispelled as well.

"Nous nous rendrons meilleur. Nous le fixerons." We will make each other better. We will fix it.

They vanished in the cradle of each other's clasp, for she was his fix and he was hers.

At 5:19 AM the next morning, Logan heard the phone ring. He grumbled, pushed his elbows up under his chest to roll himself within reach of the phone, and answered it.

"Yeah?" Logan greeted brusquely.

Detective Bishop's stern throaty voice came over the line. "We got another one."

See you next chapter!