Into the Looking Glass-Introduction
Disclaimer: I don't own the X-men, I wish I did, so I could have tons of money and I wouldn't mind if you sued me.
Genre: Mystery/Romance/Drama/ and whatever else I want. This is an AU. There are no such things as mutants, but it isn't a rosy world either. This is not a movieverse nor comic-oriented. It falls in between I suppose, the images for appearances have been taken for characterization for the plotline, whereas the names of the heroes/beings comes from the comic strip. Mmm. yeah.
Rated: T (Maybe it will become M later on).
Inspiration: Jeffrey Deaver's Twisted. This introduction is the hook, it is almost verbatim from his short stories (except minor cuts, additives, and name changes-Barbara is his creation though). If I get positive reviews, I will add more chapters (I plan on having this becoming more than 1 chapter, perhaps 5 at least), and that will be of my own creation. I have a basis of how this will go.
My Mission: I want you to hate and love me. I want you to say aloud, "WTF, why did she do that? I thought she liked that character." And as much as it hurts you, it hurts me more, but sometimes you have to give things up to make a good story :3.
Characters: Ororo Munroe, Remy Lebeau, and a special guest :o
What did I use for appearances?: -I'll try and see if I can add them / via Microsoft Word.
Song: 18 and life, Skid Row
Reviews: Yes, please! With construct criticism if you hate it, with love if you like it. Please point out errors (I had to recover my OS and it deleted my microsoft word ). Enjoy!
Thank You's!: Thank you so much Elfkid and xlokix for your revisions, corrections, feedback. It makes me want to get started on chapter 2 without having any one else read it, haha. This is for you two :). Thanks again!
-kendra.
Ricky was a young boy, He had a heart of stone.
Lived 9 to 5 and worked his fingers to the bone.
Just barely got out of school, came from the edge of town.
Fought like a switchblade so no one could take him down.
He had no money, oooh no good at home.
He walked the streets a soldier and he fought the world alone
And now it's
Ororo Munroe turned her car onto Route 232, which would take her from Portsmouth to Green Harbor, twenty miles away.
She took in the darkening horizon thinking: This was the same road that she and Remy had taken to and from the mall a thousand times, carting back necessities, silly luxuries and occasional treasures.
The road near which they'd found their dream house when they'd moved to Maine seven years ago.
The road they'd taken to go to their anniversary celebration last May.
Tonight, though, all those memories led to one place: her life without Remy.
The setting sun behind her, she steered through the lazy turns, hoping to lose those difficult but tenacious thoughts. Do not think about it! Look around you, she ordered herself. Look at the rugged scenery: the slabs of purple clouds hanging over the maple and oak leaves-some gold, some red as a heart.
Look at the sunlight, a glowing ribbon draped along the dark pelt of hemlock and pine; at the absurd line of cows, walking single file in their spontaneous day; the end commute back to the barn; at the stately white spires of a small village, tucked five miles off the highway. And look at you: a twenty-four-year-old woman in a sprightly silver Toyota, driving fast, toward a new life.
A life without Remy.
Twenty minutes later she came to Dannerville and braked for the first of the town's two spotlights. As her car idled, clutch in, she glanced to her right. Her heart did a small 'thud' at what she saw: a store that sold boating and fishing gear. She'd noticed in the window an ad for some kind of marine engine treatment. In this part of Coastal Maine you couldn't avoid boats. They were in tourist paintings and photos; on mugs, T-shirts and key chains. And, of course, there were thousands of the real things everywhere: vessels in the water, on trailers, in dry docks, sitting in front yards- The New England version of pickup trucks on blocks in the rural South. But what had struck her hard was that the boat pictured in the ad was now looking at was a Chris-Craft. A big one, maybe thirty-six or thirty-eight feet. Just like Remy's boat. Nearly identical, in fact, it had the same colors, and even the same configuration. He'd bought his five years ago, and though Ororo thought his interest in it would flag (like that of any boy with a new toy) he'd proved her wrong and spent nearly every weekend on the vessel, cruising up and down the coast, and fishing like an old cod deckhand. Her husband would bring home the best of his catch, which she would clean and cook up...
"Ah, Remy..." she sighed and didn't know how that small plea left her lips with such ease.
She swallowed hard and inhaled slowly to calm her pounding heart.
A honk behind her. The stoplight had changed to green. She drove on, trying desperately to keep her mind from speculating about his death. The Chris-Craft rocking unsteadily in the turbulent gray Atlantic… Remy overboard… his arms perhaps flailing madly, his panicked voice perhaps crying for help…
Oh, Remy...
Ororo cruised through Dannerville's second light and continued toward the coast. In front of her she could see, in the last of the sunlight, the skirt of the Atlantic, all that cold, deadly water. The water responsible for life without Remy…
Think about Chris instead!
Chris O'Banien, the man she was about to have dinner with in Green Harbor, it'd be the first time she'd been out with a man in a long while. She'd met him through an ad in a magazine. They'd spoken on the phone a few times and, after considerable waltzing around on both their parts, she'd felt comfortable enough to suggest a meeting in person. They'd settled on the Fishery, a popular restaurant on the wharf. Chris had mentioned the Oceanside Cafe, which had better food, yes, but that was Remy's favorite place; she couldn't meet Chris there. So the Fishery it was. As she thought back to their phone conversation last night, she remembered Chris had said to her, "I'm tall and pretty well built, with willowy brown hair."
"Okay, well," she replied nervously, "I'm 5'11, probably the tallest girl in there, I'll be the one that sticks out the most, and if you still can't find me, I'm wearing a purple dress."
Thinking about those words now, thinking how that simple exchange typified single life, meeting people you'd only known over the phone.
She had no problem with dating. In fact, she was looking forward to it, in a way. She'd met her husband when he was just graduating from undergraduate school, while she had graduated from her high school. They'd gotten engaged almost immediately; that'd been the end of her social life as a single woman. But now she'd have some fun. She'd meet interesting men, and she'd begin to enjoy sex again. Even if it was work at first, she'd try to just relax. She'd try not to be bitter, try not to be too much of a widow.
But even as she was pondering this, her thoughts went somewhere else: Would she ever be able to fall in love again? The way she'd once been to completely in love with Remy? And would anybody else love her completely?
At another red light, Ororo reached up and twisted the mirror toward her, glancing into it. The sun was now below the horizon and the light was dim but she believed she passed the rearview-mirror test with flying colors: full lips, flawless chocolate-hued skin, sapphire eyes, and of course the hook line: white hair. Then, too, her body was almost model-type- with curves in the right places, but not to suggest a doctor's scalpel work. Hell yes, she told herself. She'd find a man who was right for her. Somebody who could appreciate the survivor within her (not Reba McEntire's Survivor or the epitome of the Gay Man's anthem by Gloria Gaynor).
Perhaps maybe she'd find somebody who'd love her academic side- her writing, her poetry and her love of teaching, that she had developed after being taught by the best, of course. Or somebody who could laugh with her -at movies, at sights on the sidewalk, at both the funny jokes and the dumb ones. This sort of thinking made her remember how she loved laughing (and how little of it she'd done lately).
Then Ororo Munroe thought: No, wait, wait...She'd find a man who loved everything about her. But then the tears started and she pulled off the road quickly, surrendering to the sobs.
"No, no, no..."
She forced the images of her husband out of her mind. The cold water, the gray water...Five minutes later she'd calmed down, wiped her eyes dry, and reapplied makeup and lipstick (which she hardly needed anyway).
She drove into downtown Green Harbor and parked in a lot near the shops and restaurants, a half block from the wharf.
A glance at the clock. It was just six-thirty. Chris had told her that he'd be working until about seven and would meet her at seven-thirty but she'd come to town early to do some shopping- a little retail therapy. After that, she'd go to the restaurant to wait for Chris. But then she wondered uneasily if it would be all right if she sat in the bar by herself and had a glass of Merlot. What the hell're you thinking? Of course it'd be all right, she thought sternly).She could do anything she wanted. This was her night. Go on, girl, get out there. Get started on your new life.
18 and life you got it
18 and life you know
Your crime is time and it's
18 and life to go
Unlike upscale Green Harbor, fifteen miles south, Yarmouth, Maine, is largely a fishing and packing town and, as such, is studied with shacks and bungalows whose occupants prefer transport like F-150's, Japanese half-tons and worn out SUV's, of course. But just outside of town is a cluster of nice houses set in the woods on a hillside overlooking the bay. The cars in these driveways are mostly Lexus and Acura; here they had sport leather interior and GPS systems, unlike their downtown neighbors, who sported rude bumper stickers or Jesus slogans. The neighborhood even has a name: Cedar Estates.
In his tan overalls Tony Stark now walked up the driveway of one of these houses, glancing at his watch. He double-checked the address to make sure he had the right house then rang the bell. A moment later a pretty woman in her late thirties opened the door. She was thin, her hair a little frizzy, and even through the screen door she smelled of alcohol. She wore skintight jeans and a white sweater.
"Yeah?"
"I'm with the cable company." He said, showing her the I.D. "I have to reset your converter boxes."
She blinked. "The TV?"
"That's right."
"They were working yesterday." She turned to look hazily at the gray glossy rectangle of the large set in her living room. "Wait. I was watching CNN earlier. It was fine."
"You're only getting half the channels you're supposed to. The whole neighborhood is. We have to reset them manually. Or I can reschedule if--"
"Nah, it's okay. Don't want to miss COPS. Come on in."
Tony walked inside and, sensing her eyes on him, eyes that pierced into his personal space, he shifted to the side. It appeared that good looks were the bane of his existence. He got this a lot. His career wasn't the best in the world and his Armani suits and top-of-the line attire didn't necessarily reflect his vocation, still... He'd been told he "exuded" some kind of masculine energy. He liked to think he just had a lot of self-confidence.
"You want a drink?" she asked
"Can't on the job."
"Sure?"
"Yep."
Tony in fact wouldn't have minded a drink. But this wasn't the place for it. Besides, he was looking forward to a nice glass of spicy Pinot Noir after he finished here. It often surprised people that somebody in his line of work liked-and knew about-wines.
"I'm Barbara!"
"Hi, Barbara."
She led him through the house to each of the cable boxes, sipping her drink as she went.
"You have kids," Tony asked, nodding at the picture of two young children on the table in the den. "They're great, aren't they?"
"If you like nuisances," she muttered.
He clicked buttons on the cable box and stood up. "Any others?"
"Last box's in the bedroom. Upstairs. I'll show you. Wait..." She went off and refilled her glass. then joined him again. Barbara led him up the stairs and paused at the top of the landing. Again, she looked him over.
"Where are your kids tonight?" he asked.
"At the bastard's," she said, laughing sourly at her own joke. "We're doing the joint custody thing, my ex and me."
"So you're all alone here in this big house?"
"Yeah. Pity, huh?"
Tony didn't know if it was or not. She definitely didn't seem pitiful.
"So," he said, "which room's the box in?" they'd stalled in the hallway.
"Yeah, sure, follow me," she said, her voice suddenly low and seductive. In the bedroom she sat on the unmade bed and sipped the drink- she placed a finger and ran it along the rim.
He found the cable box and pushed the 'on' button of the set. It crackled to life. CNN was on.
"Could you try the remote?" he said, looking around the room.
"Sure," Barbara said groggily. She turned away and, as soon as she did, Tony came up behind her with the rope that he'd just taken from his pocket. He slipped it around her neck and twisted it tight, using a pencil for leverage. A brief scream was stifled as her throat closed up and she tried desperately to escape, to turn to scratch him with her nails. The liquor soaked the bedspread as the glass fell to the carpet and rolled against the wall. After a few minutes of a hard struggle, she was dead.
Tony sat beside the body, catching his breath. Barbara had fought surprisingly hard. It had taken all his strength to keep her pinned down and let the garrote do its job. He pulled on latex gloves and wiped away whatever prints he'd left in the room. Then he dragged Barbara's body off the bed and into the center of the room.
He pulled her sweater off, undid the button of her jeans. But then he paused. Wait. What was his name supposed to be? Frowning, he thought back to his conversation last night. What'd he call himself? Then he nodded. That's right. He'd told Ororo Munroe his name was Chris O'Banion. A glance at the clock. Not even seven P.M. Plenty of time to finish up here and get to Green Harbor, where the bar had a decent Pinot Noir by the glass and a certain someone to meet. He unzipped Barbara's jeans then started tugging them down to her ankles.
Tequila in his heartbeat, His veins burned gasoline.
It kept his motor running but it never kept him clean.
They say he loved adventure, "Ricky's the wild one."
He married trouble and had a courtship with a gun.
Bang Bang Shoot 'em up, The party never ends.
You can't think of dying when the bottle's your best friend
And now it's
Ororo Munroe sat on a bench in a small, deserted park, huddled against the cold wind that swept over the Green Harbor wharf. Through the evergreens swaying in the breeze, she watched a couple lounging in the enclosed stern of the large boat tied up to the nearby dock. Like so many boat names, this one was a pun: Maine Street.
She'd finished her shopping, buying some fun lingerie (wondering, a little discouraged, if anyone else would ever see her wearing it), and had been on her way to the restaurant when the lights of the harbor- and the gently rocking motion of this elegant boat-caught her attention. Through the plastic windows on the rear deck of the Main Street, she saw the couple sipping champagne and sitting close together or rather snuggling. A handsome pair-he was tall with an athletic build, plenty of brown locks, and she, a curvaceous brunette and pretty. Through the laughter and talking, it was obvious they were flirting like crazy, though the girl did better at hiding her wantonly open mannerisms. Then, finishing their champagne, they disappeared down into the cabin, the teak door slamming shut.
Thinking about the lingerie in the bag she carried, thinking about resuming dating, Ororo again tried to imagine Chris O'Banion and wondered how this evening would go. A chill hit her making her stand up and head into the restaurant.
Several Minutes passed...
Sipping a glass of fine Chardonnay (and sitting boldly at the bar by herself-way to go, girl!), Ororo let her thoughts shift to what she might do for work. She wasn't in a huge hurry. There was the insurance money, and the savings accounts too, while the house was nearly paid for. But it wasn't that she really needed to work. It was that she wanted to. Perhaps this was the time for a little change in style, like teaching, or perhaps even writing. Maybe she could get a job for one of the local newspapers, or she might even try a business venture. She remembered the times Remy would tell her about some of the things he was doing at the company (AKA Worthington Labs) and she'd understood them perfectly. Ororo had a very logical mind and had been a brilliant student. If she'd gone on to graduate school years ago, she could've gotten a full scholarship for her master's degree, but of course if you have love, you don't need to have anything else, and if you don't have it, it doesn't matter much what else you have…
More wine.
She felt sad, then exhilarated... Her moods bobbed like orange buoys marking the lobster traps sitting on the floor of the gray ocean. The deadly ocean.
She thought again about the man she was waiting for in this romantic, candlelit restaurant. Then a moment of panic overtook her. Should she call Chris and tell him that she just wasn't ready for this yet? Go home, have another wine, put on some Mozart, light a fire;be content with your own company, she thought bitterly.
She began to lift her hand to signal the bartender for the check, when suddenly a memory came to her. A memory from life before Remy. She shook her head methodically, getting rid of the images. She knew that if she called Chris to cancel, she would have failed at something important. It would be like letting herself go back to those lonely and horrific images.
And then there he was- a good-looking, no, a great looking man. Great body, she thought. He carried himself with an air of confidence and that smirk of his must have gotten him in a few predicaments that he'd cherish later. Of course, the facial hair was another additive to the brownie points-that were solely based on physical appearance- he'd been given. He wore a dark suit and beneath it he wore a black T-shirt, not a white polyester shirt and stodgy tie you saw so often in this area.
She waved and he responded with a charming smile, walking up to her with an extended hand, "Ororo? I'm Chris," he said, greeting her with an extended hand.
A firm grip, she thought as she gave him back an equally firm handshake. He sat next to her at the bar and, after ordering a glass of Pinot Noir, he sniffed it with pleasure and then clinked his glass with hers. While they sipped, she was lost in a reverie at how she secretly enjoyed facial hair on men-Remy's stubble added to his attractiveness and her new guest's trimmed goatee (not one that an overly obese man, who was balding, would fashion nor a biker, no, he appeared to be a business man) enthralled her.
"I wasn't sure if you'd be late," she said. "Sometimes it's hard to get off work when you want to." Another sniff of wine. "I pretty much control my own hours," he said.
They chatted for a few minutes and then went to the hostess's stand. The woman showed them to the table he'd reserved, and a moment later, they were seated next to the window. Spotlights on the outside of the restaurant shone down into the gray water; the sight troubled her at first, thinking about Remy in the deadly ocean, but she forced her thoughts away and concentrated on Chris.
They made small talk. They talked about new gadgets, innovative technology hitting the market-she'd heard it all from her husband... and then conversation progressed to the weather, and about politics-at the domestic front and the international war brewing.
"Been shopping?" he asked, smiling. and nodding at the pink-and-white-striped bag she'd set beside her chair.
"Long underwear," she joked."It's supposed to be a cold winter," He laughed.
They talked some more, finishing a bottle of wine, then had one more glass each, though it seemed to her that she drank more than he did. She was getting tipsy. Watch out, girl. Keep your wits about you. But then she thought about Remy and drank down the glass.
Near ten P.M he looked around the emptying restaurant. He held her gaze with his eyes -brown met blue- and said, "How about we go outside?" Ororo hesitated. Okay, this is it, she thought to herself. You can leave, or you can go out there with him. She thought of her resolution, she thought of Remy. She said, "Yes, let's go."
18 and life You got it
18 and life you know
Your crime is time and it's
18 and life to go
Outside, they walked side by side back to the deserted park she'd sat in earlier. They approached the same bench and they sat down, Chris close beside her. She felt his presence-the nearness of a strong man, which she hadn't felt for some time now. It was thrilling, comforting and unsettling all at the same time. They looked at the boat, the Main Street, just visible through the trees. They sat in silence for a few minutes, huddling against the cold.
Chris stretched. His arm went along the back of the bench, not quite around her shoulders, but she felt his muscles. How strong he was, she reflected. It was then that she glanced down and saw a twisted length of white rope protruding from his pocket, about to fall out. She nodded at it. "You're going to lose something."
He glanced down, picked it up, flexed the rope in his fingers, then unwound it.
"Tool of the trade," he said, looking at her querying frown. He slipped it back into his pocket. Chris looked back to the Main Street, just visible through the streets, at the couple now out of the bedroom and sipping champagne again on the rear deck. "That's him in there, the handsome guy?" he whispered, lips mere inches from her earlobe.
"Yes," Ororo said, "that's my husband. That's Remy."She shivered again from the cold-and the disgust- as she watched him kiss the petite brunette. She started to ask Chris if he was going to do it tonight-to murder her husband-but then decided that he, probably like most men of his profession, would prefer to speak in euphemisms. She asked simply, "When…?"
They were now walking slowly away from the wharf; he'd seen what he needed to.
"When?" Chris asked. "Depends. That woman in there with him? Who's she?"
"One of his little sluts, she was an intern... I don't know what position she's filled, now that she's climbed the ladder." she said through clenched teeth while continuing, "She goes by Anna, Anna Marie, I think."
"She's spending the night?"
"No, I've been spying on him for a month. He'll kick her out about midnight. He can't stand clinging mistresses. There'll be another one tomorrow. But not before noon."
Chris nodded. "Then I'll do it tonight. After she leaves." He glanced at Ororo. "I'll handle it like I was telling you-after he's asleep I'll get on board, tie him up and take the boat out a few miles. Then I'll make it look like he got tangled in the anchor line and went overboard. Has he been drinking much?"
"Is there water in the ocean?" she asked wryly.
"Good, that'll help. Then I'll drive the boat close to Huntington and take a raft back in. Just let her drift," he said, nodding at the Maine Street.
"You always make it look like an accident?" Ororo asked, wondering if a question like this was breaking some kind of hit man protocol.
"As often as I can. That job I did tonight I mentioned? It was taking care of a woman in Yarmouth. She's been abusing her own kids. I mean, beating them. 'Nuisances,' she called them. Disgusting. She wouldn't stop but the husband couldn't get the children to say anything to the police. They didn't' want to get her in trouble,"
"God, how terrible."
Chris nodded. "I'll say. So the husband hired me. I made it look like that rapist from Upper Falls broke in and killed her." Ororo considered this. Then she asked, "Did you...? I mean, you were pretending to be a rapist..."
"Oh, god, no," Chris said, frowning. "I'd never do that, I just made it look like I did. Believe me, it was pretty gross finding a used condom from behind that massage parlor on Knightsbridge Street."
So hit men have standards, she reflected. At least some of them do. She looked him over. "Aren't you worried I'm a policewoman or anything? Trying to set you up? I mean, I just got your name out of the magazine, Worldwide Soldier."
"You do this long enough, you get a feel for who're real customers and who aren't. Anyway, I spent the last week checking you out. You're legitimate."
If someone paying him 250,000 dollars to kill her husband can be called legitimate. Speaking of which...
She took a thick envelope out of her pocket and slyly placed it in his breast pocket where it disappeared along with the white rope that he had disposed of earlier.
"Chris...wait, you're name's not really Chris, is it?" she asked in hesitation.
"No, but it's the one I'm using for this job."
"Okay, well, Chris, he won't feel anything?" she asked. "No pain?"
"Not a thing. Even if he were conscious that water's so cold he'll probably pass out and die from shock before he drowns.
They reached the end of the park before Chris asked, "You're sure about doing this?" the images of their short-term marriage reflected in her mind: the trysts, the liaisons, the lies.. the guilty pleasures… he, who got violent whenever she brought up divorce because it interfered with the highly idolized image of the corporate man, the one who was a sick control freak
"Is there water in the ocean?" she said coolly.
Chris shook her hand and said, "I'll take care of things from here. Go home. You should practice playing the grieving widow." "I can handle that," Ororo said. "I've been a grieving wife for years."
Pulling her coat collar up high, she returned to the parking lot, not looking back at either her husband or at the man who was about to kill him. She climbed into her Toyota and fired up the engine, found some rock and roll on the radio-Remy's favorite genre to listen to-, turned the volume up high and left Green Harbor.
Ororo cranked the windows down, filling the car with sharp autumn air, rich with the scent of wood smoke and old leaves, and drove fast through the night, thinking about her future, about her life without Remy. The weather was nice, and she practiced to be in shock, but not hysterical when the cops would show up at her house. A small smirk graced her lips as she stared straight ahead...
Accidents will happen" they all heard Ricky say
He fired his six-shot to the wind that blew a child away.
if asked, I will tell you why I had to do this to Remy Lebeau (it was painful for me, believe me).