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. Oh, and I'd be rich and could have scantily clad men feed me ice cream I ate ice cream today, it was vanilla bean :o
Genre: Mystery/Crime-Drama/
Back to basics: 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: M (perhaps for brief violence/horror) T for everything else.
Inspiration: ice cream.
My Mission: To get a beta reader for this chapter because I know there's some issues.
Characters: Ororo Munroe, Warren Worthington, Logan, and more :o
What did I use for appearances?: -I'll try and see if I can add them / via Microsoft Word.
Song: Vicarious –Tool
Reviews: As much as I love completing things for intrinsic motivation, I'll discontinue the story and future chapters if I don't get feedback, regardless if it's positive or negative. Everyone wants to know if their fanfic is being read, so yeah that's my only way of knowing so please R&R!
-kendra.
Eye on the TV
'cause tragedy thrills me
Whatever flavour
It happens to be like;
Killed by the husband
Drowned by the ocean
Shot by his own son
She used the poison in his tea
And kissed him goodbye
That's my kind of story
It's no fun 'til someone dies
"Aren't you worried I'm a policewoman or anything? Trying to set you up?..."
" I spent the last week checking you out. You're legitimate."
Fingers grasped the coppered LEEDA Logo as she stared ahead at the Polaroid pictures taped to the decrepit bulletin board. Crime scenes of marred corpses and other horrors engulfed the 4x6 photographs. "Too bad you didn't check hard enough," as her pointer finger ran along the engraved letters: F. B. I.
He had resorted to staking out. It was pathetic to say in the least. The sources dried up, witnesses had ceased talking. The case was closed, yet he was pulled once more into that little mystery that could only ensnare a crime. Death, or rather murder-if it was murder that is-, had led him to believe that the only two people that knew what truly happened was the victim and the killer(s) involved. It didn't matter how much evidence you collected or how many witnesses from the neighboring apartments saw 'exactly' what happened, it was all smoke and mirrors. Luckily, he was beyond such naiveté, he didn't trust the forensic team or lawyers, to him, they were merely people who went to school for far too long and simply majored in jargon and labels and couldn't see pass the inch of their noses. He was the best at what he did and apparently that resorted in ….
"Stalkin', I'm fuckin' stalkin' her," he grabbed a thermos pitcher, unscrewing the nozzle cap that acted like a cup, and poured the brew into its small container, while staring ahead. The liquid touched his lips, it was warm. It tasted unlike what he thought he poured in a few hours earlier before he did this mundane activity.
"This ain't whiskey!" he growled, taking his glance from the closed curtains to the brownish red contents inside. Clam Chowder. Had he lost his nerve and in some other alternate time continuum, replaced his alcohol of choice to some New England tourist soup. Soup may be good for the soul, but the whiskey was better for his problems.
He turned the container over, finding a small polka-dot lavished notepad sticky that simply said, "Soup's more healthy," and a small, stylistic signature of Jubilee with hearts floating from the i. He knew that when he took the department version of the Hippocratic Oath to serve those in need and to resist judgment until judgment was due, would end up being his largest obstacle. Shouting obscenities, he began to formulate various methods of how to get rid of the nuisance he dared call a surrogate daughter.
Why stare ahead when there was nothing to see. He had done this for weeks. Logan had contemplated on the situation at hand. To let the case fall or to continue and fulfill the so-called promise that he owed Warren Worthington. He was fortunate enough to have her write down her address and phone number back in the first meeting, simply saying, "In case I needed other questions asked, routine check up after all". He felt like a teenager, a teenager who eyed the cheerleader that they fantasized about, but didn't have the balls to go up and start a conversation. He was the guy that beat those losers up, pushing them into walls just for the hell out of it. If his friends could see him now, watch as he holds up binoculars to get a better view, to catch anything out of the ordinary. He didn't hear police sirens, which was good because he'd hate to have old hags reporting him of so-called 'pervasive acts like peeping. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes straining to see anything other than curtain and a crevice that showed a place for pinups. This case was dead.
After she left his office, he felt like going after her, which shocked him more. His life of mistresses and occasional nuisances towards the few legalized brothels made him almost unable to relate to the trials and tribulations that a female would encounter. To him, they were merely beings to be used and discarded before they made their mark. He had learned the hard way not to trust them. He dealt his heart too many times and got it, in return, served back-battered and bruised. When they cried, he listened, he feigned the act of caring. He used to care, but not anymore, what was the point? He would lie in bed, next to their naked forms, pretending to listen as they nagged and created 'pillow talk.' If it wasn't sexual, then it was flirtation. He never met a one woman man, and he never thought he would. No woman was loyal because they stared, no, they gawked at others, they always had someone else in their minds when they were screaming out the name of their current lover.
Yet she…
Her tears seemed genuine enough. Even Anna Marie could've won a golden globe for her spectacular performance of grieving mistress. He had not believed Ororo as a person who was human enough to shed tears. She was gorgeous, yes, but with all gorgeous woman, you find that they are void of personalities or anything remotely interesting- "you screw em' and get rid of em' the next day, add them to your address book for future lonely nights," he remarked bitterly. However, when she talked, the way she carried herself, made her seem much more than that "Ice Queen" moniker he had initially given her.
He scoffed. For the first time, he was the one giving false labels and accusations, wasn't that the public's service to him? He sipped from the same thermos, unaware of its contents once more. "Fuck!" Jubilee was going to die. Fuck the department. He'd have to bury her somewhere that no one could locate, somewhere off the map, and he'd visit the epitaph every few months to talk about his day without it going awry or being misconstrued by the teen. He was joking of course, well, he was joking if this was the only time that his prized liquor would be replaced with grotesque clam chowder.
The source was dead. He eliminated her as a suspect. As soon as Ororo had told her of her husband's deviant behavior and, wantonly open crimes, he began to mentally cross her name off the list of suspects, which were few and far between. There was only another on the list, and that was the mistress herself. How could she possibly have any motive to kill Remy, other than wanting him to herself? He knew that couldn't hold up in court. His fingers pressed 3 on speed dial with a free hand, while another turned the key in the ignition and passed by the estate, unseen.
"What do you mean the case is dead?" Warren seethed. How can the upper state of New York, nay, the east coast simply knock the death, no, the murder of his partner, as an accident and a mere 'get on with your life' denouement to follow? He was outraged.
"Look bub, I ain't got no witnesses nor people to talk ta 'sides his mistress and his widow. You got any more people to add to the list for questionin' and I'll question 'em." It unnerved him that he had resorted to giving excuses. If he said the case was closed, then it was closed.
"You found nothing out of place when talkin' to her"
"By her, you're referrin' to who?"
"His wife."
"No, but she did tell me the nature of some of Remy's… shall I say, excursions?"
"What are-"
"As much as I love playin' a verbal game of 'Who can talk the most shit and make up idle chit chat, I'm gonna need some solid answers as to why this case should be marked as an 'investigation'"
"All I can think of to question is his father, Jean-Luc Lebeau, he lives in New Orleans, but if he found out of the murder of his son, he'd have a one-way ticket here within the day. There's also tapes at the office. Remy always taped conversations he had within the office. For legal concerns of course-a simple homage to the Watergate Scandal, aha"
"Got any enemies that might want to take the two of ya out?"
"Do you have a fax machine, the list is pretty damn long. So are we done here"
"You're still not giving me a reason to pursue her as a possible suspect"
"Did I mention she's –"
Don't look at me like
I am a monster
Frown out your one face
But with the other
Stare like a junkie
Into the TV
Stare like a zombie
While the mother
Holds her child
Watches him die
Hands to the sky crying
Why, oh why?
'cause I need to watch things die
From a distance
Of the small compartment that could only be labeled as a stable, since there were four alongside of her, and four adjacent, hung a small placard. The placard could be seen throughout the department, throughout the building moreover. "Our mission is to protect and defend the United States against terrorist and foreign intelligence threats and to enforce the criminal laws of the United States." She laughed. She saw that placard whenever she walked through a door, passed a bulletin board of the 'Top ten Most Wanted", or even went into the work roomto grab a cup of 'joe' as the boys put it. It was ingrained to her. To stop vigilantes from criminal activities.
Her finger pressed on a button, the play button.
"I'll say. So the husband hired me. I made it look like that rapist from Upper Falls broke in and killed her."
"Did you...? I mean, you were pretending to be a rapist..."
"Oh, god, no. 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."
She fast-forward it.
"Chris...wait, you're name's not really Chris, is it?"
"No, but it's the one I'm using for this job."
IT would be so easy to take the recorded cassette and hook it up to a dvr-cr device, uploading and synthesizing it. Get someone to cut it and add a few enhancers to blend it, till it was only him talking. The only problem was that she would be unable from having the crew of the F.B.I's computer fraud department from restoring it to its usual calibration. It would've been fine if there wasn't a certified body down at the county morgue labeled, "Remy Lebeau."
Had she merely given him the money, and "leaked" information out to the police that a man was going to kill a wealthy business man at certain coordinate points, then she would've been cleared. But that wasn't the story at all.
She stared at the table…the table that acted as a vestibule map for agents with her background. She would put thumb tacks on the areas of where bodies were found and would use rubber bands to add to the cluster. If it was a serial killer, they would be all in the same vicinity, a few miles from the radial point of the first victim.
She was still labeled a rookie, despite what she saw. The great ones aka the twenty-year service members in the field said she had promise, but lacked a certain, mechanical ambiance that was needed in this particular department. .
Her first catch. She picked up a small Polaroid, black and white for cost purposes, and stared at the gruesome features. In the picture was a landscape, a particular one being an abandoned train stationed that had been vacant for over two decades; the only thing to live there were the homeless and neglected animals. Apparently, something else moved in. In the center of a steel column, was a nude woman, nailed in the position of a gory cross. Arms and legs pinned by nails that were previously used to keep the tracks in place for Amtrak trains. It wasn't common, but it wasn't your usual gore fest that some of the "originals" had seen back in their day. However, there were other features that would make it that much more…horrifying.
It had been noted that the cause of death was starvation and infection. Usually, when victims were killed in such a manner-pinned in a T-like position- the trunk or abdomen would collapse on itself and one would die of slow asphyxiation or starvation, and that was if the vermin or other animals didn't eat at the poor soul that was still very much alive. A small incision, a few inches in length and an inch in width was cut, perhaps with a pocketknife, and the inner organs were pulled, ever so gently, just to attract the rats or perhaps the flies.
When the team got there, they had seen the appendages of toes and fingers gnawed off, from either a rat or a desperate small cat or dog. The poor girl, who they later identified as "Allison Crestmere," was coined "Mercy" in the work room. Apparently, after she had died, the killer or killer(s) took it upon themselves to remove her eyes and write 'Mercy" from collarbone to collarbone.
They spent many a night trying to find the killer, not realizing that that killer had killed before. He had murdered at least ten other girls, at least the ones they could fingerprint and identify, however, there were other charges pinned on his case for all the Jane Does. She still remembered the trial, she had to go. She had to see if her sleepless nights and her constant log entries would do the victims justice.
"May I have your opening statement, prosecutor"
"Yes your honor, we are going to prove to the jury of the court, that this, one Cain Marko is responsible for unredeemable acts against humanity. We will be issuing witnesses accounts including family of the ones that were lost to "his" acts, as well as photographs that were given to our disposal. If found guilty to all charges of first degree murder, we would seek the death penalty."
"Any opening statements from the defense?"
"We would like to argue that Mr. Marko didn't act out of senseless immorality, but rather that he is suffering from delusions of paranoia and therefore, is insane. We will be using eye witnesses of his former employees and fellow co-workers. If found guilty with intent of insanity, we request the Darkholme Institution for the criminally afflicted, an asylum if you will, for his punishment.."
Ororo had stood behind the pews, barely aware of who was sitting around her, it seemed that the air was thick with tension, thick with tears and hushed sobs of loved ones diminished. . .
She remembered being asked to come to the witness stand. She remembered raising her right hand and swearing to tell the truth.
"Can you tell me what I'm looking at Mrs. Munroe."
She was a proud woman, someone who wore an exterior as a mask to cover her empathy, yet she had limits. She flinched at glancing at the picture. It was still gruesome, even when it was her who had to document the pictures, each and every one.
"You're looking at pictures gathered at the crime scene of the latest or rather last victim, Allison Crestmere. Normally, you would see a criminalist here, showing you the pictures. However, concerning that this also extends further from United States borders, the F.B.I has to get involved, it also becomes our issue."
"What department(s) do you work in Ms. Munroe?"
"Violent crime, as well as organized crime"
"So how would you say the victim died in this case?"
"According to the coroner at the New York city coronary office, horrifically. The pain must have been excruciating, and it lasted for several hours, if not days."
"Is there any relevance of this victim and the others?"
"Well, according to the behaviorists in our field, every serial killer leaves a certain 'signature'. A signature could be something like adding initials or having Obsessive Compulsive-like tendencies so that everything is the exact same distance from another object…"
"Could a collective word or meaning be utilized?"
"Like the word 'Mercy'? It's something we haven't seen, but yes, that too would fit in the category of signatures. "
"One last question: when you linked the other bodies found to the Crestmere case, what did you find that had similarities?"
"Well, according to the Mexican government, as well as the British chapter, the bodies were lacking eyes and there were other semantics like "Revenge" and "Justice" engraved in the skin, across the collarbone area"
"Thank you Mrs. Munroe, that'll be all."
It had felt as if a weight had been lifted. And everything seemed to be going fairly well for the prosecutor. The defense attorney had then called the actual suspect on trial, Cain Marko.
Oddly, he seemed relatively relaxed. Rather nonchalant, to the dismay of the jury. The prosecutor walked back and forth, a straight line, formulating questions to ask and in what sequence, persuasion at its finest. He knew he'd have to trick someone like that, into tripping over minute details that would turn out to be sequential to the case.
"Why'd you kill those women, innocent women." He knew the defendant would refute, but he wasn't ready for…
"It was easy."
Shouting of obscenities and threats rang out from the courtyard, from the families that were still indolently still sitting there.
"Order in the court!" the judge threw the gavel against his podium. Objectivity was key.
"Objection!"
"On what grounds?"
"Of his clear sense of insanity"
"Over ruled"
"But why?" The prosecutor asked of the defendant of the stand, dumbfounded.
"Cyanide is rapidly absorbed from the stomach, lungs, mucosal surfaces, and unbroken skin," he said nonchalantly before continuing, "Effects begin within seconds of inhalation and within 30 minutes of ingestion. The Initial effects wold include headache, faintness, vertigo, excitement, anxiety, a burning sensation in the esophagus, and hypertension and vomiting. However…" His thumb and pointer finger grab a piece of lint that had vacationed on his suit, his only suit. He seemed perplexed by it, even rolled it between his fingertips before prompted to continue his tale. "Its later effects include coma, convulsions, paralysis, respiratory depression. I killed so much more without being noticed. Did you know cyanide is almost impossible to trace? You could only find it, if one was searching for it, and the only way to detect it, is the odor of almonds. Anyways, it only took more time for me to want to go to more drastic measures to get your attention."
"'Your?'"
"American Justice"
Everyone was silent, perhaps they were lost within their own reveries or trying to digest the cataclysm of information that spewed forth from the criminal, from the murderer…
It had appeared already in the bag.
"Closing statements?"
"None your honor," they both replied in synchronization
The audience breathed, as if they've never had the capacity or ability to with take oxygen.
"Anything that the defendant would like to request to say before the jury is dismissed for deliberation?"
"May I request a helmet"
Everyone appeared to shout a "what?" in confusion, in which Mr. Marko was happy to answer.
"…to keep the voices out." He tapped an index finger to his right temple, as if drilling…
The jury was perplexed, they were shocked, and the trial had lasted eight months. Each meeting of the trial dates, Ororo was present.
The death penalty in New York had been thrown out a decade ago, yet the prosecution had specifically asked for the death penalty considering the depressing statements of the family and friends of the bereaved and the pictures, not to mention the agent who testified.
The judge stood up, straightened his robes, pushed the bridge of his glasses further along the ridge of his nose. "The jury found the Mr. Cain Marko to be guilty of all charges, he is to be given 15 life sentences with no possibility of parole--"
"I want to be given the death penalty"
"Shut up Marko," his defense attorney raged, pulling the man closer to him by the collar, as if he didn't know who the man was, what he did, what he could do…
"Every man has the ability to kill," Caine said, a small smirk gracing his lips, holding a certain neurotic essence to it, "but to feel no remorse, is a sin of monstrosity," he stared ahead as men, women, and children cried, perhaps for a mother, a sister, a daughter…
"I'd like my execution to be public and for all of you to see. It is through your hatred of what I've done, of what I'd do, of what I am that will cause you to turn into something that you abhor, me." His smile never faded, as he was led away by two guards towards the bus that would take him to the Stain prison, to ANSEG, to level four where they housed all those awaiting death row…
She was transfixed by the picture, letting her fingers run over the victim as if in a small remembrance of her, a small attempt at hoping that maybe her death wasn't in vain, perhaps…
Vicariously I, live while the whole world dies
You all need it too, don't lie
Why can't we just admit it?
Knock, knock, knock.
It seemed like a beat rather than a courteous try at alerting someone that they made their famed entrance.
"You gotta eat."
"I already ate"
"Yeah, like yesterday,"
"Robert, I'm busy,"
"Oh, no. We're using un-shortened names now, sorry, Mrs. Munroe, I didn't know lack of sleep also came with rudeness. Excuse me for trying to be a friend,"
"Look, I'm sorry Bobby, but with… the death of…..this place, our environment. It's not exactly without its idiosyncrasies considering all that's happened."
Robert Drake, simply known as 'Bobby' worked in the adjacent cubicle of the building, adding to the humdrum of the place. His specific job was Cyber Crime, which meant working on computer intrusions, online predators, piracy/intellectual property theft, and internet fraud. He was all about jokes, and had even given himself the nickname "The :Ladies Man", a joke in itself since no one else called him that but himself.
"How about I pick you something up from subway if you want, after my DATE of course…"
"It's not a mannequin is it? I'd hate to think of my co-worker and personal confidant as a philanderer who does….odd things with dolls"
"A) dolls don't nag, they do what they're told b) no, it's with a girl I met, she's swell. I'm thinking of this pick up line when I meet her today, tell me whatcha think,"
She placed the photograph down with all the others. Standing to her full height of 5'11 and facing him, her eyes widened with interest. This should be good, she thought.
"If I were a pokemon master, I'd choose you,"
She couldn't help but laugh aloud at the remark. It was so cheesy, so weird, so Bobby. She needed this. "It's you," she said with a nervous smile. She hoped his date wouldn't ditch him.
"Yes! Thanks Ro. Oh yeah, the boss wants to see you, "
"What for?"
"You know Xavier, he can't go far without asking where his pretend daughter is and if she needs anything and blah blah blah," his right hand curved inward, forming a sideways v that began to flap like a muted mouth.
"Come on Bobby…"
"It's true Ro. You can't go far without daddy inquiring about your whearabouts and giving you the preferential treatment, you're a rookie, and I've been here for ten years."
"He thinks all of us as his children…."
"Yet, when it came to the reviewing of each and every employee last year I was on the cutting block, if it wasn't for you speaking up for me, I would've gotten fired. But let's not worry about bad mumbo jumbo. I 'm too happy to finally test my wonderful skills at dating!"
She laughed again. "Good luck Bobby."
"Thanks Ro. Oh, and you better go talk to Xavier or else he'll have my ass for this, and not in a good way either!"
It was good to laugh again. She placed her fingertips along the brass knob, turning it counter clockwise until she heard a faint click of the door slamming shut. She opted to take to the staircase, not wanting to be in that elevator, that small enclosure with so many people, she shuddered.
It was time to see Charles Xavier, close friend, boss, and even father figure.
Credulous at best, your desire to believe in angels in the hearts of men.
Pull your head on out your hippy haze and give a listen.
Shouldn't have to say it all again.
The universe is hostile. so Impersonal. devour to survive.
So it is. So it's always been.
He had received a fax with all the list of the possible nemeses of the 'fantastic duo'. It wasn't a list, it was a fucking novel.
He ended up categorizing it from most threatening to least and decided to go to the highest and work his way down. Five a day. Ask a few questions, get a few phone numbers, get some tips here and there.
Luckily for him, the first five were all within the vicinity. He managed to talk to an Erik Lensherr, a loan shark, who had invested his "hard earned cash" into the Worthinton Labs and was never repaid, he had converted his two children Wanda and Pietro Maximoff into also loathing the two; Nathanial Essex, a man, who creeped the hell out of Logan with his wide chagrin smirks and guffaws at the mentioning of the Lebeau Murder- he was definitely on the watch list-; Victor Creed, a man who he instantly disliked after having met the man, it appeared as if he and Remy dealt with art theft and other stolen merchandise; and lastly, Bella Donna Boudreaux, a woman who had met Remy when they were children, yet the relationship turned sour during their teen years, and she still had a grudge.
He'd been driving all day, from one street corner to the next, and for what? For goddamn nothing. He had a few leads, but it wasn't nothing substantial. And he told Warren so.
"Look, I don't see what she has to do with it. That Nathaniel Essex and Creed seem a bit shady, but they all seem to have alibis, I'll look into it though. I still have some other people to talk to, including his father. Was he told yet? "
"No."
"It's been a month"
"Take it up with the widow."
"But didn't you say the coroner-"
"Dr. Smith-"
"Yeah, whatever. Didn't you say he said that Remy had put you on the emergency contact list?"
"Yeah what of it?"
"Well, since he thought so much of you, don't you think you could've told his father of his impending death?"
"Are you saying that it's my fault that Jean-Luc hasn't been notified"
"I'm not pointin' fingers"
"Good, do your job. I don't need your advice unless I pay for it, got it?"
"You done with the tantrum."
"Do you still want the videotapes?"
"Is it worth viewin'"
"I think so, " he said, his voice a bit above a whisper.
"I'm guessin' that's a no. Send 'em anyway. I'm crossin' Munroe off the list until you can give me more information…"
He pressed the red phone emoticon simply meaning, "End Call," and placed the cellular phone into the back of his pants' pocket, a stupid thing to do perhaps, but he'd like to see some punk try to wrestle him for a phone and end up getting their ass kicked with a lame ass story to cry home to.
Meanwhile…
It was something in him. Something in the pit of his stomach that told him to not let her get off that easy. It was that same feeling he got when he knew that he would be something, make his father's company more than just a humble abode with modest beginnings.
"Betsy!"
"Yes, dear"
"I need you to fax these to this number, they'll recognize it."
"Yes, Mr. Worthington".
Vicariously I, live while the whole world dies
Much better you than I
Fingers grasped a small martini glass, shaking it around as the small olive swam and bobbed like a buoy in an endless ocean of clear liquid.
"This is Fox 11 news, giving you the newest of the latest events whether it be from criminal law to the scorching temperatures to the new fashion trends. Our first story is one that has sparked our interest as of late. The death of the young Remy Lebeau was proposed as an accident. The body was found at the bottom of an anchor belonging to one of his ships, the Maine Street, the Maine police along with the NYPD, when questioned, had said that it was merely the inability to stop drinking, and, out of drinking to such a high amount, he had fallen overboard and got tangled in its lines. However, it has now come from our anonymous senders that there was foul play and that a Miss Ororo Munroe, his wife and agent of the FBI's Organized crime, and violent crime department is being suspected as playing a part. Here at Fox 11 when we bring you the latest news, we will keep you updated on the story as it develops. Now, Tom how about these scorching temp-"
He dropped his glass, the liquid spilling on the fine Persian rug. His thumb pressed forcefully on the power : on/off button. Tony stark didn't like this at all, not one bit…
