Title: If Looks Could Kill
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: T f
Inspiration: Pop Culture and the Olympics.
My Mission: for you to root for the underdog.
Characters: Ororo Munroe, Warren Worthington, Logan, Tony Stark, and evefryone under the sun.
What did I use for appearances?: -I'll try and see if I can add them / via Microsoft Word.
Quotes:From actors or authors.
Reviews: R&R, please and thank you!
Note: Do to the fact that this is an insanely large chapter it has been split into two parts. I didn't want to upload it as two different chapters so I recommend that after getting through the first part, take a break! If you read it all at once, there's a lot of time skips and information that might overwhelm you.
-kendra.
"Please come in Ororo. How are you, my dear?" It would have sounded like any other conversation between man and boss, an obvious "how to pick up from the loss of a loved one" lecture check-in that employees received during a time of crisis. However, under that calm veneer held a hint of concern. Perhaps when he held her delicate brown hand in between his own, it also added to the apprehension.
She was a rookie, had only been in the Organized Crime unit for three years, and although it seemed like a lot of experience for someone belonging to the NYPD or the S.W.A.T team, the F.B.I was quite different. Ororo had the physical ability, as well as the intelligence to work in the field or in the office. He just didn't know if she could develop the emotional detachment needed to find disreputable men and women and their victims. He wondered if he wanted her to.
Charles Xavier was a widow of a childless marriage. Once a man who loved and had it all: from a profession he loved to a woman he loved, he thought he would never find that particular emotion again after the death of his late wife and the government scrutiny of his sector. His wife died of Leukemia and though not being a particularly religious man, he acknowledged that "the life after death" possibility was more welcoming-and comforting- than the last painful months of his wife's existence. After S.H.I.E.L.D, a more popularized and notarized government channel, gained a more "hands on" role over decisions that concerned the globe, but more particularly the U.S, they had put a damper on certain decisions made by the F.B.I. With great power comes great responsibility, he remembered thinking bitterly as he had to accustom himself to running decisions that were before, void of any other approval save his own, through them. He couldn't run an investigation, talk to the Attorney General, or any other government official without S.H.I.E.L.D telling him he could. Remy Lebeau and Warren Worthington somehow fit in that cumbersome situation. No, Charles Xavier definitely didn't think he'd love again or trust again.
Ororo proved him wrong.
When he had met her or rather when she collided into him, he had found her trying to pickpocket him. She was only thirteen at the time and he could tell that she had seen a lot, that she knew the life of squalor that could be only identifiable with someone who lived in the streets. Although she had that cool, icy persona, he knew there was another, a caring soul that often battled with the former, and often lost.
He remembered yelling after her as she ran away, her prize being zilch as her victim found her out. It took days. He'd often cruise around the spot that she had tried to steal from him, yearning to find her, to help her. He eventually found her through a private source of his, the good ol' fashioned newspaper. She'd been jailed for not only assault on a resident-she admitted that the man harassed her, of what or about Xavier did not know-, but also a battery charge against the police officer who routinely jaunted the area and picked her up. She had no money and couldn't possibly post bail to get out-juvenile hall wasn't befitting a girl so young and if he didn't do something, he acknowledged the possibility that that would become her second home.
He didn't know why he posted the money, had given her a ride, or even asked if she needed a place to stay. He of course denied being a pedophile when she asked; it must have been compulsory to ask if you were a young female and a significantly older man asked if you needed a place to lie low in.
What was only meant to be a few months at the most, ended up being years. He reformed her. He enrolled her into a private school and with great pride that could only be befitting of a newly-turned father, he noted that she was above anyone else in her class. And, although she still maintained that "holier than thou" goddess attitude, he saw the building blocks that would form a caring and unselfish individual.
He had wondered of her parents, but never asked. She knew Swahili and had mastered her fluency in English, yet he knew not of how she came to be without any parental guidance in her life. He never asked but she eventually told him.
"We were walking through an alleyway. We had just gotten out of a play that my mom was dying to see. We had only came to America a few months ago, and my parents wanted to see the gaudiness that adorned Broadway."
He watched her as she stared at the floor, crystalline tears mixing in with the polish of the mahogany floors. He never goaded her to continue, but she did.
"My father said that he knew a short cut. He didn't see t-t-the muggers waiting for him. He would've gladly given him his watch and wallet if it wasn't for the way they handled his wife, saying with morbidity and possessiveness if she could be added along. I saw blood that day and I was spared by sirens and neighbors shouting from their window sills about the commotion. It was my 7th birthday."
Somehow that alleyway transformed into a metaphor of being trapped inside without escape...it manifested itself into a fear of closed spaces- claustrophobia. She couldn't go down one without having an anxiety attack and over the years, it got worse.
It took hours to console her after that heartfelt admittance, but when it was over, there was a powerful bond that formed between the two. The only bond that was possible between a loving father and daughter.
She had brightened his life. It sounded lame then and sounded lame now, but it was true. His abode was lonely and dark after his wife died and faded into a welcome sight when Ororo was present. She had awakened in him something anew and somehow he gave her caring side more levity so that it blossomed into a hobby. Horticulture.
Small plants of many breeds like Hibiscus, Orchids, and Weeping Katsura adorned the house. And somehow she begged and somehow he acquiesced to her many pleas, to keep the things around. That's how her office was covered in green foliage, offering a safe haven for many co-workers.
He didn't like her studying for field tests and training to be a part of the Federal Bureau, he didn't want that life for her. But just like him, she was stubborn. He felt better knowing he was in charge of missions, well besides S.H.I.E.L.D. He tried to protect her by giving her the safest ones like embezzlement and money laundering. Ever since that Cain Marko case, she was drawn like a moth to a flame towards the hellish nightmare of killing and catching.
Charles Xavier sighed. He stared at the door that she had exited from ten minutes prior and hoped she'd be okay. He had asked if she needed time off, knowing what was to come: Remy's funeral was tomorrow, a public one at that.
Ororo stood against the wall, a small smile of serenity graced her lips. Xavier, though not being a biological father, was the closest she remembered to having one. She always kept a locket of her parents' pictures inside around her neck, and even added his own to the malleable heart-shaped trinket.
"Hey Ro. Sooo aren't you gonna ask me about my date," Bobby beamed. He saw her leaning against the wall looking so forlorn, the place needed cheerfulness.
"I guess I have to," she arched an eyebrow before continuing, "how was your date Bobby?" It was laddened with mock sarcasm and yawns. Bobby ignored the taunting.
"I got action," he grinned.
"I don't want to know about your sexcapades," she said, frowning at the images that popped in her mind.
"Geez Ro, get your mind out the gutter. We rented Mission Impossible III, Tom Cruise is the greatest actor ever!"
"You have a man crush," she said, laughing heartily.
"Do not!"
Their shouts of "DO!" and "DO NOT!" echoed down the hallway.
He flashed a pair of Armani shades from his pocket and rested them on the bridge of his nose, finding them resilient against the penetrating rays of the sun. He still had them on even after he entered the building. "One ticket to Manchester please."
The tone was courteous, polite, something the ticket woman needed ever since the decline in the demand for flying, an increase in lost baggage claims, and of course 9/11.
"Cash or credit?"
"Credit card as always," he flashed a smile. She was lucky to decide not to call in sick.
"And when would you like to come back or is this a one-way flight?"
"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 suspected as playing a part. "
He was suppose to stay in Maine and enjoy his time till he was called back to a career he'd been so accustomed to. However, that report showed how he often made little mistakes that posed as large problems. He'd take care of that mistake though.
"One way."
"Okay sir. Here ya go. Enjoy your flight Mr. Collins. Oh and before I forget here's a survey, if you enjoyed your flight on Southwest Airlines and if the service was up to par, you know... the riff raff."
"Thanks," he said, quickly seeing a phone number scribbled on the side, a phone number that he knew was not customer service. He began walking away and turned, casting her a smile, she blushed. Perhaps he'd look her up when he was done with business; it depended on other variables though.
While he waited, he went into a gift shop and bought a hunting and fishing magazine-why not take one of the hundreds that littered the place.
He read through the glossed pages and bookmarked what he wanted.
A woman had delivered them personally. She was slender and had the perfections of an international model or an American sweetheart. She had Asian features, yet also traits that belonged to the quote unquote "white" culture. Instead of flowing black locks, there was a cascade of purple. Instead of dark brown irises, there were purple ones instead. It was noted that Amelia Earhart had purple eyes so maybe they weren't contact lenses, besides with Ororo's features, who was he to question their source?
She spoke with a British accent and Logan concluded that all the men with power got the finest things in life-including women.
He watched her go, perhaps she had other errands to run for her boss, and found himself relieved he wasn't harassed with long winded questions from Hank. "I'll be in my office," he said to anyone that was listening-Jubilee was glued to the television screen and Hank was fixated on the newspaper. He picked up the four VHS video cassettes and headed into his ransacked office.
Thank god he still kept a VCR in his office. This was fuckin' 2008 for Pete's sakes."
Tape 1
"I gave you an advance on the loan you requested. I also loaned you money away from Magneto Enterprises, when will I get my share back Mr. Lebeau?" The man seemed aggravated, perhaps it was the hunched shoulders or the fact he sat straight against the chair, hands clasped together. The marred features of age and something else made it look like the man was haunted by past horrors; his handsome features were layered underneath a mask of unrelenting abrasiveness. Logan knew the man. He was on the top 5 of the list Warren Worthington had given him, he deemed him one of the most threatening. He glared at the screen.
"Remy know dat Monsieur, but he's in a little mess right now. I just need a few mo' months homme," he said, his voice steady. Even with the poor image quality Logan could see the surprised look on the younger man's face as he was pushed against the wall rather unceremoniously. "Don't fuck with me Lebeau or my money." Strands of white hair blocked the man's face from any viewing of facial expressions, he guessed the man was pissed and he guessed Remy guessed it too.
"You'll get yo money mon ami, even double for da inconvenience..."
"I better, or else," he breathed in, grabbing Remy's collar before wiping it as if it was covered in dust, he smiled, "I don't want to hurt either of you. Just don't break your promise." Eric Lensherr left after that, his resolve covering his loss of control he exhibited previously.
Remy stared at the man's exit. He lit a cigarette and stood there lost in contemplation. Minutes later he would talk in short sentences usually with "yes" or "no" answers to the man named Victor Creed.
The sixty minutes were over.
It was onto tape 2.
Tape 2
This tape was far less helpful. He watched unamused as the tape just covered affairs. Not money affairs but sexual affairs. It started out as kissing, but then again doesn't it always? Soon his duster and the no-named women were unclothed, wrestling on the desk, the floor, or the wall. If he wanted to see porn, he could've gone down to Harlem, not to mention he preferred girl on girl rather than girl on formerly deceased guy.
His wide pointer finger pressed the double » button, aka the fast forward bauble. Why the hell did Warren think that this was important? Wait. He had to rewind it. Yes, there she is. The blonde hair, the brown eyes, the delicate petite features of Belladonna. She had lied to him. She had said that they were friends since childhood, yet the relationship turned sour in their teenage years. This little portrayal definitely didn't highlight the two as teenagers, he was easily twenty-seven at the time. She seemed more like a burnt lover who was used and tossed aside.
Tape three
The voices were muted this time and unlike the other two videos, this one was only twenty minutes long. It had that guy he didn't like, what was his name? Nathaniel Essex. The man always kept his face hidden, as if he knew where the cameras and voice recorders were located. The dread on Remy's face during and after the meeting definitely confirmed that he had made a deal with the devil and the devil came to collect.
Tape Four
"Remy doesn't have long. I f-f-feel as if I'm cornered. Dese people seem as if dey lookin' fo somethin' more to collect 'sides money." The man looked like someone put a target on him, and fired away. His hair was disheveled and unkempt, his duster's collar was folded down on one side and flipped up on the other, and he was out of breath. Logan heard him mumble and turn towards the door before saying, "I gotta get outta here. Go on vacation."
"We got a problem," Hank said, turning to page 4 of the news.
"Flight 312 Now Boarding. Flight 312 going to Manchester Airport, Now Boarding." Tony Stark picked up the only thing he brought with him, the magazine he had newly purchased at the "HnF gift store." His wallet was conveniently stowed away in his slacks. He looked through the shaded lens of the sunglasses towards Gate 4. He was the first to load aboard the plane, yet the last to put on his seat belt.
"Before we set off for departure, we have to go over the flight regulations for the safety of us, the passengers, and the pilots," the three flight stewardess said with as much enthusiasm as they could muster. Two blondes and a brunette attempted to plaster feign smirks on their painted rouge lips- it was so mundane. "In front of you there is a pamphlet going over the safety procedures, if there is a dilemma with the plane." No one said "crash", no one dared. They continued through each section applied: first class, middle class, and coach. "On the opposite side, you'll find the same exact instructions in Spanish. The intercom came to live, speaking the Spanish equivalent, "En el lado opuesto, tu' el ll encuentra las mismas instrucciones exactas en Español."
They talked about when you could fasten and unfasten seat belts according to the signals on the marquee in front of the cockpit. They nagged on about if the plane were to make an Emergency Landing that oxygen packs would be released from the ceiling compartment, and it was imperative that you adjust the mouth piece before helping your child or spouse.
He hated flying for this sole reason. He had heard the safety procedures so many times that he might as well become a stewardess himself or a co-pilot. Once teleportation was invented, he'd gladly be the first test subject. It had been a full thirty minutes before the plane took off from the terminal. Luckily, his excursion was already paid for by someone else.
"Hello. Would you like anything off our beverages list? Unfortunately, due to the fact that we will meet at our destination in exactly one hour, we cannot offer you anything from our bar..."
"Do I look like an alcoholic?" he mocked being offended.
"Oh no, sir--"
He didn't think thirty was old enough to be labeled "sir", but he let it slide. Stewardess were never fun, well not "never" fun.
"Relax, I was just joking. Do you have Coke?"
"Is Pepsi okay?"
"I guess it'll have to be," they laughed.
He picked up the small magazine that laid dormant for a while in the back of the passenger's seat in front of him. He flipped it to the page he folded the bottom corner over. He glanced at the floor, a small ballpoint pen was idle on the marbleized flooring of the plane. Success! it had ink.
14" Pro Hunting knife
Original Price: 90
Retail price: 67.50 (75 off)
ships within 1-2 business days
Description: one fixed blade knife with gut hook measuring a total of 14", used for extracting intestines. Bottom serrated edge is optimally utilized for stabbing the kidney for a quick kill, skinning, and easily removing the inner organs. An item that belongs to the inner survivalist, a hunter can't go without. The blade is equipped with stainless steel blades and anodized aluminum handles. Limited lifetime warranty. Gift boxed.
It was circled.
He thought she had gone away, to ask other passengers if they wanted condiments and snacks.
"You're interested in hunting?"
"You could say that." He turned on the television and reflected how it was a relief to be in first class, no kids screaming, no parents screaming at their kids, and no cardboard blankets with concrete-like pillows. Something was playing, but it didn't look interesting, he switched to the news.
"Who wouldn't like this adorable puppy, Cal?" the reporter said, while petting the 2 month old St. Bernard puppy. "I don't know Jill, it's definitely a keep--"
"How could you do it?" she asked. Hunting was grotesque in her mind, it wasn't like they needed to kill defenseless animals for food, and there was such a thing as supermarkets.
He changed his focus from the small monochrome television screen to the stewardess. He stared at her nametag labeled "Janelle" or rather at her ample chest. She cleared her throat and his eyes met hers. "I'm helping the population," he smiled.
She shrugged and walked away.
"What you are asking of me is something I cannot fulfill," his eyes pierced through the blinds onto the streets below. He watched as men and women held picket signs and attempted to say all of what they knew and suspected to the news casters. The bystanders loitered at the base or entrance of the headquarters and most of them were reporters, less than half the citizens of Manchester. It was a quagmire.
His fingers trailed along the button that was used for connecting the speakerphone or intercom from his phone line. "Mrs. Munroe please come to my office."
She stood at her desk, pliers in hand as she bit her lower lip in concentration. She leveled the pliers at an upward angle towards the dead leaf and was careful not to touch the healthy budding flower. Snip. "Aha!" she said triumphantly. The intercom replayed the recorded message "Shkk..Mrs. Munroe please come to my office. Shkk." She sighed. Speaking to the boss twice in one day wasn't odd, but between four hours was downright uncanny. She would have to talk to Xavier about that. It hurt her reputation when no one could talk to her, feeling as if she'd squeal and nag at how they were treating her unfairly. And, they'd find themselves in the unemployment line.
She placed the pliers on her desk and walked down the hallway, noticing as men and women stopped their tasks to see what she was doing what he wanted from her.
She passed by the computer department, seeing Bobby mouthed a, "What does he want now?" before talk into the phone with a person he was obviously enamored with, "...and she copied your outfit? The nerve of her..."
She smiled and shrugged and walked on, trying to let Robert have as much time left of the breaks he barely got.
"My, my, four hours go by till Daddy needs to check up on his girl, must be a world record," a man said. He was a realist and many called him a down-to-earth or ethereal liberalist. He was in charge of keeping the equipment-including weapons- as up to date as possible.
"I don't know, Forge," she said, exhausted. His jibs still hurt though she was the one to call it quits.
She stood behind the door preparing her speech.
"No need to knock," his voice interrupted her motion-her fist barely an inch away from the oak door. The door was slightly ajar, leaving a slit of space between the frame and the entrance.
"Sit down Ororo," Charles smiled sadly. The gallant courteous man till the end.
"I prefer to stand. I appreciate your concern, Goddess I do. You've been so caring through this mishap and..."
He tossed her the newspaper; it was already folded to page 4.
She read the headlines. "Honestly Charles. You know how the media is painted with lies, they're grabbing for straws. You possibly cannot believe what the New York Times tells you."
"I do not."
"Then why am I here?"
"Ororo, I'm putting you on temporary suspension...until this whole ordeal blows over."
"What?" had she heard correctly? She stood aghast, eyes widened in slight horror. When you were on suspension, which was as worse as getting fired. In fact, it often led to terminating your career.
"I didn't order it. It was filed from a higher source. I foresee danger coming for you."
"I'm a grown woman, I think I'm perfectly adept at handling a few brainwashed pedestrians and anchormen." She sighed knowing that S.H.I.E.L.D was behind her removal, and that her surrogate father was not solely responsible for her untimely termination.
"How long do I have to leave the premises?" She expected 30 days like all other dismissals.
"It's effective today."
He tried to say something else, to plead with her that it was just a few weeks off, instead of an end to her place with the F.B.I, yet he knew that was a lie in itself.
She left. She didn't say anything; there wasn't anything left to say. The tears clinging to her eyelashes didn't go unnoticed by Xavier or by her fellow co-workers.
"Something got you down," Forge jested, surprised that he didn't get a comeback in response.
Bobby was off the phone and he, Forge, and the others turned towards Xavier's office, watching as the invincible man stared blankly at the floor. They all silently wondered, "What just happened?"
He breathed in the fresh air or rather the polluted combination of car and plant smog, sewage, nitrogen, and oxygen. Ah, New York, he mused. He promenaded down the street, avoiding the homeless as they begged for spare change.
"Can you believe she's having the funeral public? The nerve..."
"I'm glad."
"And why is that?"
"Because we'll be the first to film it."
The reporters laughed, ushering an "MSNBC" logo on their microphones. They resigned from their station at the base floor of the F.B.I headquarters, finding it a bust to get no commentary, save that from citizens that wanted to offer their two cents on the subject.
Tony grinned. He'd have to rent a night at a nearby hotel if he was going to make an appearance at an event that was likely to bring more than a few people.
She had resisted the questions of concern from Bobby, offering him statements like, "I'll only be gone for a few weeks, I'll be back" and "It's just a suspension, relax Robert. Once the media cools down, I'll be back", to calm him down and ease his fears and perhaps, some of her own.
She had stashed her plants and flowers in protective bubble wrap and laid them in cardboard boxes. She unclipped her holster belt and dissembled the AWC silencer hand gun, so that the magazine, chamber, and safety pins were separated. She managed to leave the office without answering any more pervasive questioning from Bobby or Forge or Christine...
With boxes in hand and the badge resting upon the furnished desk top, she exited the building, leaving everyone shocked and confused.
20 minutes later...
She climbed the steps to her Victorian home. It looked like it was under a million dollars, since it was rectangular, lengthy, but not certainly wide. Despite it having eight rooms, an additional guest room, and 3 bathrooms, it was disguised by its seemingly "normal" preface or outward appearance. The house cost 1,500,000- a gift of sorts from her parents, Charles, and Remy.
She pushed open the door; boxes towered under her left arm, threatening to spill over its contents. She stared at the only welcoming sights that surrounded the walkway and the greenhouse-like groves. Plants. Plants of various species and sub-species littered the house to make it an unconventional "Little Shop of Horrors" montage.
It was so ordinary. To come home, to eat, to write in your journal, to cross out dates that would lead to the fateful tomorrow, and lastly, to cry yourself to sleep. Sometimes, it wasn't in that order.
All the crossing out led to 24 hours till the event. It was 6 pm and tomorrow it'd start at noon.
End of part I
Part II
Church bells rang, choirs sang. No one stirred in the streets, it wasn't a Sunday, but everyone was in the Church-though not all were Christian.
"Ve are gathered vhere to pay respect to a friend, husband, son..."
Dead silence. It rained down upon New York, perhaps feeling the tension, the depression, the anger...
Within the center of the room laid a closed casket, flowers spilling upon the outer rim of the large construction.
Six pews on the left and right, which were split by a carpeted walkway division, were barely filled.
On the left: Remy's immediate family-Tante Mattie, a southern black woman, who was also labeled a Voo Doo priestess, and Jean-Luc, the father who adopted him. Their hands were clasped over each other's, making more of a contrasting hued layer. It was an act of consoling each other, an act they'd portrayed through their long lasting friendship, through the trials and tribulations of everyday life. Charles sat two rows behind them, staring at Ororo and hoping the damage on her psyche wouldn't be too traumatic. Bobby couldn't make it being caught in an immense workload. The sixth bench housed Warren Worthington, his face contorted in remorse and rage.
On the right: Eric Lansherr, Pietro and Wanda Maximoff-all three stone faced at the sermon being given. Nathaniel Essex sat in the center of the right side, a small smirk still on his lips, and Bella Donna Boudreaux was in the back, tissues in hand. Remy's last mistress, Anna Marie, couldn't go to the funeral; she had bought a plane ticket home to Mississippi, hoping to heal. In the back of the entrance or exit was the media, their microphones and cameras turned on. You could hear a pin drop.
It was then that the priest cleared his throat. Kurt Wagner hated seeing so many mixed emotions; it was as if it filtered into the air.
"His vife vould like to say a few vords."
He watched, slightly saddened at the desolate look in her eyes. It looked as if she cried to such extent that the very blue of her eyes filtered into gray.
She shakily spoke.
He was on time as always. Punctuality was key to good business. He stood behind various news crews like MSNBC, CNN, FOX, KQCRA, and international ones-Worthington Labs offered a lot of vending merchandise overseas. Tony Stark listened unamused at the widower's convictions. Biding his time.
He didn't say anything. He didn't think he had to. He wanted to give his personal apologies, but his career and his pride wouldn't let him. Logan stood appalled and disgusted as camera men and women whispered, "This is boring. When will we get some action shots?"
It had taken two hours and 15 minutes for the funeral to end. No donations were asked in order to transfer the body from Manchester to his home, the Bayou of "N'awlins.'" Everyone either seemed resolute or pleased with the aftermath. It was Eric who first left, closely followed by his two children, then Nathaniel Essex, who laughed as he walked away to the lonely abyss. Who was left in the end were the disgruntled newsmen, Warren Worthington, Ororo, and the consoling priest.
Warren Worthington's blue eyes focused on her. Focused on her fake tears and the way she wouldn't meet his invasive stare-his blood boiled. He said something under his breath before he turned and pushed passed the cameras violently. He scowled at Logan seeing him there and nearly bumped into another man: he didn't say sorry.
Tony Stark had taken it upon himself to meander away from the newsmen and women. Although they wouldn't know his face or identity, it was that certain closeness that he wasn't too fond of. He had managed to lean against a telephone pole, a mere few feet from the entrance of the church-no one seemed to pay him any mind. Yet somehow, somehow the infinite cosmos caused some guy to bump into him, the so-called "pretty boy" associate and founder. He narrowed his eyes, but didn't move, not until ten minutes were over and he saw her walk isolated and detached. He followed her, keeping a few yards in between them. It would've been hard following her had it not been for the white hair and her tall stature. He stopped, quickly cursing to himself as he saw a man join her.
"Hey...wait," Logan, the shorter person, wailed. Her long strides made her almost impossible to catch up with without jogging.
"I hope your satisfied, your little leak to the police cost me my job." Her eyes were focused ahead in slight annoyance.
"That wasn't..." she kept walking, walking as if it was just her on the boulevard. He reached out and grabbed her arm, making her coming to a halt though she didn't look at him.
"I wouldn't do anythin' that brass. It was Warren. I told him that he could potentially be endangerin' ya."
"I already got the caring lecture."
"Well, yer gonna get another one," he said sternly, surprising them both. "Anyways, I'm droppin' the case, so you're officially off of my hit list."
"What kind of "hit" list?" She arched an eyebrow seductively, making him smile though he had just gotten out of a funeral session.
They walked for what seemed like fifteen short minutes, though it was actually forty-five. They walked past the automatic gate, a gate that separated the wealthy and the upper/middle/lower classes-it made him uncomfortable: men washing their Lexus and women caring for their isolated Petunias all were stopping to stare at him in curiosity. The silence was deafening. They walked further. She stood at the top of the front steps, amused that the P. I shifted uncomfortably at the bottom.
"Well, goodnight..."
It was 3:30 pm.
"You walked for nearly an hour just to see I made it home safely?"
"Like I said, Warren blabbed and I was worried that some paparazzi might hurt yah."
"I doubt that a few camera lenses could be perilous to my health." People started being more confrontational, being so bold to say, "How was Remy's funeral?" as if she had done something morally wrong by talking to the opposite sex. She didn't answer their petty attempts at admonishing her. "Would you like to come inside?" She watched his expression alter from discomfort to mere terror. "For tea?" she added hastily: it softened.
"Perhaps another time. I have to head back to the office."
"If you're sure...?"
"I am."
They both offered their goodbyes, while he said his condolences, which shocked him because they were actually true.
Ororo watched as his figure slowly disappeared in the horizon. She went inside.
George A. Romero -
"I've always felt that the real horror is next door to us, that the scariest monsters are our neighbors."
His figure was disguised by an archaic willow tree, its girth swallowing up his form and proposing that he might be a neo-classical poet; simply a man brought by the power of nature to draw in inspiration from all things natural.
He managed to avoid people's stares and implicit questions of curiosity because unlike the other man, it looked like he belonged there-a new neighbor who just moved in. The gate was easy to bypass, as soon as a Lexus or Mercedes left to their daily commute, he was on their trail.
He had waited for the shorter man to disappear before he came from the peripheral trunk.
He picked up his cell phone, hearing a line connect through monotonous ringing before a loud SHKK could be heard. His eyes saw her through the window pane, watched as she walked towards the refrigerator and crossed out something on a calendar.
"We have a problem."
"Yes, WE do."
The phone call faded out.
The next day.
Should he call or shouldn't he?
Fingers danced a mere inch from buttons as eyes gazed at the calligraphic handwriting of two phone numbers. He opted on phone numero uno: the house line. It'd be hard, no downright obsessive to call her cell phone.
He fidgeted slightly as he heard a dial tone and then ringing. "Hello?"
"Er." He breathed and thought to himself, What the hell is wrong with you. Ya know English, dontcha?"
"Hello." He heard laughter on the end.
"Hi, you reached the phone of Ororo Munroe, I'm away right now, leave a message." He let out a "dammit" at the inopportune moment of a BEEP, signaling the beginning of a recorded message.
"Yes, well. I just wanted to say hello and maybe meet for tea that you promised yesterday or dinner..." he mentally kicked himself for even pronouncing "meet" "for tea" and "wanting to say hello" in one sentence. He continued. "So yeah. If you like the idea, call the office and Jubilee will redirect you."
He was about to say something else, something along the lines of this being a social outing not a questionnaire or inquiry, when...
"We're sorry you have exceeded the time limit, please press 1 to re-record or press 2 to listen to your mess--"
He hung up.
"I hate women..."
Hank McCoy was fortunate enough to be strolling pass Logan's open door and to start singing in a baritone voice, "We all want somebody to love. We all need somebody to love." He wiggled one eyebrow playfully, grabbing a hold of Jubilee's brush and utilizing it as a microphone. He barely missed the folder being aimed at his head.
"Aww Logan, why don't you turn that frown, upside down?"
Logan merely huffed, but Hank got what he asked for, a small smirk. It wasn't much, but it was something
"Er. Hello...Yes, well. I just wanted to say hello and maybe meet for tea that you promised yesterday or dinner...So yeah. If you like the idea, call the office and Jubilee will redirect you."
A feminine voice echoed throughout the mechanical voice, "Your message has been deleted. No new messages."
Tony Stark frowned at the recording message, it was so harmless and innocent that he wasn't sure why he deleted it, he just did. He walked slowly around the Lebeau home, taking in entrances, exits, objects. He had to make a mental map of everything and knowing that she was a part of the F.B.I, he had to make sure everything was exactly the same as she left it, well, almost exactly...there'd be an addition.
He had spent ten minutes lock picking the door, but that was way too long. It would take a few days to execute his plan. He had to go back to basics first. Hit man protocol after all.
He was very fortunate to bring his duffel bag, very fortunate indeed. Inside the bag held his essentials: pens, pencils, sketching paper, blue prints, notepads, flash drives, gum elastic, plasticine aka modeling clay, epoxy, polymer plastic, automatic glue spreader complete with pressure vessels, lighters, embalming fluid, etc. He pulled out the gum elastic and the automatic glue spreader and put it into place with the narrow opening. The insert tab that normally housed adhesive substances such as glue and liquefied tape now contained the polymer plastic. Although the mechanical device was primarily used for all water-based adhesives; the tiny brass knob was a substitute.
By rubbing talcum powder at the very edge of the key hole, he avoided it sticking to the alloyed surrounding.
In a few minutes the polymer plastic mold had done its job, by using excess, he was able to pull it out without any of it getting lost in the crevices.
He tilted it towards the natural light that shone through the window. Tiny grooves and ridges showed vividly-the perfect recreation of a supposed unique and individual key.
He placed the small 2x4 casing into a separated alcove pocket in the duffel bag. Whistling to himself a Billy Idol classic, Tony Stark began to sketch 2-D objects; of course they were drawn to scale. With duffle bag in place and shades on, there was only one more thing to do-clock timings of certain non-sequential events.
"I can't stand the rain outside my window," the voice boomed through the speakers of the small iphone, the ringtone almost diverting her focus from the parallel lines of the road. She glanced at the flat screen and expected it to be from Bobby, but was shocked by the unknown listing. Must be the wrong number, she thought
"Hello?" It was on speaker phone-it was the law to wear either a bluetooth set or talk on speakerphone in order to drive effectively.
"Hello?" the voice sounded eager.
"Mr. Howlett?" She was confused.
"It's Logan," he corrected before continuing, "I tried calling the house, and if you're not too busy maybe we could--"
"Are you asking me out on a date?" She stared at the idle phone as if it was him.
"Heaven's no, well, not Heaven's no, but I just thought that you'd like some company, yeh seemed as if yeh didn't have a friend in the world...not to say you don't have friends, but..."
The incessant stammering came to a close merely because she said, "How about Cable's Shooting Range in an hour?" which was music to both their ears.
An hour later...
He walked inside of the large building trying to distinguish between NRA officers, law enforcement, and the citizens of Manchester. The only difference was clothing and the fact that residents didn't have a belt for bullets, magazines, and interchangeable parts for hand guns.
He continued to walk while looking through windows as members clad in blue cotton uniforms with tiny shields on their breast pocket, shot at NRA targets. He found her. She stood in the middle of segregated areas with goggles and thick earphones on. She seemed focused and he simply walked towards her and waited till she was finished with round 1.
Ororo stared at the Q target that quickly moved along the roundabout line-a thin line that held various targets and moved them from one station to the next-and bided her time. The Q target, a target that was used by the FBI or DEA extensively, resembled a large bowling pin with a small x in the center, was all she needed to complete the course. Around the only Q card that moved every 15 seconds, were NRA targets (targets that resemble dart boards with points ascending as it got to the center), and B-27 Silhouette Law Enforcement Targets (a target that resembled the silhouette of a man, waist high with the center target at his heart). It stopped in front of the station right before hers and her eyes narrowed in focus-with only 2 minutes to go and only 15 seconds to shoot, it was now or never. She pressed her pointer finger against the trigger and fired.
Tiny red lights began to blink as a crescendo sound emanated from a small speaker. "Congratulations challengers you have completed the course." She took off her headphones after placing the small silencer hand gun down on the small desk.
"Yer a pretty good shot. Ever miss a target?"
"I never miss," she smirked while taking off the protective goggles.
He shifted slightly, attempting to find something to say besides the famous King Of The Hill line "Yep...mmhmm." Luckily, she spoke for him.
"Wanna get out of here?"
"Yah spoke the words right out of my mouth."
They meandered their way through the building, Ororo stopping only to say a "Goodnight Boys" to the residents, police officers, and DEA's that were populating the place. "Bye. And go easy on the poor man, he isn't a target!" Nathan Cable, the creator and proprietor of the place, said. Once they were gone, he remarked, "I hope she doesn't kill him, she's a lot to handle."
There was a small restaurant a few blocks down that they decided to walk the way to rather than drive their individual cars. Luigi's Restaurant d'Italia loomed above them embroidered in green, red, and white of the Italian flag. Men walked passed and shouted cat calls at the woman by Logan's side and the protective part of him wanted to wrap his arm around her waist as if she belonged to him, but a woman like that couldn't be a man's possession. He watched as she rolled her eyes at the feign attempts at pick up lines and, after staring down her pursuers, he noticed she smiled at being away from the center of attention. It was odd, downright uncanny, that he opened the door for her, She had arms, an inner voice said, but somehow he was glad to do it.
She smiled and said a "grazzi" in return. He didn't seem the type to open doors, maybe kick them down and beat the hell out of everyone who looked at him wrong, type. They were led by a first generation Italian American, a man by the name of Vechionne, who had a mix of an Italian accent and a Brooklyn twang, sat them at a table by the window.
"It's lovely isn't it," Ororo asked in reflection. She stared at the pictures of Italian merchant ships, mercantiles, and Rafael-themed pastels of Angels.
"Yeah it is," he said absently, his eyes focusing on her delicate features. She blushed. A comfortable silence filled the room as each glanced over the menu.
"It's nice to go out again. I thought the F.B.I consumed my private life, but now..." she thought bitterly.
"And now you have free time?"
"Yeah..I desperately miss the part of always being needed. It's the dread of having nothing to do and just doing nothing that I fear the most..."
"What was it like?"
"What do you mean," she asked perplexed.
"I had a few policemen friends and as a private investigator, my case isn't always under my control if the FBI gets in charge and of course, they end up getting all the credit. What I am basically asking is, is the Bureau full of ass holes and uptight guys like we all think?"
She laughed. "I think with every vocation you have the select few who make the job a pain in the ass for everyone, it just so happens that more than a few are attracted to our profession," she joked.
"So how did you get involved?"
"While growing up, my dad, I mean Xavier, was always gone on chief business, before he became the supervisor of the Bureau. He was one of the best in the field. I remember him coming home at 2 am and you could tell he was exhausted, but there was something driving him besides pressure of society, to help mankind. He was so selfless that he became my model to look at, to aspire to. I don't know, I guess I thought I could be like him if I made it to the field."
He watched as her eyes widened at the altruistic remark, and although he knew nothing about her, there appeared to be something covert that made him yearn for more of a biography. He heard the mentioning of "dad" and as much as he liked to think that she grew up in a regular suburbia with Charles Xavier and his wife, he acknowledged that it was quite the contrary. He'd ask later remembering that when she was at his office, she had said David and N'Dare were her parents, not Xavier.
"Are you one of the few PI lucky enough to be issued a hand gun," she asked inquisitively.
"Yeah. Although I serve the rich, it's assuring to know I have a .22 caliber at my side, I rarely leave the house without it."
"Does it ever hurt?"
Was she speaking in riddles, he was really confused, and it showed on his face. Fortunately, she continued.
"I'm sure you haven't had to use your gun in a while, but surely you've had to use it at one point. I am, I was part of the F.B.I and I thought that by being given the most notorious cases of our time, I could harden and it wouldn't hurt so much, but..."
"It does," he finished for her. She nodded. He somewhat understood. "When I was in Canada, my home country, I was part of a select group of men and women called Alpha Flight, and in the beginning, killing people left me emotionless and empty. It took a while, but I became numb."
"I yearn to feel that same detachment; I'd probably do a better job if I wasn't so involved with the victim(s). "
"It makes you human why wouldja want to get rid of that?"
As she was about to say something in response, Vechionne returned after being shooed away by Logan every time he came to take their order.
"Bonjourno. Welcome to Luigi's, can I start you off with anything?"
Logan was first to answer.
"Corona not that light crap, chilled and the No 3 Meat Lover's Treat"
The man was shocked by the bluntness and hard tone, but scribbled away. "And for the señorita?"
"I'll have a corona as well, and the vegetarian lasagna."
After he walked away to deliver the order to the main chef, Logan asked, "You drink beer, or more importantly, you drink Corona?" Was it church bells ringing or was she a perfect 10? If she adored ice hockey he'd be hooked.
"No I absolutely despise the taste, I'm a wine girl myself, but I will not become the designated driver after what happened last time."
He smiled, "I don't think that'll happen soon. I might get a little tipsy at beer #14, but I have an almost superb healing factor...what happened last time?"
Thirty minutes later they were laughing loudly at embarrassing stories that each shared, one being a drunken Ororo leading a crusade to the dean's office and using the speaker of announcements as a vocal diary of how Justin Spring1 was hotter than Michael Phelps2, and why. The other of Logan getting so drunk that he ended up at an ex-girlfriend's house shouting at her mom of how much of a man he was which gave him a nickname of "lil' tiger" from her family.
So here they were. After eating dinner, getting dessert, and each paying half of the bill (with Ororo being the advocate of that decision), they walked side by side just talking about all things trivial.
For the first time it was comfortable for them both. To anyone else they looked like strangers heading off in the same direction.
He walked her to her car, shifting slightly like he had done at her door step when he walked her home.
"I had fun," she said while opening the door and trying to balance the take out boxes.
"Let me get that for you," he said, not waiting for an answer as he took the boxes and opened the rear side door.
"My, you're handy, maybe I should keep you," she teased. He grinned.
They stood awkwardly close, blue eyes staring into gray ones.
"Maybe we should take it slow..." she said, her eyes staring at his shoes.
"Mmmhmm" he replied, clearing his throat. And like that she drove off, a small smile on both their lips.
1- A USA gymnast and my favorite besides Jonathon Horton, Nastia Lucas, Alicia Stone, and Shawn Johnson. He is best at High bar and parallel bars, and he's very enthusiastic. He and Horton cheer the team though they won bronze in the 2008 Beijing Olympics. He did not compete in the All-Around gymnastics event.
2 Michael Phelps- A U.S Olympian swimmer and what sports casters deem the greatest Olympian ever. He has won 11 consecutive medals and is going for a total of 8 in the 2008 Beijing Olympics. My friend is obsessed with him.
He began walking across the street, his car oddly enough adjacent to hers. As he began to unlock his car, the man also known as Nathan Cable remarked, "You survived, good for you. Didn't know a little man like you could handle a woman like that." He felt a twinge and a little voice saying to punch the man, but he merely said, "I guess I'm filled with surprises." It was five minutes later before he calmed down and took off to his upscale apartment.
A few weeks had gone by and the line between friends and dating became blurred, so that outsiders saw either affectionate friends or frenzied lovers.
He had gone to her home for tea and found that despite her being a good marksmen and a devout agent, she cared deeply for the living plant organisms. He even found himself helping her water them and found a few moments of peace for reflection.
They never did anything more than kiss and strangely enough, that was enough for him. He even invited her to his quote unquote "bachelor pad" that he spent the whole day straightening up prior to her arrival.
It seemed like an escape for paradise for them both for a while. Jubilee and Hank noticing his change and when Ororo met with a barely-free Bobby, he too had noticed how happy she was.
At the Hilton hotel, in Rm 324
Images of them together flashed in his mind. He flicked on a lighter and flicked it off. The investigator and the woman who paid him to kill her husband, kissing. He focused on something else. The small molding lay dormant for weeks inside the bag, which now found a new home on the carpeted floor of the hotel. He flicked his lighter on and watched as the melted piece of metal aka a United States quarter filled the mold. It was a total of sixteen quarters or an equivalent four dollars that he melted to produce an identical key. Despite what a locksmith told you, it was quite easy to make keys. Tony Stark got the idea from a friend who served in the Big House aka Holmes Penitentiary, and apparently, as long as you have the original key, you can make a molding out of just about anything -the preferred item would be prison-made soap- and melt any metal alloy to make a copy key. It was significantly helpful for inmates to get keys to rooms that were only used by prison guards and the warden.
So here he was, sitting against the end of the bed as his left hand held Ororo's new key against the artificial light and his right tapping against the hilt of the 14" Pro Hunting Knife.
He had clocked the timings of when she left and returned for several weeks. He was glad that after finding a headline article of her "temporary" departure, her job didn't pose as other problems when it came to hours away from home and at home. On average she left at 8 am sharp and returned around 1 before going out again at roughly 4 pm. At most, she came home between 9 and midnight. He'd have to make a visit.
"This the one, man?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
"You ain't no fish, are yah?"
"Fish? What are you talking about?"
"Fool, don't try to jip me. You look like a narc." Before Warren could say anything, he found a .37 barrel or the slang colloquial "gat" aimed at his right temple.
"Look man, I have money," he said shakily. His right hand slipped into his pocket before bringing out a wad of 100 dollar bills. It disappeared behind brown fingers.
"Gotta have madd respect for a white boy like you comin' into Harlem. Gangs gone eat you up for breakfast."
Warren took the small handgun-obviously stolen-and looked at it a bit before replying,"This can't be traced correct?"
"Naw."
"Thanks"
"Mmhmm."
They parted ways, Warren getting what he wanted and the guy selling stolen goods getting a more than decent price.
They sat there on the upholstered couch, Ororo's eyes watering. "The fact is that Mary died that day. The hospital she was stationed at was in the crossfire from a German bombing and she drowned. David died the next day of small pox. I wrote the ending of them being together and surviving the war because they deserved it...they deserved happiness." The movie Atonement, ended with a depressed Ororo clutching Logan's arm and Logan with a "life sucks, it happens" expression.
"How can you not cry at that?"
"I don't know 'Ro, just can't."
"Are you saying it wasn't sad?!"
"Yeah it was sad, but so's the news, darlin'. Besides I only cry at really sad movies."
"Like what?"
"Fight club."
She laughed at the incredulous ideal, "Seriously?"
"It's just so..moving."
"Any other movie make you cry? Like say Pulp Fiction or Rocky."
"Rain Man."
"What?"
"Tom Cruise is amazing, but there's nuthin' compared to Dustin Hoffman's performance. You can tell that Cruise's character wants Hoffman's to understand him, to be able to comprehend what "brothers" mean, but he can't." His eyes began to water.
She smiled at him.
"What?"
"Oh nothing, you're adorable." He growled, which made her break into laughter. He feigned disdain up until their lips met and it felt like a jolt of electricity passed through them. She broke away, her body tense.
"Something wrong, darlin'"
"How do you feel about me Logan?"
"..." he was lost as to what to say. He merely stated, "Ro...Ororo, you're swell." He honestly didn't know what to tell her. It wasn't love, but it had the possibility; he personally thought "swell" was the perfect adjective to describe their complex relationship.
She somewhat understood.
Friedrich Nietzsche -
"What is done out of love always happens beyond good and evil."
"What's your policy on honesty?" She treaded the water. Carefully testing barriers.
"It takes a lot to be honest, and it's easy to lie."
She breathed.
"It wasn't an accident."
"Come again?" He asked perplexed.
"I was tired of the lies...the affairs... his illegal activities. I couldn't handle."
His eyes widened. And he tensed. Warren was right
She reached to grab his hand, but he snatched it away. Tears began to cling to her lower eyelids, building into a pool that threatened to spill.
"Please Logan...you don't understand."
"Make me."
"I hired someone to do it. Paid him too. I just...a part of me wanted him to stop his activities that weren't above manipulating judges, thieving, and ordering people to be killed. No one could help me, no one would, except Chris."
"Chris?"
"The hit man, but that's not his real name, just an alias," she said, knowing that he was silently asking, "Chris what?"-private investigator no matter what.
"I knew I couldn't change him, but I loved him." Her eyes looking off into the distance. "I wanted him to feel nothing...I requested it...I just didn't...Oh Remy," she resorted to sobbing.
A mixture of emotions passed through him, first was happiness, anger, resentment, disappointment, and then compassion. He should've made her sign a written confession, should've locked her up, but he didn't. He wrapped an arm around her protectively and waited till she stopped crying.
"You can always be honest with me, Ororo," he stated and she nodded.
An hour later.
She stood outside his door, her eyes glued to the floor.
"Are you sure yah don't want me to drive you home."
"No, I feel bad enough hijacking your DVD player," she smiled, he returned it.
After he said his goodnight, hugged her, and led her to her car, he walked inside of his apartment and stared through the large window, fingers resting on the sill. He watched her drive away and he had a lot of contemplating to do.
She stood on the doorstep, fumbling with her purse as she searched for her keys. "Aha," she smiled triumphantly as she held the small brass key under the porch light. She turned towards the door, but found that it was already open. She stiffened.
Miguel de Cervantes-
"Fear has many eyes and can see things underground."
"Hello?" she said, goading the door slightly to allow her room enough to squeeze into. Her right hand instinctively ran towards her hip, usually a belt would adorn it with many fastenings for her gun and additional specialized bullets. She sighed knowing that she left it in a drawer in the kitchen. Keep your wits about you Ororo, she mentally hissed at herself as her eyes adjusted to the darkness-she dared not turn on the lights that would most likely, alert her attackers. She knew her house inside and out. In the dark she could tell where everything is, she could tell where walls were, doors, and furniture and if the latter had been moved. She walked into the kitchen and towards the counter top. Her heels elevating to find the drawer, she moved her feet slightly but fell onto something wet.
Like a man who lost his sight, her hands traced the tile flooring and felt something wet. It was thick, cold, and resonated a metallic odor-like cooled metal- and from the moonlight that transversed through the multiple windows of the room, it took on a silver color. Her hands touched soaked cloth. Her hands traveled blindly up to see just what she was touching, though her mind began to spin answers. Her fingertips ran against soft, plump flesh, against soft orbs, and lastly a hard ridge of a nose. She managed to stand up and flick on a light switch a mere foot from her.
Blue eyes fell on blue, red, and white. A man against the kitchen stove slump in a pool of blood that was still gushing from his body, staining the marble flooring. His eyes were still open-though he was post mortem- were of full terror. The pupils glossed as the vitreous liquid left them; he stared at her and spoke volumes. His lips cracked from the saliva and blood that usurped down the side of his mouth and added to the pool of his gaping wounds. A bloodied hand gun sat in his lap, the base being tarnished by the bodily fluid. A blood-stained white note was gripped in his hands now drained of their substance. She pulled it and read. "I'm coming for you..."
Joseph Conrad-
"There is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its inconceivable mystery."
Attention:if you hate the pairing, at least read the ending chp (chp 6), you read so much might as well stick with it
Tbc
Barry Lopez-
"How is one to live a moral and compassionate existence when one is fully aware of the blood, the horror inherent in life, when one finds darkness not only in one's culture but within oneself?"
