"From the brightest star
Comes the blackest hole
You had so much to offer
Why did you offer your soul?
I was there for you baby
When you needed my help
Would you deny for others
What you demand for yourself?
…
You were pretty as a picture
It was all there to see
Then your face caught up with your psychology
With a mouth full of teeth
You ate all your friends
And you broke every heart thinking every heart mends"

--"Crumbs From Your Table", U2

Belladonna watched Remy's unprotected back grow smaller, half obscured by the thick Louisiana dust blown up by the stiff winds. A storm was coming for tonight, that was sure. A storm was exactly what N'awlins needed—a good raging storm, one that would wash all the filth and detritus right down into the sewers. A storm that would clear out the Thieves, make their blood run like muddy water down under the cities and into the realm of the dead. It was time: she felt it in her bones. The time for peace was over, as was the time of the Thieves. The devil would be first—sent down to Hell where he belonged. Tonight, he would not be Remy to her—she allowed herself a bare moment to think on his face, the feelings that he dredged up in her—but then she squashed it, buried the memory of him alive. He couldn't be her Remy tonight; he had to remain a Thief, a sworn enemy, her mark—the target she needed to hit to take her place as heir-apparent in the Guild hierarchy. It wasn't so much a matter of Guild politics as a need to prove something to herself—that she could, and would, be capable of making the hard decisions, no matter what she would rather do. Compassion, mercy, and love were luxuries that she could not afford, not if she were to survive the next few years, years that would be trial by fire. It didn't matter that she was the daughter of Marius Boudreaux: if anything, her status as the daughter of the current leader of the Assassins made her more of a target. Very few of the Heads had enjoyed long lives—if "enjoyed" was the right word for living with an eye on your allies and a knife in your hand, even while you slept. And that was in times of peace. In some ways, peace was a bad thing—underlings got ideas when they weren't kept busy enough. Tonight would be the beginning of the end of the tentative relative peace between the guilds.

She wondered what it would look like, when he died. Would his breath gurgle in his throat, too shocked to say anything? Would he curse her with his last breath as she buried a knife between his ribs, or would he confess that he had always loved her, as she had always loved him? Perhaps it would have been better to have let him go in the beginning, when she had first found out that he was a Thief, and her enemy… The memory was still so vivid…

He was being a brat again. Barely twelve, and so full of himself that he thought that he ruled the world. Part of it was her fault—she let him get away with everything, so long as he made her laugh, made her feel special. Remy was particularly good at that, making her feel like she was capable of something, even when she was a miserable failure. That feeling of helplessness had only increased this year on her birthday, when her father told her what he really was. What she really was, what her place would be. She wanted it, badly, but she was afraid. Sometimes she didn't like the things that she was being asked to do, trained to do. Some of it felt like lying, like cauterizing her heart, and others…some parts made her feel powerful, or at least she knew they would, once she finally got them right. But she could forget all of that with Remy. He was all laughter, smiles, jokes, and tricks. Like having a private jester. But not on that day. Bella had slipped back into the playground after school, sulking on the swings, toes dug into the dirt. She didn't want to go home, not now. And Remy had followed her, would not leave her alone, not for anything. He pulled her hair, kicked dust at her, pestered her half to death, and she still did not respond. She wanted to tell him, badly, but Papa had sworn her to secrecy…so that's what she told Remy. He had smiled, freckled nose crinkling, brown eyes shining. He proposed an exchange—a secret for a secret, though he was sure that his was way better. That was what got her—Remy was not allowed to be better, no way, no how. Besides, she was the daughter of the Head of the Assassins—practically princess material. And Remy—well, Remy was her friend, but he was two steps up from a street urchin, no matter how his family dressed him. She could tell by the way that he watched everyone and everything—always waiting for his chance. The words spilled out of her mouth, quickly and jumbled in her excitement: She could tell someone. He burst into laughter at her statement, causing her to blush and become furious, outraged and fearing that he thought she was a liar. She moved to hit him squarely in the gut: he evaded her nimbly, laughing all the more. It was some time before he could convince her to stop chasing him and threatening him with death—as it was, he only succeeded because they were both growing tired and it had finally occurred to Bella that Remy had yet to tell his secret. They both flopped on the grass beneath on old willow tree, panting heavily. Remy had stared at the pieces of the blue, blue sky for a moment before finally saying, in the most definite and concrete words that she could ever remember, "Imma T'ief." The world came crashing down around her ears before Remy could soothe her, assure her that he wasn't ever gonna leave her.

She should have left then, made it easier on them both, instead of watching the willow leaves flip and shudder in the afternoon sun. Cut off all contact, instead of clinging to him. They plotted and planned, arranging how each of them would be in control of their separate factions—Bella was ruthless in her plotted take-over, but Remy would always shake his head, saying he couldn't do that to his pere, or Henri, whom he loved dearly. Instead, Remy's tact was to make them see reason—he never questioned whether or not it was possible. He was Remy, and it was his plan, so it had to work. And once they were the ones in control, they would make everyone be friends—so they thought. It was during one of these long conversations that Remy had pierced her through with his curious gaze, fixing her with a look that made her catch her breath.

"Would y'marry me Belle?"

The words were still strong in her memory—probably because she had believed that they were true. Over the years, they led to a wonderful fantasy life—one of high adventure, invincibility, and everlasting love. But it wasn't to be. Remy had started wearing shades, and she wondered. Long sleeves, and she wondered more. Gloves—how she missed the feel of his warm, calloused palm in hers. They stopped saying things, substituted smiles and smirks. But Remy had always been able to see past her masks: She had yet to crack his. The only thing that she could do was to wait, and hope, that he would let her see past the façade. And then she grew tired of it, stopped believing in the impossible. Carefully, deliberately, she had begun to shut off her emotions, but the process was faulty. Remy just wouldn't let certain things stay dead.

That would change, after tonight. She would bury him, with her love.

She had run away once before—a short-lived endeavor, committed at the tender age of nine, involving a backpack stuffed full of granola bars, Bibby—the stuffed lamb that had been with her from day one of the adoption—and four long hours spent sulking, perched in a willow tree within sight of her bedroom. Rogue wasn't sure what she had been expecting, then or now, but one thing was for sure—Mystique was not coming for her. Neither was Aunt Irene, or Rae—the name that she had known Mystique by before discovering her true identity. "Mystique"—that was her real name, the truth about the woman that she had come to think of as the closest thing to a mother that she would ever have…and that was the sad truth. Mystique was the only mother that she had ever known. What chance of becoming a normal human being did she have? If she were to be honest—none. She carried mutant DNA in her every cell, by definition she was not normal. But her chances of being a decent kind of person? Those had increased exponentially the day that she had agreed to stay in the Institute. At the time, it had felt more like agreeing to become a hostage, imprisoned in the base of an enemy. It had taken a full wekk to realize that it was the life that she had been living with Mystique and the Brotherhood that had featured her as a captive—a duped, manipulated, and gullible fool. Proof that she had never meant anything to Mystique was contained in the dozen boxes stacked against the wall of the bedroom that Xavier had assured her was now her own: they had shown up at the gates of the Institute just one day after Xavier had informed Irene of Rogue's intent to join the X-Men. Each box was filled with the paraphernalia of Rogue's previous life, the things that she had cherished, objects that had once meant something. Now, she wasn't so sure: Why shouldn't those meanings turn out to be lies too? Everything else had.

Though Logan, Xavier, and Ororo had all assured her that there was nothing physically dangerous in the boxes, she was still scared of the damage that they could inflict—the girl didn't need the Professor to tell her that sometimes psychological injuries were the most painful…That was why only one box had been opened, the one containing Bibby. Rogue took the plush creature from his nest carefully, as if afraid that she would destroy every tender memory if she jostled him. He looked exactly the same as he had two weeks ago—a frayed green silk ribbon around his neck, the pale pink stitched smile, bright glassy eyes, the one ear slightly stained with the cough syrup that she had refused in one childhood illness. Still, she couldn't help but feel that there was something different about him, though the truth was that she was the one who had changed. Rogue set Bibby down on her nightstand, sinking down onto her bed. Bibby's glassy eyes seemed to watch her intently as she drew her knees up to her chin. "So what do I know?" she whispered to the air.

The lamb didn't answer—not that she had been expecting it to. It was just that, well, to be honest, she had grown used to accepting Mystique's decisions and edicts, though she had a mind and thoughts of her own. Rebellion had occurred to her but hadn't ever seemed like a viable option. Mystique had always known exactly how to suppress or dismiss those seeds of resentment with shows of affection. Rogue had always felt guilty at these, ungrateful to the woman who had adopted her. But now—she smiled to herself. Better later than never. Mystique would not fail to consider Rogue's defection to the X-Men as a betrayal of the highest order, deserving an eternal imprisonment in the Ninth Circle of Dante's hellish Inferno. A small part of Rogue couldn't help but hope that Mystique had been hurt as much as she had been to see her turn, abandon her like that to the enemy… And another part couldn't help but wish that she hadn't provoked Pietro so, if he hadn't let slip the truth, for then events might have turned out differently…

"Shut yoah trap, Pietro. Ya ain't nothin' but a speed-talkin', spandex-wearin' worthless piece o' scum," she hissed, coming dangerously close to his face. Her gray-green eyes flared angrily and her hands twitched: he knew that she longed to lay her hands on his person and cause him to implode. His super-speedy mind processed the image quickly: Quicksilver splattered all over the walls. What a waste. Still, loathe to show any sign of retreat, he took a single step backwards while goading her: "Oh yeah? At least I can use my powers."

Her nostrils flared angrily, a sure sign that he was in for it now. "At least Ah ain't only here 'cause one o' my parents is in charge of this whole operation."

"You so sure 'bout that?"

"What are ya talkin' about ya idiot?"

"You sure you're not here only because one of your parents wants it that way?"

"Mah parents are dead," she snarled vehemently.

"Ooooh- looks-like-precious-little-Anne-Marie-has-a-soft-spot," he challenged.

"Ah'm gonna make yah into one big ol' 'soft-spot' if yah don't spit out what yah're tryin' t'say this minute!"

"What, can't put it together yourself?"

"Ah'm gonna kill ya."

"Then you'll never find out."

"Fine then, Ah'm gonna beat yah into a bloody pulp," she threatened, pulling a glove from one hand. "And then Ah'm gonna give Toad every single one o' those stupid jumpsuits o' yores to wear an' get all slimy."

"Come on, Ann-Marie, you haven't got the guts to do it—you haven't got the guts to do anything, do you? I wonder if Mystique ever regrets picking you. You're useless. I bet she wishes she could just drop you off at that orphanage or whatever place it was she picked you up from. Aww, little Annie-Marie… Did you sing stupid songs and try to save dogs, huh? Where's your Daddy Warbucks now, Orphan Annie?" He knew it was stupid, saying all of this, but the vitriol kept spewing from his mouth, nearly unstoppable. Perhaps some of it was resentment: Anne-Marie was unaccountably the favorite, despite her reluctance to use her powers. Maybe it was the way that Magneto and Mystique both treated her as crucial to their plans—and he, Magneto's own son, was nothing more than…expendable. Maybe that was the motivation behind his desire to hurt her, estrange her from Mystique.

"What are you talking about?" she had growled, positively feral.

"But I guess you might as well know," he said, over the grinding of her teeth, "Mystique and that woman. Raven or whatever you called her—they're one and the same. She's been lying to you this whole time—training you up as her own personal weapon. You're nothing more than a tool to her and won't ever be anything more."

She had looked stunned—too stunned to even slap him, and he knew that he had affected her. A small part of him leapt in triumph to see her in as much pain as he had known himself. He had slipped from her nerveless grasp, speeding away.

He had avoided her all that week—she sulked and stayed away. A week later and things weren't quite the same. The house was quiet, far too quiet. And then Mystique came back—without Rogue.

Rogue remembered the red haze—the power of the Scott's blast had thrown her into a brick wall, the aching crack of her head against the building. The blood dripped down her neck as the world went grey: She remembered reaching for Mystique, grabbing her by the wrist, only to be repulsed, thrown aside so that she could flee faster. Her image had shifted, like mercury, and suddenly she was Rae—the only mother that Rogue had ever known, running, abandoning her. Wolverine's bass growl rumbled in her ears as the tears began to fall down her cheeks, and she remembered being afraid—so afraid. If only the pain would stop…Even the bleeding wouldn't be so bad if her world weren't crumbling, breaking, shattering, as Pietro's words thundered through her head, the truth ringing clear and horrible.

Things breaking, a whimper.

Such a feeble and weak sound.

A rough hand at her wrist, checking her pulse.

A growling rumble. A higher voice.

Searing pain as something was moved. Something that shouldn't have moved like that.

Again, a whimper. Louder this time.

Her whimper, as she slipped from consciousness

She clutched a pillow to her chest, suppressing the urge to cry as her face contorted and twisted under Bibby's glassy-eyed glaze. The memories were so much… too much.

Better to move on, pretend none of it had ever happened.

Best to learn from her mistakes, and never let anyone that close ever again. Life would be better this way. No strings, for they had a tendency to weave themselves together, and then became a noose all too easily.

No more of that. No ties.

It couldn't be that hard, could it?

Her hands sketched the plan with sure and deliberate motions. Remy would be performing a reconnaissance mission tonight in the French Quarter of only moderate difficulty. The thief was sure to be alone—he always seemed to work alone—and she knew that he would be arrogant, as his success was all but guaranteed. Tailing him and other Thieves had established their routine: a single operative whenever possible, working with another member of the Guild stationed nearby as a safety-net, just in case something went wrong. Remy was singular though, as he always left for missions an entire hour early. The first hour was spent pacing in public—no opportunities there—before he entered a Catholic Church, no matter what the day or hour. This puzzled Belladonna to no end—Remy had always seemed more like the type to attend services only on Easter and Christmas. Still, the opportunity was too perfect to pass up: he made himself vulnerable and his partner, most likely to be Henri, would not be expecting him to report for some time. It was the best chance she had of catching him in one-on-one combat… though her father's men were sure to be standing nearby, ready to extract her. She honestly thought that she would rather die than be humiliated so. A few strokes finished the plan, one that had already solidified in her mind. She rose from her seat on the bed with a stretch, embarking on a series of calisthenics to warm up her body. Now, to get ready…

The eyeliner went on smoothly, thick black lines that played up the easy blue of her eyes and accented their almond shape. Mascara next, applied with the same steady hand for long and demure lashes. She dusted metallic eye-shadow over her eyelids, blending and shading colors into each other. Then came foundation, blending smoothly with her already nearly flawless complexion, followed by the lip-liner that accentuated the curve and fullness of her lips so very well. Her lipstick went on last, a blooming red that shone like blood in the light of the moon.

She stepped back from the mirror, appraising her appearance. Her blonde waves trailed smoothly down her back, glistening in the lamplight as it spilled across the bare ivory of her shoulders. She would be the first to admit that, yes, the outfit was overly melodramatic, but it seemed fitting to her that every rite of passage be accompanied by an elaborate get-up. Thus, the little number currently draping across her frame in a highly impractical manner: White satin with sheer under- and over-lays spilled to the ground in casual elegance, dusting the carpet at her feet. As if the plunging neckline of the halter-top didn't expose enough skin, a carefully contrived slit laid bare her left leg to mid-thigh. Belladonna tugged at the material slightly, making sure that it hid her tight shorts underneath (after all, she was first and foremost an Assassin, and no real lady would round-house kick a man without making sure that she was decently covered first) as well as the assortment of knives and other sharp implements concealed in various holsters. She wasn't taking any chances—despite her usual reluctance to use automated weapons, she would even carry a handgun. After all, Remy was still a thief and she was taking no chances. She picked it up from her vanity stand, admiring the way that the moonlight and lamplight combined to play together over the smooth barrel. She checked the round one last time—full. Safety on, hollow-point bullets for maximum damage… all ready to go. She slipped it into the last empty holster, promising herself that it was a weapon of last resort—somehow, it seemed to her that Remy's death would be easier to execute if it were done with as little space between them as possible. Maybe it would seem more real, more tangible. More like a matter of survival and less of a murder.

She ran over her mental inventory one more time, a slight and nervous flutter beating at the base of her throat. She had killed before, true, but she had yet to kill a man that she had known for nearly all of her life. The others had been so impersonal, careful targets whose acquaintance she had cultivated only with the goal of their deaths in mind….

Belladonna frowned at her reflection in the mirror. Something was off… She stared a moment, before finally realizing what the missing final touch was. She dug through her jewelry box, finally finding the deep burgundy accent she was looking for: she fixed it in her hair with a smile, admiring the contrast between her light colored hair and the enameled pin featuring the belladonna flower, the deadly nightshade.

How appropriate.

AN: This was definitely the chapter for flashbacks. Serious italics usage. So, what do you think? Bella's on the warpath, but a little conflicted. Poor Remy, he's not going to be too happy in the next couple of chapters. And poor Rogue, she's pretty angsty too right now.

Trivia--Dante's Ninth Circle was reserved for betrayers--Judas is the most notable. Hollow-point bullets inflict maximum damage because the expand on impact. Belladonna means beautiful woman in Italian and is also the name of a poisonous flower/shrub/thing. One leaf will kill an adult, but it used to be used as a cosmetic. It's also called the deadly nightshade.

Are things clear? I have an idea of what's going on in my head, so I think I may be accidentally omitting details here and there. It doesn't help that I've written this chapter in two sections--one before my academic world decided to collapse in on me and one after. And half of it was written in an airport, so that doesn't help. I get so distracted people-watching... I get distracted by everything, come to think of it. Anyway, give me your suggestions. Danke schoen! (Thanks very much)!