Disclaimer: (a la black-and-white 1920's Italian-actor-playing-an-Indian-style . . .)
Me no have characters. Me has used some other person's heap good characters. No money here.
By the way, I totally love each and every one of my readers, especially the ones who click on this abomination drawn in by such a stupid name and mediocre-sounding summary. Once again, keep in mind that I am using the Hollywood mindset to create this. If I owned Hollywood, we'd have had Beast, Nightcrawler, Angel, Mr. Sinister, and heck, the whole gang way back in the FIRST movie. So there. R/R if the mood strikes you, please don't make me cry . . .
"It should be a simple operation for one as . . . experienced . . . as you." Remy gazed smugly at the beautiful woman across the table, whose tone held a twinge of sarcasm, and perhaps a dollop of disbelief. Coy blue eyes gazed back at him over chic sunglasses as she swept a strand of curly brown hair out of her face.
"You'd best be careful, chere," he said lazily. "The people in dis café might expect me to propose if you keep goin' on like dat."
Her blue eyes flashed gold for a moment. "People in New York don't notice anyone beyond their own noses, and your cajun charm isn't going to work on me, LeBeau," she snarled. "I already have doubts about your professionalism. I don't like working with someone when I can't see his eyes. Now CAN you or CAN'T you do the job?"
"O' course I can do it, chere. T'ird best t'ief in de world, ain't that what dey call me? Just settle down 'fore we attract attention." She relaxed back into her chair, looking pouty; he smiled smugly. "Dat's real good; now dey just be t'inkin' we had a spat."
"I'm sorry for my outburst. But you know how important this is. This could affect mu— uh . . . children everywhere, if it goes right. A lot is riding on this--"
"All right, all right, chere. I know all dat. Lessee. Basic breakin' and enterin', but in a not-so-basic place . . .kinda odd request, but hey . . . you do realize dere'll be a down payment, non?"
"It's here," she replied casually, patting her suit pocket. "I remember the contract."
"Well dat'll make everythin' easier. Oh, by the way--"he said, rising, and pulling on his coat, "I do believe dat contract includes you payin' for lunch."
"I told you, I remembered it," she replied testily. "Can you do the job tonight?"
Remy thought about it for a moment. "Sure, it's as good a night as any. "
"Good," she replied calmly, reaching into her pocket; "I have your—rather substantial—down payment, but you can be sure, boy, if you skip out on me, no one will ever find your body." She started to hand him the envelope, but Remy stopped her with a quick movement. He deftly maneuvered her into a cuddle, as he slipped his hand expertly around the thick envelope of cash in her pocket.
"Dat would be a shame, chere, considerin' how many women want it," he whispered as he pulled away. "Don' want it to LOOK like a payoff, now do we, chere," he grinned. The woman was absolutely livid, which didn't exactly fit in with Remy's pretense, but would have to do. "See you tonight," he continued, louder. "Good to see you again . . . Ms. Darkholme."
She strode away, muttering to herself, "Cocky little son of a . . ." Fortunately, she didn't have too far to go. Walking through a few alleys, she made it to the condemned warehouse nicknamed "Ground Zero," interrupting Toad's afternoon nap on the grubby couch. He opened one eye lazily, surveying her attractive form.
"Not to be too forward," he mumbled, with his English accent, "but aren't you usually a little more blue? And naked?" He smiled smugly at the disdainful look she gave him, and rolled over.
"We're doing it tonight." He sat bolt upright; now it was her turn to smile smugly. She continued, quite businesslike for one who is suddenly blue—and naked; "Get Sabretooth, wherever he went . . . and the chopper—you did alter the design?" Toad nods disbelievingly. "Good."
"So the thief was to your liking? What is 'e, sixty? Seventy? Grizzled and old?" He yawned (slimily, of course) and wiped sleep from his eyes, staring rather blearily at the cracked concrete floor.
"No, he was most definitely NOT to my liking. He's a cocky little bastard, hardly a few years out of high school. If he ever went."
Toad was unspeakably amused. No that it was incredibly hard to get on Mystique's bad side, but he had new respect for anyone who could tick her off so much in half an hour. "So the infamous "Gambit," the third best thief in the world, is a snot-nosed little teenager? 'Ow do you bloody well know it was 'im, and not an imposter?"
"We don't." Her look dared him to reply.
Then he smiled. "Well, lucky thing you like them young," he jibed philosophically. Then he jumped over the sagging couch and scurried along a pipe to the coffeepot.
"Why do we keep you around, you nasty-minded . . ."
"Because without me," he shot over his shoulder, "there'd be no one to blame for the mucus on the coffeepot 'andle."
The words that followed cannot be repeated in mixed company.
I love it! Mystique is such a . . . well . . .* ahem * see line above . . . J
Sorry it's so short, folks. I cut and splice and rewrite EVERYTHING at least twice, so I take FOREVER . . . drives me crazy too, I know.
By the way . . . I love accents. Can you tell?