[disclaimer: no, I don't own any of the following characters except the protagonist who emerged from my own imagination. all references from here on out to Marvel Comic's characters are obviously used without permission (like any of us has permission, anyways). Story is loosely based upon the X-Men movies, X-Evolution cartoon, and the comics.]
Did You See The Blood Run Down?
Part Two: Good Morning to the Drunk in my bed.
They landed on a wrought iron hotel balcony, not far from the bustling avenues of New Orleans's waterfront. The room itself was small, but cozy. She placed the sleeping Cajun in the bed before heading downstairs to the lobby to use the only phone in the place.
She wasn't sure whom she was calling, or for that matter, why, except this seemed the only person who was sure of what was going on. Carefully dialling the number for the New York residence, she waited for someone to pick up.
"Xavier Institute" a sleepy voiced yawned from the other side.
"Hello? May I speak to the Professor? Its urgent."
"Ah, yes, of course. Whom may I tell him is calling?"
She hesitated…her name? Why must she give the person her name?
"Hello, miss? Are you there?"
"Yes, sorry, tell him its…Le Voleur". A brief pause on the other end, and a male voice came over the line.
"Did you find him?"
"Yes, but...how did you know I was calling…about him?" Amazed, she waited for the answer.
"My dear, I always know. Will you be coming north with him, at all?"
"I'm not sure. I don't even know why I really found him, remember sir? It's still all a blur to the exact reason. Do you think he has my answers?"
"Answers? No, no one has the answers you seek, not even me. However, I highly suggest coming north soon. Get him out of New Orleans as soon as possible. He is in danger there, that I know, and I know you know it as well."
"Yes, I know that too. I saw it not to many days ago. I've spent to much time talking, sir, should I contact you later on?"
"Yes, please, Voleur, keep me updated. Goodnight." A sharp click, and the line went dead. Uneasy by this brisk conversation, she headed back up stairs. The Cajun was sleeping exactly as she left him. Pulling a blanket off the bed, and a pillow from under his head, she curled up on the chaise, and promptly fell asleep.
As the sun rose, so did the Cajun. He discovered himself inside a bed he did not know, a room he did not remember, and looking out a window to a building he did not recognize.
"Bien, Remy, bien. You wake up ina room o' some stranga. Why couldn't ah keep mah hands to mahself?" Rising, he didn't notice the girl sleeping in the chaise to his left, and went into the bathroom. The sound of water running, however, woke the girl. Rubbing her head, she noticed him not in bed, as well as the sun just rising. She'd only received a mere 3 hours of sleep, after the events of last night. While waiting for the man to leave the bathroom (where he was currently humming a tune), she got dressed, picked up the bed, and sat facing the bathroom door.
The handle turned, the door swung open.
"Who the hell are you?"
***
The Cajun stood mouth a gap in the bathroom doorway. Steam rolled out from behind him, as he protectively clutched a threadbare towel to himself.
"Good question, monsieur, but I do believe the question is, who are you?" she stood. Although she was on the short side, she knew how to cast an impression and she did. Speechless, he moved farther into the room.
"Ah am what's known as the 'Ragin Cajun' in these parts. And you, mademoiselle?"
" 'Ragin Cajun'. What's your real name, love?"
" Ah ah. Not until…" he shook his finger, and plopped himself down upon the bed, waiting.
" Le Voleur, if you must know. Or, perhaps, I'm better known as the 'Thief' in l'anglais."
"Le Voleur, eh, petit? Je suis Remy Lebeau" he held out his hand for her to shake.
Carefully, she shook it. Remy did not release it, but rather inspected it, fingering the leather of her glove. "Gloves, in New Orleans? Jus' what kind o' thief are you? And why am ah here?" he still held her hand.
"Thief of everything and anything. And you are here because I really don't know. Except you are in trouble, no?"
"Trouble, oui, ah'm always in trouble. But do tell me more about this thieving thing…do you steel jewels along with hommes you find?" her hand was being held hostage.
"If you don't mind, sir," her hand became free with a tug, "I found you drunk in a bar, arguing with a man who had a shotgun. As for jewels and other baubles, no. I steal other things, things you couldn't possible conceive." It was then she noticed his eyes, unlike any eyes she'd seen. Instead of being white with a coloured iris, they were black, with red irises. Unusual, as were his clothes he'd been dressed in.
"Cher, ah'm nothing you could conceive. Ah can cause more damage than most hommes alive.
"Sir, I highly doubt that. But until we can converse more on this matter, do yourself a favour, and get dressed." Voleur walked out of the tiny room and onto the French balcony; the suns' rays were already piercing through the mist that had settled over the waterfront early that morning. It was a beautiful scene, something she promised herself she wouldn't forget for awhile. Behind her, she could hear him rustling about with his dirty clothes. She couldn't help but smile; yes this man was good looking, with his chin length chestnut hair, strong hands, and those eyes…eyes like none other. Freakishly wonderful, she found them, the red being so strong, and the black being so mysterious..
"Ahem" the raspy accented voice coughed from behind her. "D'you wish to get breakfast or jus' stay 'ere all day?"
"Breakfast sounds grand. Do you know anyplace?" she turned, trying to conceal her emotions. He really was good looking.
"Non, not around 'ere." He lied. "The clerks should, could you go an' ask 'em, si vous plait?"
"Why not…but just stay here will you? No tom foolery, all right?" she said as she crossed the room, and left, latching the door behind her. Remy smirked, and reached for a worn duffle bag he'd spotted in a corner, before taking his shower. Admittedly, "Le Voleur" seemed more of a secret missions name, he had a hard time believing anything she said, too. Opening it up, he came across some personal clothing, a few dog biscuits (with no dog in sight or smell, either), and 3 leather-bound passports. Exactly what he was looking for, but why three? Flipping the first one open, he read the I.D. 'Iris d'Orleans. Place of Birth: San Francisco, California.' The second one was different: 'Iris McMahon. Place of Birth: Fife, Scotland.' The third bared no connections to the other. In fact, it wasn't even a passport, but more of a log, listing places in North America, Brazil, Scotland, England, Germany, complete with names next to each country. Why did she have these? He wondered. Yes, she did speak like an American, but he did detect a foreign accent. It was obvious to him she was an enigmatic nomad, judging by the list of countries. But who were these people? And most of all, who was she?
