Disclaimer: all recognizable characters belong to Marvel or 20th Century Fox. Any others are products of my own imagination.
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Arioch 1: Join Up
Quinn sat alone at the bar, ignoring all the commotion—the loud band, the dancing, the hooking up—around her. At least, part of her mind ignored it; the other part was carefully scanning the area and was intimately aware of everything happening.
At clubs she drank beer. It was less expensive than liquor, and less likely to get her cut off quickly. She was down to a few swallows in the longneck.
Before she could signal the bartender for another, however, he came over and set a fresh drink down in front of her.
"What's up, Russ?" she asked, bewildered.
The bartender cocked his head down the bar slightly. "Guy down the way sent it, honey. He's been checking you out all night. You should return the favor—he's kinda hot."
Quinn cautiously looked down the bar, passed the other patrons. A man was watching her; noticing her glance, he made a slight movement with his hand to catch her attention. He seemed fairly indistinguishable—short, slightly balding—from any other guy looking to score in the bar.
She accepted the bottle from Russell.
"Hey," he said, leaning close, "you tell me if you hook up with him. You know I'm a jealous queen, but I live vicariously through you!"
She smiled broadly at him and grabbed his collar. "You're the best, Russ!" she laughed. "I always tell you you're too gorgeous to be queer."
"Us gorgeous ones are always married or gay," he replied, returning the smile. "But I don't think mystery man down there is either one. Go for it, girl! You haven't been laid in months!"
"Still trying to talk you straight, that's all." Quinn stretched across the bar and kissed Russell's cheek.
"Don't do that!" he exclaimed. "You'll scare him off—"
He cut himself off as the man walked up behind Quinn. Quinn gave Russ a wink and let him go. Russ backed away, and she turned her attention to the stranger. She carelessly tipped the fresh beer into her mouth, automatically assessing him as well as cataloging the weapons she carried.
'Nice eyes, well dressed, haven't seen him around here before—got that little pistol in the boot—doesn't look like he belongs here—knife on my right thigh? Left? That's it—let's see what this guy wants.'
He looked uncomfortable a few more seconds, while Quinn waited patiently. Finally he cleared his throat.
"Hi. I'm Victor."
"Uncommon name."
"And yours would be . . .?"
"Quinn."
"Quinn. That's . . . nice."
She watched him. His uneasiness didn't go away.
"Listen," he said quickly, "I've been watching you all night. I'm sure the bartender told you. Is there some place a little less crowded that we could go and talk?"
Quinn raised the bottle to her mouth and her eyebrows at the same time. She smiled slightly. "You don't waste much time, Victor."
"Oh!" he exclaimed, flustered. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. They clutched themselves desperately. "To be honest, I find you very attractive. Not many women can wear leather so . . . well. It was the first thing I noticed."
She was a bit confused, a bit flattered. He obviously didn't do the bar scene very often, if at all. It was a little amusing.
"The leather," he repeated, as if mesmerized by it. "I was hoping to get to talk to you, and maybe . . .."
His voice trailed off and he regarded her seriously for a second. He gave a curt nod, as if coming to a conclusion, and took a step toward her. Quinn immediately tensed and reflexively grasped the handle of the knife on her left leg. Victor only leaned next to her to whisper in her ear,
"I know who you are, Arioch. My employer would like to hire your services."
He stepped back, looking apprehensive.
Quinn regarded him critically. The nerves, she now knew, were an act. The whispered voice was solid and firm. He spoke her name directly. She took another swallow from the bottle, scrutinizing him as she did so.
Abruptly she stood up from the stool.
"All right," she told him. "I know where we can talk."
He flashed her a smile and waited as she set the beer back on the bar. She caught Russell's eye, blew him a kiss, and threw a few bills down. She turned back to Victor.
"Come on."
~~~~~
She allowed him to put a protective hand around her waist as she led him through the crowd. Outside, the cool air bit into and cleared their smoke-filled lungs. Quinn took him only a few steps to a staircase in the same building as the bar. She made her way up the narrow, creaking steps, skipping the next to the last riser; it was loose.
She smiled to herself as Victor hit the step and stumbled. Ignoring his quiet curse, she continued down the darkened hallway to door number 201.
The lock stuck—it always did—and Quinn gave it a satisfying kick before it finally opened with a protesting groan. Graciously she moved aside and ushered Victor in. Following him in, she locked the door behind them.
Victor stood in the center of the small, cluttered room. The pounding music from the local band in the club downstairs made the floor tremble slightly. The expression on his face was disgusted.
"Problem?" Quinn asked. Sauntering passed him, she fell backward into a lumpy chair and looked up at him. Now that she knew she was only dealing with a flunky, she felt less of an urge to be polite and on her toes. "You were expecting the Ritz?"
"The caliber of your reputation led me to believe you'd be higher class than this." The earlier nervousness he had displayed in the bar was completely gone. He didn't bother to hide the displeasure in his voice.
"Ooh—caliber of reputation," she replied sarcastically. "That's fancy. What exactly is my caliber?"
"My employer has been informed that you are the best. That is one of the reasons he has sent me to contact you. He has a employment opportunity for you."
"If he knows I'm the best, he knows my fee isn't cheap."
"He knows."
Quinn studied the man in front of her. She uncrossed her legs. The sound of leather sliding on leather made no impression on Victor, no matter what he proclaimed downstairs. There was something . . . different about him. She couldn't finger it. Pushing that particular problem from the front of her mind, she asked,
"Who's your boss?"
Victor gave her a crooked smile. "I'm not in the position to divulge that information."
"I suppose you can't tell me what the job is either."
"No. My instructions were to ask you to accompany me to meet with my employer. He will have all the information available for you." He paused. She remained silent. "Are you interested? I have a helicopter waiting."
Quinn considered the vague offer. Nothing had been defined. Nothing had been clear. Still . . . despite herself she was intrigued. Only rarely did she meet with a bootlicker and agree to see his boss; she preferred to have the person paying her salary to be bold enough to seek her out themselves. But the weird aura around this Victor . . . they had known to call her by her trade name. That meant they were serious . . ..
Decisively, Quinn nodded. "All right, Vic. Give me a few minutes to powder my nose. You call a cab, and I'll go meet your chief."
~~~~~
The automatic digging into her side was a nagging pain, but Quinn disregarded it with the ease of familiarity. Her black leather duster covered any evidence she was packing. She shifted in the helicopter's seat, straining to recognize anything out the tiny window.
Nothing. Still looked like water.
Her escort had fallen silent in the taxi, and remained that way during the flight. He had spoken in hushed tones to the pilot when they boarded. Quinn had labored to catch any of the conversation, but had only picked up a mumbled British accent.
This whole situation was screwy.
Quinn sighed mentally and shifted in her position again. Victor ignored her.
Finally, with her ears popping, she realized the helicopter was descending sharply. Again she looked out the window. Only blackness.
"I hope your pilot knows what he's doing," she joked, half serious.
"He does."
In only a few seconds, the chopper leveled off. Now she could see the diminutive lights indicating a landing pad. The helicopter landed smoothly.
Victor become animated again and smiled at her. "Are you ready?"
"Do I have a choice?"
The grin hardened slightly. He recomposed himself and stood, and offered Quinn a hand. She shook it off and bounded out the open door before him. His smile faded and he followed her out. To her surprise, the pilot didn't.
The distant sounds of waves and crisp air told her they were no longer on the mainland. There were no lights, save the one indicating a doorway set into a craggy cliff. Below her feet was a smooth landing pad; beyond that, hardy weeds clung to life in the sandy soil. Victor led her through the small meadow toward the door.
Quinn glanced back to the helicopter. It was completely shut down, but there was still no sign of the pilot.
Screwy.
She shrugged, another bit of mystery to chew over later, and turned her attention to the crunching noise her steel-toed boots made. In a few seconds, they were at the door.
Victor opened the heavy door for her and stood aside. Just as she walked through, a stealthy movement caught her eye, near the chopper. Reflexively Quinn spun around and strained to peer through the darkness. There were too many shadows to make anything definite out.
Victor had noticed it as well. Immediately he took her shoulders and turned her, back to the door and the hallway it opened to.
"Don't be startled," he told her. The pressure he applied on her shoulders moved her through the doorway as he continued. "There are lots of indigenous animals on this island. Birds and lizards and such. They tend to stay out of sight."
Quinn thought his voice was a little loud, and managed to glimpse him turn his head as if his last statement addressed the darkness as well. She pretended to accept his explanation. It took a lot of willpower not to look back.
Victor swiftly led her away from the door, down the brightly lit hallway. The entire place seemed carved from the rocks. Several closed doors lined the walls, but none had a window. The hum of machinery could be heard behind some of them. They passed through a large, open room. It's ceiling was high overhead, and a quiet tidal rivulet ran though it.
"Cool design," Quinn said.
Victor ignored her.
They passed out of the room and entered another tangle of hallways. Quinn, as was her nature, attempted to memorize their path. Abruptly Victor stopped in front of the largest door of all. It looked made of steel—like a bank vault.
Victor paused a second. "Are you carrying weapons?" he asked bluntly. Quinn shook her head easily. He shrugged and almost placed a hand on the door.
Quinn could see he didn't touch it. The door seemed to swing on it's own accord.
A distinguished man, seated behind a large desk, stood as the door opened into his chamber.
"Ah, Quinn!" he exclaimed, delighted, coming around the desk to greet her. "Please, do come in."
Cautiously, she entered the room. The man offered his arm, which she took gingerly. He smiled at her, and covered the hand in his arm with his own. Over his shoulder he told Victor,
"Thank you very much. I'll call if I need you again."
Quinn saw Victor give a short bow of his head, and back out of the doorway. The heavy door closed on it's own.
The hand that topped her own was warm and dry, free of calluses. A gentleman's hand. He made little sound as they walked across the obviously metal floor, while her boots clacked. The quiet sigh of leather-on-leather also seemed amplified.
The gentleman didn't speak until he offered her a chair. Again, she couldn't determine if he made direct contact with it or not, but it slid toward her. She accepted his overture and sat down, crossing her legs. She watched him return behind the desk.
Normally she would wait for the other person to speak, especially since she was the one invited and her services were in demand. However, he watched her as she watched him, and eventually she broke her own rule.
"So. From your demeanor, can I safely assume your Victor's boss?" she asked respectfully.
"Victor?" His raised eyebrows were the only indication he gave of being bewildered. It was covered quickly. "Ah yes. Victor. I am his employer."
Quinn puzzled over his confusion, then dismissed it.
He continued. "I am Erik Magnus Lehnsherr."
"Quinn," she offered.
"I am aware of your name. And of your pseudonym. Arioch." He chuckled. "That's quite appropriate, considering your chosen work. I like it."
"Thanks," she replied sincerely. "Not many people get it."
Erik gave her a dry smile. "I don't believe many people are versed in medieval demonology."
"Very true."
They fell into silence again. Erik's gray eyes studied her, and finally Quinn sat back, semi-frustrated.
"I don't mean to sound ungrateful—for the cool helicopter ride in the middle of the night to who-the-hell-knows-where and the mysterious atmosphere and everything—but why exactly did you send Victor after me? I don't mind job offers, but usually people are a little more up front, you know?"
"I have been informed, by very reliable sources, that you are the best," he replied vaguely.
Now she sighed aloud. "Great. That's not something I might say myself, but I always like hearing it from other people. And twice in one night! It must be true." Quinn pushed herself out of the chair.
"Arioch, please sit back down," Erik said, in a firm voice. It was a tone that was accustomed to people obeying it. She sat back down. "Thank you. I do have a job offer for you. It may not be the same as your past assignments, however.
"I will tell you the truth. I am a mutant. Homo sapien superior. The others living on here are the same. I have dedicated this island as a safe haven for mutants, and extend hospitality for any and all mutants who feel persecuted. That is one reason I brought you here." He noticed the enraged look on Quinn's face and laughed out loud. "Please, Quinn, my dear! I have done my research. I know you are one of us, and what your particular mutation can do."
"Okay—so you know I can knock on your ass," she replied shortly. "Did you also know I can do this?"
Her hand moved faster than her words, and by the time the question was finished, her automatic was unholstered and aimed at his amused face. The barrel and hand holding it were steady.
Erik's smile grew wider, but not warmer. "Actually," he answered, "I did. Now watch me."
He held his hand out, palm up. The gun shook. Before she could react, it flew from her grasp and into his waiting fingers. Gently, almost as an after thought, he pinched the end of the barrel. Removing his fingertips, the tip remained crimped. Quinn stared at her now-empty fist, stunned.
"And the knives?" he continued, reaching with his other hand. From their hidden sheaths, one in her boot, one on her forearm, they freed themselves and landed on the metal desk. He made a circular motion with his forefinger, and the sharpened blades twisted themselves.
Again she was speechless.
"Would you like to see what I can do with those steel-toes boots of yours?" Erik asked civilly. "I believe I can knock you on your ass."
Quinn licked her bottom lip, calculating whether it was worth trying to grab her gun, or if she should just make a break for it. Remembering the entire room was metal, however, she decided the best course of action was to sit back down.
"Thank you. Hopefully, another display won't be necessary."
She shook her head.
"Good! I told you the particular task I had in mind for you was not the same, perhaps, as your others. I simply need you as a . . . bodyguard. Someone who can lay down fire as a protection, should a situation require it."
"I thought you said everyone here was a mutant," she said. "Can't they defend themselves?"
The smile he gave her this time was saddened. "Unfortunately, none of the persecuted—with the exception of myself—have long range abilities. That may change, of course. But for now, if they are attacked, they need someone to make their escape a bit easier."
Despite of her initial shock, Quinn slipped into negotiating mode. "And I suppose they would need cover fire because they would be involved in . . . not the most legal of endeavors?"
Erik didn't deny it. "With your past, dear Quinn, I can hardly believe something as trivial as legality would bother you."
"Touché."
He allowed her to think over his proposition. "Perhaps," he added, "this will aid your decision."
A thin slip of paper was passed over the table to her. Quinn reached for it, careful not to touch his hand when she accepted it. Unfolding the note, she kept the surprise from showing on her face only by biting the inside of her cheek. The amount written on the slip, in a precise, flowing hand, was high.
She cleared her throat. Finally she was able to remark, "Does this come with a uniform allowance?"
Erik granted her a real smile. "It is acceptable to you?"
"Yeah."
"Excellent! I only ask that you be available to me when I request. If you could forgo any other . . . business opportunities, I would appreciate that as well."
She nodded. "That's fair. Do you know how long you'll need my services?"
"Unfortunately, no. A month, maybe two? Hopefully our agreement will be an open one. I can have the money wired to any account you choose."
"I have a Swiss account."
"Of course."
"What about accommodations? Is it all right for me to stay in New York?"
He sat back. "Preferably, no. There may be situations we would need you immediately, and you would have no time to reach us. I have plenty of space—empty rooms with plumbing—that can easily be converted into living areas."
Quinn nodded thoughtfully. "Okay. I need a place to lay low for awhile anyway. The Crown Prince of Jordan was a little upset his fiancée lost her life a week before the wedding."
Again he looked amused. "I had wondered who pulled off such a political assassination. Can you tell me who . . .?"
"Who requested it?" Quinn finished for him, and smiled. "Sorry, Erik. Client confidentiality. Let's just say it was someone who had high stakes in the Middle East staying as disrupted as possible. It makes conducting a war so much easier.
"But as I was saying—it's no problem for me to stay here. I just need to pick up a few things from New York. Can I borrow your chopper and pilot?"
"Absolutely!" he replied, standing up. She followed suit, and he joined her on her side of the desk. He began to offer his arm again, then paused. "Your weapons," he explained, retrieving them from the desk's surface. Handing all three back to her, she noticed they were normal again.
"And what do they call you?" Quinn asked, taking his arm again.
"Magneto," came the dignified reply.
"Never would've guessed," she mumbled half under her breath, and allowed him to lead her out of his metal chamber, back into the labyrinth of hallways she would now call home.