WARNING: ...Damn I'm tired of giving warnings... I posted the wrong chapter 17 the first time around. I think most people figured that out, but gaah! I checked it before and when I posted and it wasn't wrong then...sigh.
Forgive me. To make it up, here's another chapter, and #17 has been fixed for you poor 100 or so early birds. READ #17 FIRST if you were so unlucky to be plagued by my stupidity.
(And forget anything in the former ch. 17. IF there was anything about Pietro, it was the wrong chapter. Wrong fic -Not Applicable here.)
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Thief of Spirits: horribly done by Eternity's Voice
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Chapter 18: De Return of Katherine
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*Then follow the fille,* the King of thieves snapped, cutting the connection. The young man on the other breathed heavily, a low feral rumble mixing in with the hiss of air. Mystique recognized the sound and shook her head. How had the LeBeaus bought the loyalty of a -for a lack of a better term- werewolf? They didn't understand the concept of money, had no inkling whatsoever. Once she'd seen a werewolf enter a shop and pay for a bit of jerky with a C-note. In the twenties, 100 dollars could keep a roof over your head for weeks -if not months- and buy food besides; you didn't use it to pay for an afternoon snack. No, it wouldn't be money that bought the young wolf. Werewolves had a keen sense of honor and dues owed; they treated favors and good deeds like platinum. Perhaps the young man owed the family a debt, but it was unlikely. However, Mystique doubted a LeBeau was capable of the sort of godly works required to tear a werewolf away from his clan to go and work for another.
The werewolf had hung up several seconds ago, she realized. The mutant erased the musings from her head and went to work. She destroyed all trace of her phone tap quickly. She wasn't in deadly danger since she had listened through the lackey's cell, but the King had still been on the other line. The woman had built up her network of computers too long just to have them all crash down on her permanently because a fifteen second tap as tracked.
That done, she leaned back in her chair in her office. The room was comfortable and elegant, if built in a style an ancient Roman would have preferred. She enjoyed the marble floor and artistic walls. The mutant looked at one wall mosaic of a mother and child: herself and her daughter Raesha. It was a reproduction of one from the age of the Roman Empire. Supposedly, it was of the mother of all monsters, Echidna, and one of her terrible children. The artist -and the subjects- knew better. Mystique despised the Vatican for destroying the original. She supposed it did look a little too much like the renderings of Madonna and her Holy infant, but with ebony skin and bat wings. They couldn't have that, now could they? Still, she hated them. She hated anyone who insulted her children, even if only by destroying their images.
Mystique sighed. It wasn't just the Vatican. Humans as a whole had a tendency to call her children demons. In the beginning, there had been no one willing to say it to her face, but as humans grew in numbers and gathered in cities rather than small clans, she became the one forced to flee. Sometimes the child would be human -a non-mutant- or at least look like it. For Mystique, it was worth the risk to live people and belong for a lifetime. She rarely won that gamble, but then she tried again anyway. She put a hand on her chest. At least she had tried again, but no longer. Her heart had suffered enough.
Mystique shook the memories away, fighting to get back on task. She briefly wondered if her mind was going senile after so many years of life. She had always been able to focus on what needed to be done before, but recently, she was so easily distracted it seemed like just every other...
She groaned.
"Follow the fille," she said aloud, repeating Knave's words. She wished for once the enemy would make it easy for her. Mystique despised guessing games. She had gained certain proficiency with them but she detested them all the same. They were difficult. She suspected her brain had not been originally built for heavy thought, but she was too prideful too admit she might have been a Neanderthal. She couldn't remember that far back, couldn't remember a time before she was an adult shapeshifter. There had been the rearing of Echil, her darling boy, and before that...
"Follow. The. Fille."
There had been an agitated tone to Knave's voice; he was obviously preoccupied at the time of the call. Still, there was something possessive and almost caring about how he said those words. Mystique immediately discarded her Belle as the one the King talked of. The "King" would do more then have her followed if she disappeared into the night. He'd arrange for her to be tracked down and dragged back -in a body bag, most likely. In the old days, Mystique avoided the LeBeaus nearly as hard as she did the Night people. But recently they'd grown like a cancer exploded from its tiny tumor to engulf the entire body. Taken, they'd spread themselves thin and no longer manipulated Empires like pawns, but they were everywhere. She couldn't afford completely ignore them like she had centuries ago; she needed every little detail. So she knew of Knave's problem with strong women.
From what Irene had told her, her little Belle was quite intimidating. Mystique sighed. She could only hope...
Mystique eyed the hard wood of the desktop and promptly smashed her head into it. "Follow. The. Fille," she muttered, accenting each word with the clunk of skull on mahogany. Strangely, the childish tactic worked and her head cleared. She sat back up, wincing slightly, and then went to work on the computer.
The women pulled up her network of cameras around New Orleans. Granted, most of them were just privately owned security systems she hacked into, but she did have a hand in some of the more unusual locations. In moments, she had access to every camera watching the routes away from LeBeau complex. She closed the sewer and catacomb routes; the person she was looking for would take a more conventional path.
After a few minutes of playing back the recordings of the streets, she saw a shiny black something flash by on the northbound alley cam. Mystique froze the image and backtracked to a fancy German car driven at least three times the speed limit by a young woman -or a girl. It was hard to determine an age. She was either a young looking twenty year old or a teenager smoking and drinking her youth away.
The Blue woman followed the girl's path by camera, saving certain shots such as the license plate and a good picture of the "fille's" face and outfit. Her clothes made it obvious where she was going.
Mystique smiled: mystery solved. That girl with permanently windswept russet hair and desolate eyes was the "fille." Only two questions remained. Who was she and just how important was she to Knave LeBeau? Didn't matter and important enough, she thought dispassionately.
She switched to a different set of cameras. Kurt stood on the ceiling of his bedroom, counting abdominal crunches. *Ein hundert acht...und-vierzig, ein...hundurt neun-und-vierzig...* Mystique shook her head, remembering the slacker he had been in school. Being the school principal of the opposition -if only for a short time- had given her an interesting glimpse into their habits. Mr. Wagner suffered from boredom and often. She shook her head again. It was amazing how often people turned to physical exertion when boredom threatened their sanity.
The woman turned her gaze to the other X-Man currently under her wing, clicking Kurt away. The screen suddenly showed an action film, some expert stuntwoman careening a motorcycle through area that resembled a skateboard park from Hell. She fought the powerful urge to roll her eyes at the thought. Being the principal was a good tactical move, but it had exposed her to too many teenage habits and mannerisms. At least Katherine had dropped the "like"s. It would have driven her mad to hear that non-stop.
She watched Katherine fly the motorbike up a ramp and into the air, then land twenty feet later on a narrow walkway suspended high in the air. She popped a wheelie up there before driving the bike off the other edge to neatly land on the downward curve of a slope
Mystique decided Katherine had behind a bike once or twice. It never ceased to surprise her that sweet Kitty could handle herself. It certainly didn't shock her that Katherine could though. Katherine shot with deadly accuracy and was essentially invincible. The girl had taken the motorcycle obstacle course fast the first time. She crashed and burned, pulled herself out of the floor, and got back on. Then she crashed and burned twenty more times. Then she got it and had been experimenting and testing the limit ever since. Perhaps the lack of fear allowed her to learn so quickly. It wasn't as if she had to worry about steering into a wall.
The Blue woman told the computer to print the shots of the fille she had selected and closed the message which said her cross-reference search had found nothing on Knave's fille. The mutant had expected as much. As the printer whirred and began to smell of burning ink, she watched Katherine's ride, searching for flaws. She decided her pupil took corners too carefully. She could afford to slow down less and do it later in the curve.
Mystique pressed a button. "Clean up and come to my office. Wear something suitable for a night on the town." She didn't need to say the outfit should be acceptable for combat as well. The girl knew better than to show up in a skirt or heels. She had taken to teaching well. The woman smiled; quite well. She had a feeling if Katherine ever found her way back to her Institute, most of her wardrobe would fly out the window shortly thereafter, followed by a burning pink sweater.
***
Katherine docked the strange custom motorcycle in a hanger that reminded her of the Institute's -minus the jet. The girl tried to kick herself for thinking of home -no, not home. After a bit, she found that it was physically impossible to kick more than a bit of leg and ankle, even counting the fact that she could pass the foot through certain parts of her body to get at others. Well, technically she could nick the butt or her head if she tried, but it wasn't the same as a knock it to Timbuktu soccer punt. Defeated, she settled for booting the helmet she had decided not to wear across the underground hangar and yelling, "Damn it, Katherine!"
She froze and looked down at her foot. She had called herself Katherine. It was strange to connect herself with that name again. How many times had she told herself Katherine was dead? Far too many times to make the transition back easy, she muttered silently. She pulled off the lightly armored jacket that was supposed to protect her from impact with the ground. It had turned out to be useless, unless it counted as a fashion statement. Katherine shoved Kitty back into her grave in a mental litter box and tried again. It had turned out to be useless because of her power.
As the girl walked away she smiled. At the Institute -yes, the "I" word- her abilities were called a mutation, a gift, and -secretly- a curse. There was something comforting about calling it a power though; it made her feel like some comics hero with an excellent fan base. There was a silent promise that her writers would never kill her off without a hasty resurrection. Yes, it was very comforting.
In the sprawling mass of grandiose luxuries she called her room, Katherine felt her shoulder sag with relief. She knew there were cameras somewhere around watching her and that the beautiful set of rooms could easily become a prison if the Blue Bitch pressed a button, but it still seemed like a sanctuary. Mystique's lair...base -whatever it was, overwhelmed her. It made the Danger Room seem like a child's toy and put grand palaces to architectural shame without trying. Fortunately, the apartment around her looked like her old home; the one in southern Illinois, not Chicago. It even had the same creamy paint on smooth walls.
Katherine touched the wall, remembering. It had been a woodsy backwater place with roads that could be traveled for days before you found another car -or motorcycle. She smiled, thinking of Uncle Jason. When she was little he had roared down the mile-long drive way in what her Dad called the Damn Train-Engine. He called all Harleys that. For some reason he didn't like the sound the bikes made. Katherine loved it; she always ran out to meet her Uncle when she heard the sound.
It was Uncle Jason that had taught her to ride a bike. He'd offered to baby-sit her for two weeks while her parents took a second honeymoon/sanity vacation and, well...he wasn't the most responsible person. She'd been twelve and Jason took her out on his bike. One thing led to another and -after a few bets and begs- she was steering. Or she was in front of him on the bike, anyway. In two weeks she was steering and even driving alone for short distances. Then her parents came home and her Dad just about killed Jason. In any case, her Uncle came in a car the next time he visited. He and Katherine still remembered the fun they had on the roads though. Katherine smiled. Come to think of it, Uncle Jason owed her a Harley. He'd bet her one if she could drive by herself without dying, strewn out on the pavement. Well, she hadn't died and was still Harley-less.
She took her hand off the wall. Memory lane wasn't where she was supposed to be at the moment. The girl ghosted through the shower door, leaving her clothes on the other die. Mystique had rubbed off on her; she no longer thought of it as phasing but as ghosting, like she were some specter walking through the walls of a haunted mansion.
When she felt clean, Katherine passed back through the shower door, leaving the water on her body and in her hair on the other side. Ah, the usefulness of such power. I never have to endure damp hair on my silk shirts again.
She was aware of the cameras as she walked into the closet wearing nothing but tattoos. Even though the pain and numbness was gone, she imagined she could feel the thorny ink vines from the back of her neck to her pelvis. It was impressive, but she hoped no one would see enough of her body to view the tattoo in its entirety. Katherine remembered the cameras and winced.
She dressed quickly, choosing an elegant blue tank and black leather pants -in no way shiny. On an impulse, the girl dropped into a split, a move vaguely reminiscent of her long abandoned Olympic gymnast phase. The pants moved easily with her legs. The waistline didn't shift a millimeter from its spot at her hips. Curious, she pulled a similar pair of pants from a shelf. There seemed to be some extra stitching at the crotch that let the thing move and stretch like a pair of tights. She felt briefly annoyed that regular low-riders didn't come with that lovely feature. Real life wasn't a Buffy episode. Pants, even those made of clingy material like leather, sagged when you bent down. It was a nuisance to hitch up pants on the middle of a dance floor. Or in the middle of a fight, hence the Professor's liberal use of spandex.
"I'm wearing a pair of these out of here," she muttered. "I'm done with wearing spandex on missions." The uniform Xavier had provided her was ungodly. She would die if people saw her in that thing. Katherine blinked. What had the Fairfield hospital staff thought when she was brought in wearing tattered spandex? She heaved a sigh, thankful she didn't live near anywhere near Fairfield, Mississippi.
The girl grabbed a chocker that matched the ear-clasp which hid her presence from the Professor. How, she didn't know, but Mystique was vague that way. All she knew was that taking it off meant, if not death for her, then torture for Kurt. Ready, she looked in the mirror. Alvers, eat your heart out. God knows only you'd enjoy seeing me like this. She turned walked away, knowing she had lied. A part of her liked the new Katherine too.
She froze in the doorway to the hall; she had almost forgotten. Katherine rushed back to her discarded, very sweaty clothes and pulled a small folded piece of paper from a pants pocket. "Can't abandon you," she murmured before sprinting out into the hall.
Katherine reached the hallway of Mystique's office a little out of breath. She stopped and inhaled deeply, then slowly let it out. It wasn't enough, but she didn't want to stop and catch her breath. A thought occurred to her and she started walking, not bothering to breathe. At first her brain panicked, ordering her to inhale, but she overcame the instinct, allowing the air to simply pass through her chest and out through her back.
Pryde allowed a small smile; now she really was a ghost. It seemed small but that little decision had been on her mind for some time. Katherine didn't feel like a Shadowcat anymore, despite the panther on her arm. Kitty was the cat and she couldn't go back to being a sweet little kitten. A ghost -yes, she could be a ghost. Specters could be a lot more frightening than a kitty, which was what she was aiming for. Something the Blue Bitch had said stuck a chord with her. A woman who looked ready to kill didn't have to shoot the gun. A girl who looked dangerous didn't have to hurt others.
If it was winter and she wanted to protect some woman from a gunman, all Katherine had to do was walk through the wall, get shot at, and not breathe steam into the air. The guy would most likely freak, scream dead girl, and run away. That would be superhero business; that would be making a difference. That would be the perfect alibi. Let the bad guys run around abandoned warehouses with exorcising charms; she would sit at Starbucks and drink a latte.
That was what she wanted to do: go back to Chicago, or maybe New York, and fight the bad guys. God knew the world needed real superheroes; even ordinary people with a little help in the Kick Evil's Ass department could make a difference. Katherine shook her head a little; and she said Kurt read too many comic books. She straitened her posture and walked through the door to Mystique. She could do the dream of superheros later; she had to survive the nightmare of the Blue Bitch first.
"Breathe, Katherine. It is disconcerting," Mystique commanded after a moment, turning around in her seat. The stone U-shaped chair and marble walls, floor, ceiling -basically the entire room made the girl feel like she'd fallen asleep during History class again. She blinked at the woman, and then said matter-of-factly, "I believe that's the point."
Despite her cynicism, she started to take breaths again and went to look at the papers Mystique had set upon the desk, supposedly for her. It wasn't much: a license plate, the car with that plate, the girl driving that car with that plate, the place where that girl parked that car with that plate -a club, and so on. There wasn't a single shred of a hint as to who the girl was or what Mystique wanted her to do about her. Katherine picked up a photo of the mystery femme's face, quipping, "And this is..."
"A fille," Mystique replied smoothly.
Katherine made a noise with her nose that was just a little too short to be called a snort. "Yes, that's very helpful. Let's ask this differently: Is this why you dragged me to New Orleans? Who is she?"
"No and I have no idea."
Katherine laughed darkly, "Only you can be that straightforward and stay cryptic. Okay, what do you want me to do concerning this girl you don't know anything about and has nothing to do with why I'm here?" She picked up a different photo and memorized the license plate number.
"The girl isn't important; it's whose fille she is that counts." Mystique pulled a file folder out of a drawer and plopped it on the desk. Curious, the girl opened it. A photo of a middle aged man was stapled to the inside of the folder. His body looked youthful, but the face showed a few signs of age. There was a hard, almost fake quality in the eyes and a permanent scowl around the mouth that kept him from being breathtaking, but it was a close thing. Then again, photos didn't tell the truth. Her yearbook photo was a case in point.
A caption underneath the picture read, Jean-Luc "Knave" LeBeau, "King of Thieves," head of criminal organization: Thieves Guild -c 3600.
"C thirty-six hundred?" Katherine asked.
"Circa thirty-six hundred years," the woman explained. "Their organization is that old." Katherine whistled and Mystique shook her head. "Don't be surprised, Katherine. There are many things older than an ancient bloodline of thugs."
"Like you?" Pryde asked sarcastically.
"Exactly."
The girl's brow creased, and then she stated, "I was joking."
"I wasn't." Mystique gestured to the room about her. "As you can see, my tastes are rather old as well."
It took Katherine a minute, but the woman's expression was so final that she actually believed the claim. It would certainly explain a lot if the Blue Bitch turned out to be old as dirt. "Does it get lonely?" she asked suddenly.
Mystique closed her eyes and shoved the collection of papers closer to Katherine. "That is off the subject at hand. To do what I want of you, you need to be inside this organization -at the top. This girl, whoever she is, means a lot to Knave, though believe me, it will be nothing affectionate. She is likely very useful in some capacity to him and this man doesn't want to lose her. Get close if you can, learn anything you can: name, age, anything I can use to find an identity. If the chance to save her life comes up, jump on it.
"Indebt Knave to you and get into the Thieves Guild -as close to the Family as you can. I will contact you with your real mission then." She opened her desk and found a box, putting it in on the table as well. "Room key, identity, fake ID -yes there's a difference, driver's license, keys to a motorcycle -try to drive sanely, a few items I want you to hide in your hotel room, and a present."
Katherine sighed; curiosity killed the cat. She opened the box and peeked in. Her mouth worked for a minute. She shut it again quickly. "Hell, no."
"Katherine..."
She shoved it back across the table. "You are not putting me on the Pill because that is not happening!"
"Open the box, Miss Pryde," the woman demanded.
Miss Pryde crossed her arms and took a step back.
There was a very tense silence.
Mystique finally moved, looked to the heavens, then stretched and discolored a bit until a very large, hairy man loomed above the girl, even when seated. Unconsciously, Katherine took another step back. It was Logan crossed with a lion with three, maybe four extra feet of height. "Believe me, girl," she...he uttered, "If that was my plan, you would have gotten a great deal of experience beforehand." He leapt from the seat over her to a place very close to her neck. "The hard way," he added unnecessarily.
Katherine spun around. Mystique was back -completely serene with not a hair out of place. Somehow, though, she seemed a lot more deadly than she had just a minute ago. "What was that?" Pryde whispered.
"My firstborn," Mystique replied motherly. "He gifted me with dozens of grandchildren."
"I can't imagine how," Katherine muttered dryly, and then noticed what seemed to be a vein fighting to break out of a blue forehead. She ghosted just before a blue fist smashed into her face.
"Echil was honorable," Mystique snarled. "He devoted his life to the protection of his father's people. He fought against predators you should pray to your feeble God that you never meet. My son did not bond if there was not love and he was honorable about those promises. He merely lived for a very long time, until his death."
The woman withdrew her hand from her pupil's brain. "The pills are something to place in the bathroom -one of the items for your alias, though I suggest you start to take them religiously, before you learn how persuasive boys can be. Open the box, Katherine. I believe your present is in the form of a wrapped gift."
"Oh."
Mystique's eyes rolled about a quarter ways around their sockets before she stopped herself. "I'll be keeping tabs on you, giving information when I can. I believe my "family emergency" has just about expired and I must return to Bayville." She paused for a moment, then asked, "Should I give you send you a report on how they are dealing with the disappearance?"
Katherine froze. She looked into gentle, yellow eyes. In a way, she felt surprised the Blue Bitch would bother. In another, she hadn't thought what her friends and family must be going through. Search parties were combing the entire state, she decided, but Xavier would think that was pointless. If the metal on her ear really hid her from mental searching, he would think she was dead. Kurt too, she realized.
After a minute of silence, she sighed and answered, "No. When, if I go back, I don't want to know about how they feel. I have this feeling that things will be easier if I can just say I was kidnapped and managed to get away with Kurt. It will be true too, if I edit out some very large chunks. But if I slip and talk about something I have no business knowing, there will be questions. And they'll want to know about those parts I left out. Whatever I'm doing for you, I don't want them to know about it. No, I'll find out if they tell me."
The woman placed a hand on her shoulder. "It was a hard choice to make, and you made a wise decision."
Katherine gathered the box and the files in her arms, and then turned back to Mystique. "If I..." she began. The woman waited, eerily patient. "If I die, or want to...make it seem that I did..."
Mystique smiled softly, and Pryde was surprised and faintly touched to see the killer fangs had vanished for her benefit. "If you are killed or choose to fake such a thing, Kurt Wagner will get lucky and "escape" back to your Institute. I suppose you'll be forced to trust me on this, but you have my word."
Katherine blinked, yet again. "Do you always have mood changes like this?"
The woman arched an eyebrow. "Do you want to find out?"
She shook her head and hurried out the room, not bothering to use the door.
Katherine stood impatiently in the elevator as it took her up. She eyed the camera in the corner balefully. The little L lit up and she walked out into a hotel lobby. She opened the box and put the file and photographs inside, taking out a room key, driver's license, fake ID, leather wallet, coat check card, valet ticket, and the "present." The thing held a surprising amount of items. She pushed the lid shut and there was an odd whirring noise. She tried to open it again, but it was locked. Knowing Mystique, the entire thing was probably lined with adamantium. The girl tested it, pushing a finger through the bottom of the box and out again. Well, at least she could get into it if no one else could. That was a good thing, she supposed.
A bright, if tired looking woman behind a desk asked, "May I help you, Mademoiselle?" Her accent was horrible, and Katherine wasn't even French.
Something over came her and she stood up tall. In an authoritative voice, she commanded, "Yeah. 1: my coat," she tossed the coat check on the desk, "2: Directions to Club Mist. 3: Put this heap of junk in your safe," she dumped it on the desk to and gave her driver's license a stealthy glance and then hid her grimace, "Put it in for Katherine Wagner. 5: Send someone for my bike," she brandished the valet ticket, "It's in space B-42. 4: Don't argue with me about hotel policy. And 5: Go home, get some sleep, and practice your accent. It's horrible."
Katherine thought she heard a young man cry "hear hear!" from inside the hotel restaurant. If she did, he was quickly silenced. The woman just stood there like some store mannequin. Her eyebrows finally slammed together and she opened her mouth. At that exact moment, a man in hotel livery rushed over and murmured heatedly into her ear. The desk lady froze again, then smiled a very much too wide smile. "Right then. 'Pologies for tha troubles, Lady Wagner. Only a mattah a' time, you know... Twill just be a minute." She babbled on like that for two minutes while Katherine stared before the man shoved her towards the safe with the box.
"My sincerest apologies, Miss Wagner. She is...new help." He looked after the woman's receding form -still babbling- in a way that said she wouldn't be new help, or an employee at all, much longer. He was very helpful, which she didn't understand in the least. Fancy hotels were absolute snobs to younger people. Normally, she was the dirt attacking the hem of an heiress' fur coat. Now... The man held out a very expensive leather jacket for her to slip into. "Duchess Wagner?" Katherine hid a smirk. Now she was the heiress. The girl considered not thinking of Mystique as the Blue Bitch anymore as a thank-you gift, but then couldn't think of a better nick-name, so she dropped the idea.
"How was London?"
"Boring," she replied immediately. "Why else am I in New Orleans? Club Mist?" He gave her directions and led her out to a waiting motorcycle, thankfully identical to the one she had practiced on. She straddled it and slid Mystique's present into a pocket at the machine's side. She would open it later
"May I commend you on your accent? It is quite believable," he said as she tossed him the helmet she wouldn't use.
"Yes, it is better than hers, isn't it?" The man's lip twitched. Katherine smirked back. Yes, the old Katherine. The untamed, powerful, sarcastic Katherine of biting remarks and wild antics had returned. Kitty suffocated in her gave within the litter box, never to be heard of again.
As she drove through the streets, maybe just a little too fast, a rich voice filled one ear. *Having fun, are we? Turn left here. Only rabble goes through the main entrance.*
"I always wanted to be a princess," she laughed, concentrating on the tight curve.
*Sorry to disappoint you, but the Duchess Wagner will have to do. And just so you don't make a fool of yourself and the name you borrow, the Duchy –or what's left of it- is in Bavaria: a State of Germany. Your father Eric is diseased, as well as your mother and brother. Your father wasn't on good terms with your mother before his death, and you do not speak her name. The boy died as a babe, before he was named.*
Then the woman's voice was gone, leaving Katherine with food for thought. There was -or had been- a Wagner Duchy in Germany. Was it possible that Kurt, the foreign Fur Ball...was the nameless baby. Was he a Duke?
***
The Battle of the invisible but Deadly Legions of Hell and me, which insignificant mortals merely call the Semester Final is coming inexorably nearer. This -paired with a frightening case of writer's block the size of which doctors have never known- is forcing me to put the fic on hiatus (like I was updating lightning quick anyways) until the 2nd Semester of my school begins - around Jan 27.
Let me put it this way: if I don't maintain a 3.85 GPA or higher, you won't be hearing from me for a long time, as I will be dead. Overachiever-ness expectations suck.
I must go now and prepare for battle. I must win this fight. Or flee; yes... flee is good, very good. But how can I run from such might? Fight or flee, fight or flee... Dammit! Why must my entire future -and ultimately the future of us all- depend upon this one fight? And, if by some miracle, I should overcome the impossible odds and beat back the enemy, how soon until they again break their bonds and again seethe from demonic portals to surround me, armed only with a #2 pencil and an illegal bottle of white-out?
....aaaannd that's a wrap. Bad, bad, BAD me. Still no Romy, but at least I used X-Men characters this time. You have to give me points for that...or not.
Anyway, apologies for the chapter mix-up. At least those of you who were inflicted got to read two chapters. And don't worry, Remy and Rogue shall return. They will wake up in the morning. It's just going to be a Very long night. Just how long can I make it? Very. Just watch me extend it, count the minutes down to 0'dark hundred, then turn back the clock and start over in a different POV and then do it over and over...twice! Then I'll give a character a time machine and let her go back again and again and again and...
Yes I'm stalling, Dammit! I don't wanna study! Do...Don't come a...a step closer, Fu...Functions notebook! I'll torch you, I swear! Is that...my lighter! In pieces! I'll tear you apart! ...No...no! I didn't mean it! I'll be good, I'll study every night...I'll...NO! Not my creative writing journals...sob! They were my babies, my only light in a world of unending darkness... I'm gonna kill...Let me go! Help meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...
Yes, I must study now. Extra long review responses next chapter. A shining note: I will have another study hall period next semester, bringing the grand total to one. I will also have one less class and gym instead of a homework handing out class. In layman's terms: I will -hopefully- have time to write more come late January. Yes...I'm still stalling. Goodbye...hopefully not forever...but if I do not survive...I love you guys!
Okay, I'm done now...no I'm not. Yes...I....AM!!!!!
Or am I?
;-P
