ISLAMABAD

PAKISTAN

JUNE 1998

A bus hoots by a crowded street filled with an assortment of individuals. Amongst the cows, dogs and dust we see a few tourists sporting their chunky bag packs, wearing Ray Ban sunglasses that glint in the hot afternoon heat. Behind the tourists we see the woman who just under twenty four hours ago murdered her daughter's killer. If we ask her if what she did were just, perhaps she would scoff and say that such a question is irrelevant in a world devoid of justice. Or perhaps she would just walk away. As of now, though, she continues to stroll behind the tourists, wearing Punjabi clothes and Western earrings, looking very much the modern Pakistani woman. She stops at the street corner and looks at her watch. It is apparent that whoever she's waiting for is late. She spends two minutes looking around her – it is market day today and lengthy lines of street sellers with their produce spread out on mats call loudly to passers-by.

Finally a black car – an overused Toyota Corona – pulls up by the street and the driver rolls down his window.

He calls out to the woman in an American accent. 'Alice Smith? You touring this part of Islamabad for a reason?'

'Yeah. Got a little tired of the heat in Kabul, so I came to some place hotter.'

It is obvious that this small talk is anything but. Satisfied that the woman is indeed the individual he was sent to pick up, the driver nods and pulls his head back in.

We hear a silent thunk of a lock being opened inside. Alice gets in head first and shuts the door. Seated next to her is a well-built man, probably in his early fifties wearing khaki pants and an overly pink Polo shirt. He wipes the excess sweat off his reddening forehead and calls out to the driver.

'Is that damned air conditioner on max? It sure feels as if you turned the knob the wrong danged way!' He grimaces and then focuses on Alice. 'Drive to the airport is a few miles from here. We hired a private jet to get you to your next destination... I trust you found everything satisfactory?'

'Great service as always.' Alice looks out the window wondering how people have this inbred gift to hide their emotions so well. Is that what they call survival? 'One small glitch, however. You failed to deliver the second package. You gave me your word.'

The man holds up his hands in defense. 'Hey hey! The word, my dear friend, was given to me by higher ups. I'm just the messenger. Standard operation procedure.'

'I suppose that's the standard excuse too.' Her face is deadpan and it's hard to know what thoughts are going through her mind.

He struggles to read it. Is that disappointment? Suppressed anger? Is it a woman thing? He gives up and resorts to a more conciliatory, yet stern, explanation. 'Look, there's been a change in plan – none of which is my fault. You still have your end of the bargain to fulfill. We gave you a taste for meat and we're not giving you anymore until you do what you promised to do.'

He looks at her as she remains silent, and little beads of sweat begin to collect near the back of his neck. It is not from the heat. The woman sitting next to him is dangerous, efficient, unpredictable and she'd just murdered a man less than a day ago. Of course, they'd trained them that way – they all held the same threat – but being in close vicinity was different from looking at them through indestructible glass. The driver, Henrik, was special ops too and was great at his job, but he was much further away than Alice Smith. And that did nothing to ease his mounting tension.

'That's why I'm here, aren't I?' she says, finally.

He breathes a sigh of relief and even makes an attempt at humor. 'Where'd you get those earrings?' he nods towards her. 'The local K Mart?'

'In Vancouver actually...at a flea market. Back when I was Francoise Benet. Speaking of which, is everything ready?'

All business again. Well, that was better than playing at would-she, won't-she in the category of physical assault. He reached into his small briefcase and pulled out a small book, bound with maroon leather. He opens it to the last page and we see it is a passport, containing a photo I.D. and all other relevant information.

'I'll have to take Alice Smith back, I'm afraid.' He extends his hand out.

She, in turn, pulls out the passport in her possession and hands it to him. She looks at the new one given to her. The picture is a little grainy and is worse than the one before, but that is of no particular concern. The name, however, is. A native of Portugal, born twenty two years ago in Lisbon, professionally trained as an accountant and goes by the name of Amelia Oliveira. She likes the name and says it softly in her mind. Kala would have liked it too, she knows.

'I'd like to be her for longer than a week, if you don't mind.' she says, wanting to keep this name, this identity. Why, she wonders? 'For security reasons.'

'I don't control the strings when it comes to identity protocol, sweetheart. But the word is that where you're going, you'll get plenty of time to get acquainted with dear ol' Amelia. You speak Portuguese?'

'A little. But I would-'

He interrupts her. 'Good. Because your next stop is Helsinki. I don't believe you'll need any Portuguese there. But maybe a light jacket.'

'I've never been to Finland...' says Amelia softly.

COOKTOWN

AUSTRALIA

THE MAGDALENE PUB

PRESENT DAY

It is 10 p.m. on a school night, and a small crowd gathers round the television set near the bar. The favorites, the New Zealand All Blacks play Australia tonight and husbands who've all made excuses to their wives have sneaked out to watch the game with some of their mates. Others, not true rugby fans, drink their beer and try to keep conversation amidst the rowdy cheers. The owner of the pub looks quite content, tonight's profit is something he'll look forward too, but it won't even come close to that which he'll make when the semi-finals come around.

A solitary man wearing a coat – seemingly made of fur – sits hunched over his empty beer glass. From time to time he looks up, considering getting another pint from the bar, but then changes his mind. It is not shyness that halts him from doing so, just the fact that another beer at this point seems too large of an effort. He would like his energy to be channeled elsewhere.

Suddenly, he feels a light tap on his shoulder and looks angrily at the person daring to interrupt his solitude.

The man by his side speaks. 'Buy you a drink, mate? Was gonna get one meself but that last kookaburra I had for dinner really destroyed my apetite. Even for a cold beer.'

'Toad...' snarls the larger man.

'The one and only.' he says. Toad sits opposite his old friend – if you could even call Sabretooth a friend – and grins widely. 'Took me a bloody long time to find you. Being the recluse you are. But I did, and I come bearing a message.'

'That you're leaving?'

Toad stares at Sabretooth for a second. His eyes retain its same feral look; he seems to have lost nothing of his former self after a particular disastrous incident at Ellis Island in New York. 'No. It's more an offer actually. Eric is free, mate. Broke out of that bloody prison Houdini-style. With flair.'

'So what?' asks Sabretooth, uninterested.

'So the Brotherhood is back in business. With adjustments. Made to improve, of course.'

Sabretooth snorts. 'Sounds like the same thing they say about the Chicago Cubs.'

Toad's grin vanishes and his face becomes somewhat serious. 'I believe in his cause. You did too.'

'You? With ideals???' the larger man laughs. 'The only reason you're stuck with that bunch of losers is because no one else will take you in. You feather-brained morons are pathetic, you know that? Even worse than the X Men.'

It's Toad's turn to get angry. 'You have a better agenda in mind? Community service, maybe?'

'No. Unlike you, Toad...I've come to realize what I really am. And my profession of choice suits my personality like a velvet glove. A match made in heaven. Or hell. Whichever way you'd like to see it.'

Toad scratches his head. Diplomatic communications was never his strong point. 'You make coffee at Starbucks?'

Sabretooth snarls again but this time leaves his teeth bared at his former ally. 'I'm back at the joint where they made me – where they create monsters. Great place for recreation. You should try it sometime.'

Toad's eyes widen in horror and he gets up from his seat, trying not to appear too hurried. He doesn't say anything in farewell, no snippy comment or smart retorts. He strides quickly towards the coat rack and grabs his jacket. Toad looks back one more time and shudders. He thought it was over. He thought it had been over for a long while. As did Eric and Mystique. He had to tell them, and soon. Time was of the essence. It appeared as if they had a bigger concern than the X Men or mutant-hating bigots on their hands.