A/N: Again with the can't-afford-to-have-you-sue-me speech. I am poor. The characters are not mine. I don't make any money off it at all, so suing me would be pointless. Reviewing however, will be richly rewarded by the karmic boomerang. Thank you.
Scott Summers lobs his bag into the trunk beside Logan's, and slams the lid of the trunk. He sees Logan leaning against the driver's side door.
"We gotta get goin', One-Eye."
"Fine, but I'm driving," Scott answers, crossing his arms across his chest.
"I don't think so, bub," Logan answers.
"Play you for it," Scott says.
"What?" Logan questions flatly.
"Come on. Rock-Paper-Scissors. They do play that in Canada, don't they, Wolverine?" Scott goads. "What, are you chicken?"
With a furrowed brow, Logan balls his right fist and places it in the palm of his left hand. Scott grins. Both men pound their fist in time.
Scott begins. "One, two, three..."
Snikt.
"Well, if you're going to be that way about it." Scott grumbles.
"I don't play games, bub," Logan answers gruffly as he opens the car door. "I win them. Get in."
Scott slides into the passenger seat as the engine roars to life.
"Rock-Paper-Scissors?" Logan chuckles. "What the hell has gotten into you?"
Scott shakes his head a little. "I think I've still got Marie in my head."
"I know the feeling." Logan agrees, as the sports car peels out of the garage.
"After you, chère," Remy LeBeau says, holding the door open for Rogue. The inside of the bar is more dull and dank than the waning light of the city outside. It is the sort of place Logan might take apart once he is bored enough of drinking half their liquor stock. Above all, this is not the sort of place that could be considered mutant-friendly; in turn, this is also an establishment that doesn't ask questions.
The two young mutants take a seat in a dark back corner.
A tired-looking waitress wanders over. "Whatcha drinkin'?" she slurs. Rogue just blinks at her for a moment.
"Two beers," Remy answers. The waitress walks off without comment, and gets her ass slapped by a greasy man sitting at the bar as she walks by.
"Nice," Rogue comments flatly, as she runs her eyes around the bar to eye the other occupants.
"The beer's cold," Remy shrugs in a half-apologetic gesture.
Rogue gives him a half smile. "Well, Toto, ah don't think we're in Westchester anymore."
"C'est vrai," Remy agrees. "That's true."
Remy watches as Rogue scan the room. Normally he leaves if the woman he is with is scanning the room for other people, but he knows who she is looking for. She's looking for trouble. As both Remy and Rogue glance towards the opening door, they think they may have found him.
The young, lanky man at the door is dressed in all black from head to toe, including gloves--at least Rogue thinks it's black; her color diferation is still skewed by the ruby-red goggles she is wearing as a precaution. The newcomer slides gracefully onto a barstool, brushes his unruly brown hair away from his face, and points to the Guinness on tap without saying a word. Not that it looks like he could if he wants to--his face is half-obscured by a strip of fabric covering the entire bottom half of his face, up and over the tip of his long, slender nose. Rogue watches the bartender pour the dark, grainy liquid into a half-dirty pint glass and slide it right under the younger man's nose. She is a little startled when a heavy mug of beer bangs and sloshes on the formica tabletop in front of her.
"Um, thanks," Rogue drawls, trying to hide her annoyance.
"Whatcha lookin' at?" Remy questions. The last time he has seen her this quiet, this intense and focused, was in the Danger Room days ago.
"Something's about to happen, Remy. It ain't safe to be here."
"We just fine, chère," Remy soothes, taking her hand in his, rubbing the seam of her gloves with his fingers.
Rogue shakes her head. The men in her head--Logan, Scott and Erik--are tensed for a fight. They have seen this go down hundreds of times before. Now it is Rogue's body that they are tensing for a confrontation, not their own. Somewhere in the deep recess of her mind reserved for her and her alone, she vaguely hopes they do remember they are in the body of a 17-year-old girl.
She watches as the bartender walks over to the black-garbed man. "Y'know, you still gotta pay for it if even if you don't touch it."
The young man ducks his head further down and pointedly ignores the bartender. The interaction now draws the attention of the man who earlier violated the waitress.
"Hey, buddy, the man's talking to you," he slurs.
Once again, the man in black ignores the commotion.
"An' now I'm talking to you. You deaf, asshole? Or just stupid?"
The drunken man's friends laugh at this. The man in black still does not move. The drunken man stands up and staggers towards him.
"I said, I'm talkin' to you, motherfu..."
The man doesn't finish the sentence. The man in black stands up out of his seat and takes a step back.
Just leave me alone, you bloody wanker, a distinct Cockney voice echoes, cutting the other man off.
The entire bar goes silent. The man in black hasn't said a word, but his thoughts are projected into the minds of everyone in the bar.
The bartender grabs a shotgun from underneath the bar and places it near the man in black's temple.
"Get out of my bar, freak," he growls, cocking the shotgun.
Rogue has heard those words before. In a split second, she is on her feet and next to the man in black.
"Whatta ya'll say we make this more of a fair fight?" she drawls, nodding at Remy, standing by the table, to tell him to stay where he is.
Both the drunken man and the bartender laugh. "What're you gonna do, princess?" The bartender laughs. "Kiss him goodnight while we watch?"
"Hey," says the drunk man, who staggers over towards her. "Maybe she'll give us a little kiss, too."
The man in black balls his hands into fists as Rogue keeps talking. "What's your name, sugah?" she asks, dripping in Mississippi charm.
"Dirk." The drunk man replies.
She turns attention to the bartender.
"Chuck." He answers.
She looks at the man in black.
Jono, he answers, not knowing where this is going.
"Ah just like to know the names of the men ah'm kissin'," Marie purrs, as she turns and stands directly in front of Jono. She can feel Jono tense as she places his palms lightly on her hips. They are so close that she feels as if she should be breathing his air. It is then that she realises Jono is not breathing at all. He drops his head slightly to look into Marie's eyes.
"Trust me." She mouths.
"Get on with it, tart." The bartender yells, leaning closer. "It's my turn next."
Rogue turns to look at the man. "Hold yer horses, Chuck. Ah'll make it worth it," she says. She wraps her right arm around Jono's neck and places her left hand near the middle of his chest. She leans closer, pressing hard against Jono's shirt, surprised to not find taut muscle and bone. It was almost spongy.
Jono, on my signal, Rogue projects, Fall backwards.
Jono winks, indicating he understands.
NOW! Rogue's thought-screams
Jono leans back, the force of a leather-gloved hand thrusting his hips forward to meet hers, his hands giving her stability. Rogue's right fist swings, pulling her entire body weight behind a punch that lands square into the bartender's nose, dropping the man behind the bar.
Before anyone can react, a pink flash sails through the girl's peripheral vision. She grabs Jono and pulls him in the opposite direction as a section of the bar explodes, throwing debris into the air and raining down upon the occupants.
"Now it looks like a fair fight, homme," Remy says, emerging from the shadows, holding a glowing pink playing card in his right hand and a metal cylinder in his left. "No need to pick on a fille." With a slide of his thumb, the cylinder springs alive and telescopes from both ends, becoming a fighting staff.
A large man walks slowly from the back of the bar, holding a large lead pipe.
"This is my bar." The man says, hitting the pipe in the palm of his hand menacingly. "Three muties walk in... none walk out."
Oi, good luck with that, Jono projects, looking at the man.
The bar erupts with screams, insults and punches being thrown. Jono punches one drunk while Rogue kicks the kneecaps of another, dropping him to the ground. Her boots may not be steel-toed, but that doesn't mean that they don't feel like it. Chunks of wood splinter with each new explosion of a charged card.
Bracing himself on his staff, Remy vaults over a group of barflies. One of the brutes grabs the tail of his duster and wrestles him to the ground. Another cocks a pistol and puts the barrel of it to Remy's temple.
"Remy!" Rogue screams, watching helplessly. She does not see the swinging fist of a large biker coming towards her. The blow cracks her square in the jaw, knocking her to the rubble-strewn floor. She shuts her eyes tight with a moan as her glasses go slightly askew.
"That's for my brother, Chuck," The man says, looming over her.
Jono looks from the fallen Rogue to the imperiled Remy.
Bloody bastard, he screams in his head, knowing it is ringing in the minds of all of the occupants of the bar. He raises his hand to the cloth covering his face, and, to the surprise of everyone, orange electric lightning flows from where his mouth should have been, striking the man with the gun in the side of his ribs and sending him to the floor with a scream. Remy struggles with the other man when a beam of red light slams into the man, dropping him like a stone.
As Rogue kicks and punches at the biker, she can hear Logan in her head yelling at her to blast him, as Scott tells her not to. Marie knows she is too close. Her glasses will protect her, but at this short range a blast would be fatal. Logan and Erik are not seeing the problem.
Rogue is still busy fighting the biker when she hears the strangled thoughts of the telepath. Let me go, ya bastard. What ya're tryin' to do won't work.
"We'll see about that," The large man says, slamming the heel of his boot into the back of Jono's knees, dropping the Englishman to the floor. There the larger man could not only hold his pipe across Jono's throat, but up into his jaw line as well. "Trust me, I know what I'm doing." The pipe-carrying just wants to knock Jono out--he will be much easier to deal with later.
Rogue kicks the biker in the balls before running and jumping on an unexploded part of the bar by the big man.
"Let him go," Rogue says, crossing her arms and looking down at the man.
"Nice hair," the man answers. "Why don't you try and stop me, little girl?"
Rogue grabs both sides of the man's face and pulls his mouth to hers. She feels the man's shock turn to horror as she begins to drain him.
It is Rogue's turn to be horrified. She has drained regular humans before. This doesn't feel like that. This is a mutant. As the memories flood in, Rogue gasps, pushing the large man away from her, jumping off the bar.
Pulling Jono to his feet, she screams over the explosion of sound in the bar. "Remy!"
Remy's head whips around to the girl pulling the other man to his feet. He punches the last man and heads to her.
"Time to go, chère," Remy says, pulling her by the arm out the door of the bar. Rogue's other fist clutches the fabric of Jono's coat, dragging him along into the still, crisp Chicago night.
"Thanks," Remy says, offering his hand to Jono.
Cheers, Jono replies, taking it.
Remy motions towards the motorcycle. "Can you drive this thing, homme?"
Since I was ten, mate. Jono answers.
"Good. Take her someplace safe." Remy tosses the keys at Jono, who snatches them from the air.
I will. Jono answers.
"And what the hell are you gonna do?" Rogue asks.
"Run. So should you. They'll chase the one on foot and leave the bike alone. Cops pretty lazy like that," Remy answers.
"Don't look at me like that," Remy says, watching tears well in Marie's eyes. I've been outrunnin' the police since I was eight. This is easy as gumbo." He pulls her into his arms and places a kiss into her hair.
Rouge pushes against his chest, putting distance between the two. "You don't understand. The big man...the pipe guy. He's not a man. He's a girl...a woman. A mutant." She shudders, cursing herself both for not seeing this one coming and for not being able to articulate the urgency. "It's the Brotherhood, Remy. Forget the police, don't get caught by the Brotherhood."
Sirens scream in the distance.
"Just go." Remy yells.
Rogue runs to the bike.
"Take care of her." Remy tells Jono.
I will, mate. I won't let anything happen to her.
Jono turns to go before he is yanked around to face the Cajun once again.
"Jus' know, Remy don't share well with others." the Cajun growls at the man who is about to take not only his legitimately stolen bike, but his girl into the night.
No one's askin' yer t' share, mate, Jono answers, with a statement that can mean what he wants it to when the time comes. Too much has happened too fast to decide on anything other than running.
Jono turns and throws his leg over the bike where Rogue waits. Remy follows over to the bike, which roars to life.
Remy turns to go when a small hand reaches out and grabs his duster.
"Remy!" Rogue yells over the noise of the motorcycle. "Be careful!"
The bike roars away, wrenching the fabric out of her grasp.
"Always," Remy yells into the dust.
Rogue wraps her arms around Jono's chest, burying her face into the crook of the Englishman's neck as the tears come.
With Logan at the wheel, the miles slide past the windows at breakneck speed. The light has gone, and there is no time to waste. The bike is faster than the car, and with each passing moment, the two men in the car grow more tense. Each of them can hear Xavier's reasoning reverberating in their consciousness--Magneto is one the move again.
A crackle of static from the com-unit embedded in the dash brings the attention of both men.
"Yes, Professor?" Scott answers crisply.
"Scott, how close are you and Logan to Chicago?" Xavier asks.
"Half an hour," Logan answers. "She's not as fast as she used to be."
"Well, if she hadn't been set ablaze, she might be quicker," Scott retorts, bitterly.
"Not my fault, bub. I had a nine-millimeter round in my skull."
"Enough!" Cries a voice at the other end--a voice with a thick German accent. Both men look at each other. If Xavier has brought in Kurt Wagner, the news was about Marie--and it is probably not good.
"Gentlemen, please. Ororo has been scanning communications for hours. Apparently there has been a bar fight, in Chicago. The bar is in ruins. They suspect mutant activity. The bar was splintered by some sort of blast. The eyewitnesses say they are looking for three mutants--a girl and two men."
"Wait," Scott questions. "Two men, Professor?"
"Yes. I was afraid of this. A college of Dr. McCoy and myself contacted us two weeks ago. One of her students has gone missing. There was thought that he was coming to the United States. I think this is the other man."
"Well, who is he, and what can he do?" Logan asks, cutting to the chase.
"His mutation is actually quite simple," Dr. Henry McCoy answers.
"Then keep the explanation simple, Hank," Scott says, rubbing his temples hard.
"He is pure energy," Dr. McCoy replies. "When his mutation manifested, it did so quite explosively. He demolished an entire building in north London. Also, for lack of better words, he blew out his entire jaw, and his chest cavity. He is totally devoid of most vital organs, save his brain."
"Good God," Logan replies.
"How would we catch up to them?" Scott wonders aloud. "He doesn't eat, doesn't have to sleep."
"Ja, but Marie and Remy will," Kurt adds.
"I have programmed the coordinates of the bar to the car's computer," Ororo says. "It will be your best starting place."
"Agreed," Scott says. "We'll notify you when we get there."
"Good," Xavier answers. "I will attempt to track them using Cerebro."
"Scott, Logan," Ororo says. "Be careful."
"And, bitte shöen, meinen Freunden, bring her back," Kurt adds before the connection goes dead.
Alex takes a deep breath and walks into the large, opulent office.
"Mr. Magnus, I presume," Alex says to the older gentleman rising from behind a large antique oak desk.
"I trust your ride with Mr. Creed was comfortable," Mr. Magnus says, walking over to Alex, arms extended. "Welcome to my home, Mr. Summers."
Alex carefully observes the man as he takes his hand. His accent is a bit difficult to place. He sounds of a man highly educated in England, but not a native Englishman. That is obscured by the fact that he sounds as if he has been in the United States a long time. He is both regal and casual, in a pair of black trousers and a black button-down shirt, with wavy, silver hair and eyes that have seen more than their fair share of tragedy. His tone is warm and inviting, with a razor's edge that seems as if it would slice you to ribbons if the need arose. Alex is both terrified and fascinated.
"I must admit, I never thought that those words would ever come out of my mouth," the man says with a hint of a chuckle, as if laughing at a private joke.
"Why do you say that?" Alex questions.
"It is nothing," Mr. Magnus says, walking Alex over to a bar by the desk. "Let us just say your...reputation precedes you." He opens a decanter of brandy and pours two glasses.
"And please, Mr. Summers," Mr. Magnus says, handing a glass to Alex, "call me Erik."
