Okay, a note on accents and universe…ness:

First of all, I don't speak French and don't intend to butcher a perfectly good language with Babelfish. Any extended French commentary will be filtered through Andrea, who conveniently also doesn't speak French. Secondly, I'm going to tone down Gambit's accent a little, because I find it difficult to write and distracting to read. Same thing with Rogue's – in reality, no one speaks like her accent is usually written. Modern Southerners do pronounce the "r" at the end of words, so she wouldn't say "sugah". Also, in the current Rogue book, it's implied that she's lost a lot of her accent, so I feel justified.

On universe…ness: since this doesn't really fit in anywhere in comic canon, I guess you could call this very, very, very slight AU.

Disclaimer: Marvel owns the characters you recognize/have heard of. Everyone else is mine. I am making no money off this story.

Writer's block. The phrase only began to describe the feeling of frustration that ran through Andrea's tense body when she looked at the blank white page on her monitor. In theory, she was writing a story on the string of unidentified bodies that had been dumped in the river in the last few months. In practice, she had nothing. A third body had been found two days earlier. Autopsies shows that all three deaths were probably accidental. All were male. Dental records had no matches. They were almost certainly illegal immigrants, smuggled across the border, driven hundreds of miles across Texas and Louisiana with the promise of work. Now they were dead and if anyone knew how to contact their families back in Mexico, they weren't talking. Andrea had talked to the police, who told her to talk to the Port. The Port had, of course, told her to talk to the police. She was pretty sure neither cared that much about a few undocumented aliens in the river. It was already enough for a story – a couple paragraphs with the basic details, but Andrea and her editor had planned something major. No one was cooperating. She'd hit a dead end.

In frustration, Andrea pounded her hands on the keyboard.

"5rn xcve4 cm cmdc m cvmui' sferlr;nvarhnvfvfjkl" the screen now read.

Well, it's a start, she thought.

"Hey Andy," a young woman's voice, thick with the distinctive and oddly un-Southern New Orleans accent, came from the far side of the cubicle.

"Hey, Lauren," Andrea replied, not looking up from her intent examination of the coffee stain her desk. Her head rested in her palms, her elbows in turn resting on the desk. It kind of looks like a plane.

"You know where Jimmy wants these proofs, chica?"

"Um. I think in the workroom by the stairs." Actually, it looks more like the bird with the snake on the cactus on the Mexican flag. Whoa, that's pretty amazing. I wonder how much my desk would go for on eBay?

"Okay. Good luck with, um, whatever it is you're doing." Andrea glanced up to shoot an apologetic smile at the courier as she turned around, just in time to catch a clear view of a dark smudge near her eye.

"Oh! Wow, you've got a lot here, Lauren, hon. I'll help you carry them." Leaping up and seizing an armful of the reams of paper before the younger woman could object, Andrea set off on a rapid pace to the workroom.

Dumping the papers on the heavy wooden work table, Andrea shut the door and stood in front of the knob, blocking Lauren's exit. Lauren stared at her in consternation. The smudge on her eye was definitely a bruise, Andrea could see now. She had attempted to cover it up with makeup, but it was still clearly visible.

"Um," Andrea began brilliantly, and stopped. Lauren made a move to reach behind her and get at the doorknob.

"Lauren, are you okay?" Andrea burst out, suddenly.

"Andrea, I don't know what you're getting at, but you're freaking me—"

"Lauren, you have a black eye. If…uh, I know I'm being a busybody here, and it's not like we're close friends, but let me give you my cell number, you can call me if you ever need any help…"

"Oh God, Andy!" Lauren laughed. "Don't worry. I don't have an abusive boyfriend."

"So you walked into a door?" Andrea asked doubtfully.

"No…look, I feel like such an idiot, I was hoping everyone would ignore the eye. I was at a bar last night and on my way, this crazy guy attacked me."

"What?" yelped Andrea. "And you say you're okay?"

"No, I am, really. The guy shoved me down and I hit my head on this…stupid milk crate that was on the ground…I don't know what it was doing there, someone didn't take out the trash or something…anyway, that's where the black eye came from."

"But after that? The guy just went away?"

"No." Lauren grinned and lowered her voice. "I was rescued."

"By the bouncer?"

"No, by Gambit."

"Who on earth is Gambit?"

Lauren stared at Andrea like she'd asked who Santa Claus was. "Don't you know? He's New Orleans' own superhero! I mean, he isn't here all the time, I don't think, but enough."

"New Orleans has a superhero now?" Andrea asked dryly. "I thought New York had a monopoly on all of them. What's New Orleans superhero do?"

"I can't believe you've never heard of him…you're a reporter, Andy!"

"This isn't a tabloid, Lauren. We deal in actual news. Not whatever crazy shit people in crazy costumes are getting up to in New York."

"Hey now, mutants are people too," Lauren admonished her. "Mutant news is news for everyone." She bither lip. "I'm…sorry. I try not avoid politically charged topics at work…I don't want to get into an argument with you."

Andrea brushed it off. She'd never been personally invested in the human-mutant debate, and she was a journalist anyway. Journalists were supposed to be objective.

"So you're saying this Gambit guy is a mutant?"

Lauren nodded. "I guess so. He didn't do anything really…mutanty…but he has red eyes."

"So what'd he do to the crazy attacker guy, if he doesn't have mutant powers?"

"He kicked his ass." Lauren said simply.

"Just like that?"

"Pretty much, yeah. He had a staff," she added, after a moment.

"Did he say anything?" Andrea's curiosity was piqued.

"Um. Not really. He yelled at the guy in French-"

"He's French?" Andrea asked, startled. Why would a French guy adopt New Orleans? Didn't they have criminals to beat up in France?

"I don't think so…maybe. I think he's Cajun, actually."

"That makes sense," Andrea mused. Though Orleans Parish was technically part of Acadiana, the official Cajun "homeland", there weren't really all that many Cajuns in the city itself; or rather, they were far outnumbered by everyone else. The few Andrea had ever met all spoke English as their first language. A couple had mentioned cousins back in the country, or grandparents who spoke French at home, but other than unpronouncable last names, there wasn't anything particularly unusual about them.

Lauren was staring at the air above Andrea's head. She giggled.

"What?"

"He was totally hot."

Andrea snickered. "Lauren, I love you, girl. Never fail to look on the bright side of things. Sure, you got attacked by some guy who probably wanted to rape and murder you, but at least the dude who rescued you was hot."

"Girl's gotta look on the bright side of things," Lauren said, grinning.

"Wow. You gonna be okay, Lauren?"

"Yeah, thanks for being concerned, though, girl. Swear to god, I'm fine. I was shaken up a little, but I'm doing okay now. I gotta get back to work, anyway."

"Oh yeah, no problem. I guess I have to go back to work too," she sighed. "Oh, wait, it's Tuesday, isn't it?"

"Mmmm, yeah," Lauren said.

"Oh, excellent," Andrea said happily. "I have a dinner date. I have to get out of this building."

Andrea had been a little early, it was true. But she had had enough of staring at the blank page on her monitor for one day. She'd been at the café for ten minutes already, enjoying the sunshine and the not-too-muggy weather, and was sipping an iced tea when she spotted a couple of men approaching.

"James!" she called out, waving at the one she knew. Both wore the blue uniform of the New Orleans Police Department.

"Hey, Andy girl!" James said with a broad smile. "This is my friend Shawn. He wanted to come along when I told him I was having lunch with my hot Chinese girlfriend."

"I'm Korean." Andrea pointed. "Korean-American."

"You still my girlfriend, though, right?"

"As long as Jessica doesn't find out," Andrea said with a laugh, looking pointedly at the gold ring on his left hand.

"What she don't know won't hurt her," James said with a smile.

Like James, Shawn was black, but lighter skinned and shorter, more muscular. James was tall and lean, with a carefully shaved head and a ready smile.

"Nice to meet you, Shawn," Andrea said, offering her hand.

"You too, Andrea. James told me all about you."

"Oh, super," she said, with a mock groan. In truth, she adored James. He and his wife Jessica had been her neighbors across the hall in her first apartment in New Orleans. Andrea had cultivated the friendship, in the hopes that a pal on the force would be useful for work, but he'd become a genuine friend. One who, sadly, was almost completely steadfast in his refusal to give up information to a reporter.

"What's going on, Andrea?" he asked, while waving down a passing waiter.

"Oh…I was hoping you knew something you could share on the illegals in the river."

"Girl, you know—" he took a minute out to order coffee and a chicken caesar salad from the waiter. "You know I can't talk to civilians about shit like that. Why do you keep asking me?"

"Because I keep hoping you'll change your mind?" Andrea asked, hopefully.

"Andy, if you want, there are open spots on the force. Ever think of a career chance?"

Andrea snorted. Andrea Feldman, armed and dangerous. Yeah, right.

"Besides," James added, "That's not even being handled in my precinct. I don't know anything the whole mess."

"Okay, fine. You sure…" her voice trailed off as she noticed that neither James nor quiet Shawn were paying her the slightest attention. Both of them seemed to be focused on something beyond her.

"James, man," Shawn whispered, "Is there a movie filming in town right now?"

Andrea twisted around in her wrought iron chair to see what they were looking at. It was, of course, a woman.

She sat at the next table over, alone. Her outfit was something that would have looked ridiculous on almost anyone – she was dressed like a 40s movie star, in black trousers, a white silk blouse with matching white silk opera gloves, oversized sunglasses and a filmy white scarf wrapped around her head – but on her, it looked great. Of course, Andrea had to admit, most clothes would look great on a woman like that. What was visible of her face was flawlessly beautiful. The hair peeking out underneath the scarf was a mess of brown curls that seemed to take on a gingery sheen in the bright sunlight. And her body was almost too perfect.

"How much you think she paid for those things?" she asked the men. Perhaps a little bitterness snuck into her voice. Just a little.

"Andy, what you talking about?" James asked, his eyes glued to the woman. "Those are real. I can tell."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah. No one has a body like that naturally, guys."

"That girl does," Shawn said. "Damn, she's hot."

As if she'd heard them – which was impossible, she was too far away, and they were speaking quietly, she turned and smiled. Shawn blushed. James blushed too, Andrea thought, although it was hard to tell with his dark skin. Even with her glasses covering half her face, Andrea was startled at the woman's beauty. She was herself not an unattractive woman and she knew it, but she couldn't help feeling a little envy, smiling back at the 40s movie star.

Suddenly, she realized she was twisted around in her chair to look at the woman. She colored in embarrassment. God, I'm an idiot.

"What do you know about Gambit?" she asked. Trying to cover her discomfiture, she spoke a little louder than she'd intended.

The policemen looked at each other. "What you want to know about that crazy guy for?" Shawn asked.

"What makes him crazy?" Andrea asked in return.

Shawn shrugged. "Guy's a mutant. Devil eyes. And he's a criminal."

"What? My coworker says he saved her at some club last night."

"I don't know about that," Shawn admitted. "But I do know he's a thief. You never heard of the Thieves' Guild? Man, you are new in town."

"The Thieves' Guild…you're saying that the Thieves' Guild is real?" Andrea was shocked. She hadn't been in town two weeks before a neighbor had warned her to make sure she kept her door locked, or the Thieves' Guild would empty her apartment when she had her back turned. It didn't take long before she'd determined that the guild was a local legend, a bogeyman of sorts. She'd even once done a search of the entire newspaper records that had been electronically archived and come up with absolutely nothing.

"Damn right it's real." James responded grimly. "It's next to impossible to pin anything on them, or even prove they exist, but you won't find a cop in New Orleans who won't tell you that the Thieves' Guild is real. Bunch of damned Cajuns."

"And New Orleans' own superhero is a member?" Andrea asked, skeptically.

"Is that what people are saying about him now?" James asked with a laugh. "Damn mutie's come up in the world. New Orleans' superhero. People need a superhero, maybe they should look to people who don't use a code name to hide behind, people risking their lives every day for their safety."

"How do you know this guy's a member of the Thieves' Guild anyway?" She watched Shawn take out his cell phone and fidget with it. He seemed to be typing a text message. James shrugged.

"Common knowledge. Everyone knows the LeBeaus run the Guild, and Remy LeBeau's the worst of the lot, especially if you're a cop and don't like getting blown up."

"Who's Remy LeBeau?" Andrea asked, confused.

"Your new buddy. Gambit. That's his real name."

"Oh. He blows stuff up?"

James shrugged again. "I don't know shit about mutants and what they can and can't do, but things do have a tendency to explode around him. That's all I can say for sure."

At the neighboring table, the mystery woman's cell phone rang. Andrea paused to eavesdrop for a moment. She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but the sweet, slow Southern drawl that came out of the woman's mouth wasn't it. Not a New Orleans accent at all.

"Hi, sugar. Listen, can I call you back in a bit? I need to talk to you but I'm at a café right now and it's a little public. Okay. You too, sugar. Bye."

Andrea was a little disappointed that she wasn't going to get to hear mystery woman's private life stories. I never thought I'd be annoyed that someone used discretion with a cell phone!, she thought, grinning.

"Andy, hon, it's always nice to see you, but we gotta go," James said, pushing his empty plate to the center of the table. Andrea sighed.

"I'd better go back to work too."

"So, you done with the bodies in the river story?" Shawn asked.

"What?"

"The story. You gonna move on to something else? I mean, no one's talking, you don't really have much to go on."

Andrea stared at him in surprise. "You think the detectives on the case are giving up?"

"They're detectives," Shawn said. "It's their job to find criminals."

"And it's my job to tell that story. Hell no, I'm not giving up."

Shawn frowned slightly. "Whatever."

"Shawn's just trying to save you some time." James put in. "Listen to him."

Andrea waved them off, refusing to acknowledge the unwanted advice. The men tallied up their bill and threw down some cash, and said their goodbyes, leaving her alone. Andrea glanced at her watch. Seven pm. News people often worked strange hours to accommodate a deadline – she wasn't supposed to be off for another hour yet. She ordered another iced tea from the passing waitress and pulled out her notebook. Once again, she found herself staring at a blank page she had no idea how to fill. Wasn't I just here?, she thought wryly. She moved her chair slightly so that she could watch Mystery Woman without having to turn completely around. She was eating ice cream and reading a magazine. Her cell phone – which looked terribly complicated – was set on the table next to the ice cream dish. Every once in a while, Mystery Woman glanced over at it. After a few moments, she picked it up and, using a stylus, typed out a text message.

If she was aware that the woman at the next table was surreptitiously watching her, she gave no sign of it.

Andrea finished her tea, paid the bill, and collected her belongings. Mystery Woman had finished off her ice cream but seemed engrossed in her reading, despite the rapidly dying sunlight.

Pulling her bag over her shoulder, Andrea began heading back to the office. Large parts of New Orleans had not been designed with the automobile in mind, and though it wasn't a long distance, the route was strangely circuitous. The city didn't have the reputation as the safest place, especially packed as it often was with crazed drunken tourists – after two years, Andrea felt she finally had the right to scoff at the toursists – but she always felt safe in the quiet neighborhood around her office.

Which was why she never expected someone to grab her from behind and shove her to the ground.

"Fucking bitch!" laughed her attacker.

Her attacker. Her attacker. Andrea had an attacker. Andrea Feldman, who couldn't kill a spider. Someone was attacking her. And it hurt. He kicked her in the torso.

She stared up at the man. He was…she wanted to make notes of his appearance, something to tell the reporter later, unless she wrote the story herself, no, that wasn't ethical. You can't write a story about yourself. Maybe John, he did the local briefs most of the time. But there was nothing to see. A shape, a face indistinct in the streetlights.

She cried out. A whimper. Too quiet for anyone else to hear.

But he heard.

"You gonna cry, bitch? Goddamn fucking bitch, you should cry."

She struggled to get to her feet, to run away. He kicked her again. She'd have a bruise the next day. Tomorrow. When this would be the past.

She wished it was the future now. Again he kicked her, hard.

"Why can't fucking bitches like you learn to mind your own goddamn business?" He leaned close, and she could see that he was white, that he had dark eyes and a scraggly beard. His breath smelled of onions. Andrea liked onions. "You hear me? Mind your own fucking business, bitch!" He grabbed her hair and slammed her head against the cobblestone street. Tears began to trickle from her eyes, and she prayed she would remain conscious. She thought of her iced tea and how nice it had tasted. How long ago had that been? Fifteen minutes?

"You don' have a very good vocabulary, do you?" A new voice.

"What the fu-" her attacker began. Andrea's eyes were closed, but she heard the noise, the sound of something heavy and fast connecting with a human face. She opened her eyes to see her attacker to her left, licking blood off his lip. On her right stood another figure, holding a staff.

"You wanna fight me? I don't really recommend it," the new figure said, menacingly. He poked her attacker in the chest with the end of his staff and – Andrea's senses were beginning to return and in the unnatural yellow streetlight she saw this clearly – smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.

Andrea's attacker gasped, turned heel, and ran. The new figure muttered something in French. It didn't sound very happy. Then he turned to her.

His eyes were glowing red. Lying on the cobblestone street, her head pounding and her side aching, her adrenaline pumping, Andrea looked up at the man with the devil's eyes and began to sob.

"S'okay, chére," he told her. "You gon' be okay."

He crouched down, took her hand, and gently pulled her to her feet.

"You gon' be okay. Gambit promise."