Thank-you Sophia!
Chapter.4.
The air conditioning in the mansion was turned up to the highest setting to filter the heat; its unceasing mechanical reverberation competing with the blare of the rec room television for supremacy. Basilisk walked through the main reception hall and past the double doors of the room that were ajar. The sound of the television caught his attention though. Coming to a halt, he peered through the slim gap with his single black eye, set in the centre of his fleshy forehead to see who was in there. He was currently looking for Barnell, as he hadn't turned up to the basket ball game that was going on out back as he'd promised to. Edging his large hairless head into the room, he instantly saw that the only occupant was the giant, blue and exceedingly hairy Dr McCoy.
*HYUK!* He fought to contain the involuntary noise but it was of no use.
The ungainly sound drew Hank's attention over to the gap in the door, momentarily stopping his incessant and never ending fight to get comfortable on the settee. "Are you alright Basilisk?" He asked the young student. "Was there something you wanted?"
"I was just looking for Bar---*HYUK!*, Barn---*HYUK! HYUK!!*---Beak." The vocal spasm always got much worse when he was nervous and he didn't quite know why but Dr McCoy always seemed to have that affect on him. Maybe it was just the sheer size of the man. That much bulk would be intimidating to anyone, though Basilisk himself hardly had the constitution of a ballerina.
"I am afraid I haven't seen him or Angel since Chemistry yesterday." Hank replied, a tad apologetically; a product of his constant good nature. Basilisk tried to say thanks or utter some kind of reply at any rate, but all that came out was another of his noises. So he ducked out of the room slightly flustered and without a word. That left Hank to continue with his struggle to get comfortable on the sofa that was now far too small to accommodate his much expanded feline frame. He at first shifted forwards, perching on its curving edge and then back. But it groaned in protest; the creek so pronounced that he feared the wooden frame would snap. Immediately he stood up, peering quickly back down in search of any visible damage.
"Something wrong Hank?"
His head shot to the doorway again as Jean came into the rec room closely followed by Scott. They both had rather bemused expressions on their faces, wondering why Hank was staring in horror at the cream coloured sofa as if it were about to consume him whole. "Uh, nothing my dear carrot-top, nothing at all."
Jean smiled and shook her head as she made her way to take up the chair by the window whilst Scott sat on the end of the sofa that was closet to her. Hank thought it best that he remained standing. Maybe the development of sturdier furniture should be his next project he pondered half seriously.
Gazing out of the French door, Jean fiddled idly with the top button of her loose peppermint green blouse, watching the kids, and Bobby, on the well- lit basket ball court out back. She glanced at her gold wrist watch, noting that it was ten to nine. Crossing her right leg over her left she turned to Scott, who'd just picked up the TV guide and was flipping quickly through it as if it were a flick book. "I think I put my foot in it with Storm." She began.
"Hum?" Scott muttered distractedly, looking up at his wife. "What do you mean, honey?"
"Well," she started, turning in the chair to face him properly, "When I went to see if she was coming with us tonight, she asked who was going to keep an eye on the kids."
"And?" Scott asked as he absently bobbed the open guide up and down in his hands, not quite seeing the problem.
"And, I mentioned about the dorm scheme we'd arranged with the more responsible students. She said she didn't know anything about it."
Scott tossed the guide back down onto the coffee table. "I'm sure the Professor was going to inform her at some point." He thought about it for a second and then asked, "Anyway, why wasn't she at the staff meeting when we discussed it?"
Jean shrugged, touching her finger tips to her lips whilst she tried to recall what was happening at the time. Trying to think of a reasonable explanation as to why an important member of the teaching staff would not have been told about a decision that affected the school. As trifling and inconsequential as the matter might have been in he face of the issues they usually had to deal with, given Xavier and Storm's relations these days it seemed best not to rock the boat.
"I wouldn't stress about it Jean." He said off-handily as he watched the T.V screen, its bright image reflecting back off his dark red glasses. "It's not exactly that important---you know, like the life and death stuff that sometimes crops up?"
Jean reached over a tapped him on the arm playfully for his good-natured sarcasm. It was nice to see her husband a bit more relaxed than his usual austere shell. Sitting back in her chair she looked at her watch again, it was seven minutes to nine now, over fifteen minutes past the time they'd arranged to meet Storm and Gambit down here before heading onto their local mutant-friendly tavern, Harry's Hideaway.
* * *
Letting her purple trousers slip to the floor, Ororo stepped out of the little heap they made at her feet and with a flick of her left foot kicked them to the side. They glided across the wooden floor and came to a stop in the corner where she piled her worn clothes ready for washing. She unfastened the fish-eye hooks that ran down the back of her strapless top. The bottom few were easy to undo, it was only the top few that she struggled with as she reached behind to get to them. She twisted her hands into an awkward upwards angle, just about managing to knock the holding bars off their securing hooks. Once they were all undone she pulled it off from the front and carelessly tossed it into the corner with the trousers and her other dirty clothes. Turning around to the double wardrobe at her back she took the dress that had already been hung from one of the round handles off its hanger. It was nothing fancy, just a simple knee length lilac and white floral affair, nothing more than a casual summer beach dress. Slipping the dress on over her head, at the same time she placed her feet into a pair of flat heeled sandals, the first ones that came to hand. She straightened the flighty cotton dress out as she made her way across the room to her dresser and picked up the thin-toothed black comb, running it over her hair swiftly. This no hassle hair care was growing on her; no thick wayward locks with a life of their own to contend with. Putting the comb back down, she picked up the cup of herbal tea that was still sat waiting for her, though it was quite tepid by now. But no matter, Ororo could drink it just as well, hot, cold or somewhere in between. Taking a small sip, she then set it down again; its bottom clinking in an unspoken toast on the saucer.
She descried her reflection in the medium sized mirror that was fixed to the wall above the dresser as she patted down the back of her hair. Her eyes seemed somehow...duller now, when once they had been crystalline blue. It wasn't a greatly perceptible change; she doubted if anyone but her would notice. The intensity of their colour was all...wrong. World weary perhaps for where once they had been clear through and through, cloudy patches intruded like a foreboding cumulus covering the brilliance of the sun. But then, like a flash of lightening that deigns to illuminate for its brief spell of energetic sentience, there was recognition of someone she had recently dwelled upon. The girl that still lived inside her and for a short time had returned to her. Maybe it was simply because she and Remy had been reminiscing about their early days together, but it had dawned on her that the last time she had had her hair this short was when Nanny and the Orphan- Maker had turned her into a child. For just a spilt second, so swift a moment that if she had blinked she would have missed it, she physically saw herself as that girl again. And the longing that had surfaced earlier, that dull ache for that free life surfaced again, swelling so forcefully in her chest that she momentarily found it difficult to take in a breath. But she pushed the feeling down once more as she had done then; ignoring the thick, muffled pain that came to her slender throat as she swallowed the lump that had formed there. She couldn't afford for doubt to creep into her heart or longing for a life that was no longer hers. Swallowing back again, her throat moving visibly with the action, she locked it away with all other things that drove pain into her heart and mind, her stoicism assured for another day at least. When one lived the life of an X-Man, it was best to keep it that way; it was the price to be paid.
Trying to break from her melancholic mode of thought, Ororo shifted the focus of her eyes to something that was hanging from the bamboo frame of the mirror. It was a pendant on a silver link chain. She reached up, plucking it from the over the rounded corner of the pale bamboo. Laying her left palm flat she dangled it above before carefully lowering it in, letting the delicate chain hang of the edge. She studied the pendant in the soft light, her eyes instantly holding a slight sadness once more. It was a fairly raw but beautiful chunk of sapphire, as irregular and natural as when it had been created. But what was arresting about it was that it appeared to form a heart shape, even without manipulation of the human hand.
"Oh Piotr," she whispered with a fondness, yet tinged with the same sadness that had beset her blue orbs as she delicately touched it with her finger. "How I miss you." As she uttered the words she closed her fingers over the precious stone that held that status for more reasons than one. The pendant she had clasped tightly in her palm was a twenty sixth birthday present from her beloved Colossus. Her darling big brother...gone now like so many others.
"Yo' ready girl?" Storm whizzed around, holding tightly to the necklace; it was unusual for her not to have noticed footsteps on the staircase that led to her room, no matter how distracted she'd been. Gambit sauntered casually into the attic space, hands in the pockets of his pale jeans, a fresh red shirt on, sleeves rolled to the elbow and a cigarette hanging precariously from his lips. She'd composed herself quickly, not letting a glimmer of her thoughts show. At that particular feat, she was an expert to poker-player standard.
"Yes." She answered, walking over to where he had stopped roughly in the middle of the room. As she neared him, she took the necklace from her hand, easily opening the latch. Taking each end in either hand she held it around her, turning around just as she reached him and holding them out to Remy to fasten up. She didn't wear the necklace often, but tonight she felt like having something dear to her close to her heart. He duly obliged; removing his hands from his pocket and stepping closer to her, being careful not to let the cigarette that hung from his mouth get too close to the back of her neck or hair. Silently, he refastened the silver latch, though despite his dexterous fingers, he still found it fiddly. A shiver ran down Ororo's spine as his fingers brushed unintentionally against her neck, causing an acute tickling sensation to course through her like the natural electricity that she was mistress of.
"Sorry." He muttered absently around his cigarette as her body shook slightly and her shoulders hitched up with the sensation. Finally, he got it closed, safe and secure. "Dere." He said in mild triumph at completion of the task.
Ororo turned around, her hand instinctively feeling for the heart-shaped stone that nestled just above the swell of her breasts. "Thank-you." She said, then suddenly reached up to Remy and took the cigarette from his mouth.
"Hey!" He exclaimed in perfunctory protest.
She raised her eyebrow at him, holding the white stick up vertically in front of him. "You can smoke them on the roof, yes. But in here?" She went back over to her dresser where there was a large jug of water sat in an old fashioned washing bowl, the type that was more for decorative affect than proper use these days. There was a small lid on the jug, so lifting it off by the ceramic ball shaped handle, she dropped the smoke in. It hissed and spluttered in protest at its prematurely snuffed out life, but not for long. "I do not think so." She said playfully but still with the sternness of a school teacher as she replaced the lid and walked back towards him.
Remy gave her his lop-sided smile as she walked past him and towards the door; her sandals tapping in a steady rhythm on the floor. As she went by he followed, saying, "Mon dieu---Remy pities de man dat marries yo'!"
"Very funny---I think not!" She replied as she started down the stair case, Remy close behind her, laughing lowly.
* * *
A meat hanger in Natchez, Mississippi...
Jean-Luc LeBeau balled his fist, slowly grinding it into the cupped palm of his other hand. The cold of the huge steel hanger was being to seep through in spite of the leather of his gloves thick bulk. He brought his joined hands up to his face, touching them contemplatively to his dry lips. Waiting tentatively for their proposal he was on tenterhooks. Whatever the price of loyalty, it would surely carry a heavy price. Clans didn't mass together on this vast scale, from across the country without something being worth the potential conflict and untold trouble. Parcheesi leant over to his left, uttering discreet words in the ear of Tyrone Macintyre to which the olive-skinned New Yorker nodded vaguely in response. His green eyes held a flicker of keen interest as he in turn uttered something inaudible to Jean-Luc's ears, with his hand raised just so, as to block his mouth and guard his privacy. Somewhere in the back of the group the dark featured girl lurked, stepping out from behind a burly San Diego guard to stand at the back of Senor Velasquez Lopez. Her face was set with the same hardness, the same quality of stone and wisdom as before, but this time she held LeBeau's attention with a quiet intensity.
"Have you ever heard of The Carcoccia?"
The Cajun's gaze shifted from the girl to the pock-marked Lopez, he nodded, "O' course, but it's a legen', nuhddin mor'. Why?"
Lopez laughed smugly, picking up the parchment and turning it around so Jean-Luc could see it clearly. "This, my amigo, says different." He quickly studied the map that was held aloft for his examination. It was very detailed, a topographic slice of the heart of the dense rainforest, daubed with notes in Spanish some in black ink, others in a more suspicious deep red, so deep as to almost appear brown. There were three key points central to the map, written in a careful yet flamboyant hand; Sao Felix, Manuelzinho and Santa Maria das Barreiras. He recognised them as the names of three Brazilian cities. The various locations formed a kind of rough isosceles triangle and in its centre was a symbol of an eye set in a triangle of its own. Around it were several delicate and intricately drawn roses that entwined and embraced each other with their blood drawing thorns and suffocating vines. It looked like an icon of the Catholic faith; equal parts reverence and death. In the bottom left hand edge, that had been badly withered away he could just about make out the date 1896, though its inscription was now faint. "This," Lopez began with a certain...veneration in his tone, "is the final key for the superiority of the Thieves over the Assassins." He turned the map back around to face him, casting over it greedily. "In my hands is the way to the ultimate elixir... the legendary Carcoccia."
"And your boy is gonna get it for us." Macintyre said with a confidence that had its heart based in indisputable fact.
Jean-Luc remained stern, although inside, he'd seen enough in his life to know that the existence of such an object as the Carcoccia, a tale of which had passed through the Thieves ranks generation, after generation, after generation, could be entirely plausible. If the myths and stories were true, Lopez would right, it would end all conflict between them and their arch-rivals for good; with the Thieves resounding victory no less. Such a thought invigorated LeBeau's mood but it was tempered with his ever present sense of restraint and caution in such matters. The power that it would grant to whose hands it fell into would be immense. Enough to tear ALL the Guilds asunder forever. And so he kept cool about the idea and even more so about their stipulated condition. "Why yo' wan' Remy?" He asked, looking at each in turn. "As far as yo' concerned, he no better dan an Assassin 'imsel', a no good traitor. If dis so importan', why yo' wan' an excommunicated t'ief to get it."
Carla Erdington offered an answer for that one, delighting in it. "The journey is treacherous." She quirked her thin lips at the corners, wisps of her blond hair clinging to their moist curves. "We see this as the ultimate test of your loyalty."
"And as a stinkin' mutie," Carter Barenboim cut across, " though we hate to entertain the idea, but he's probably got a better chance of surviving the task than most. But if not," he shrugged nonchalantly, "we'll send a second expedition---either way it's no loss." There was something distinctly strange about that excuse. It simply didn't add up. But Jean-Luc didn't voice his concern.
"So there you have it Senor," Lopez leant forwards, regarding his supposed 'brother-in-arms' darkly, "we will have your answer now---is it to be loyalty to your clan and true kin, as you swore a sacred oath to do when you took up leadership of the New Orleans chapter?" he intertwined his fingers as his thick brows creased, "Or do you prove to us that your favour still lies with the Judas that you would dare call a son?"
If he were to be asked a million times over, there was only one answer that Jean-Luc LeBeau could ever entertain an idea of giving. He'd staked his position on the day that he sent the boy that he'd raised as his own, that he couldn't have loved more if he had been his own flesh and blood, packing. Flung from the only family he had ever known for nothing more than youthful indiscretion and hotheadedness. He had let the clan down certainly, but there was never anything malicious in his failure. But to dishonour the Guild was simply a charge from which there was no return and it was one that Jean-Luc was staring head-on right at this moment. There really was only one answer... "I'll do what need t' be done...fo' de sake of de Guild." The words burned his throat, but he meant every last one.
"Good." Said Macintyre, "'cause some of my people are going to collect him," he brought his watch up to eye-level, "right about now."
With that the gathering started to disperse, amongst a spontaneous eruption of hushed mutterings, respectful handshaking and the echoing scrapes of chair being pushed backwards across the frosty concrete floor. The girl with the old eyes broke away from the group as they conversed between themselves on parting, heading straight for Jean-Luc. Put as she passed Lopez he stopped her with a hand to her arm. Whispering a few swift words in her ear, he rolled the parchment up and slotted it with the utmost care into a wooden tube that bore carved inscriptions on its outside. Placing a lid firmly on its top he handed the cylindrical piece of aged mahogany to the girl.
"You should go straight back to New Orleans now Senor, and await your son there." She said with her wise voice as she approached him, offering out the tube. He didn't respond; simply taking what was being handed to him and turned slowly around, heading out the way he came through; parting the hanging carcasses, his watchful protectors close behind.
* * *
The five X-Men stepped out the grand front doors of the mansion chatting amiably amongst themselves about the type of inane drivel that was actually a luxury to them. In their line of work it didn't happen all that often, that they could discuss stupid, trashy sitcoms they'd seen last night on Fox, instead of how to head off the next round of mutant extermination plots. It was only a fifteen minute walk at most to their regular haunt, Harry's Hideaway; tucked safely on one of the wooded back roads that could be found all over Westchester County. The night air had cooled considerably; one or two stars had pierced their way through the black velvet curtain. But Jean, Scott, Hank, Remy and Ororo were still dressed lightly, without the need for jackets. Going along the asphalt driveway and through the main wrought iron gates, the group walked for a short time on the main street-lamp lit road before turning off down a more secluded track.
"How're things 'Ro?" Jean asked as she dropped into stride with her best friend, the other three lagging a few yards behind; discussing last nights big game on the T.V.
"Fine." She replied sincerely. They walked on for a while without saying another word, listening to the woodpigeons cooing in the darkness and the boys waxing lyrical about some player that had had a killer game last night, although Gambit wasn't that much of a sports fan and was just joining in with the odd deadpan or thinly disguised sarcastic comment for the sake of it. He'd never quite been into the jock mentality.
"So do you think you've settled back in?" Jean asked, trying to foster the conversation again.
"Jean," Ororo said lightly, "there is no need for you to feel bad." She was perfectly aware of what she was up to. Turning to the side, she offered her good friend a genuine and warm smile.
"I know 'Ro," she began, still sounding regretful, "but---."
"There are no 'buts'," Storm interjected, raising a hand to stop Jean in her tracks, "I was surprised and dismayed, I will admit. But I will not let such a petty grievance get to me." She said adamantly, but no enough to convince Red completely.
"That's all very well and good 'Ro," she said as she looked across at her; Storm's white hair cutting a stark contrast in the darkness of the unlit road; her short locks appearing the blue of snow shadows. "But I can't pretend to have noticed that your homecoming has been less than...joyful."
"Almost nothing is quite as it was, Jean."
"I know that, but the mansion is your home," Jean said insistently, like she wanted Ororo to believe it with all her heart, not just say it like an empty promise. "I mean, you have no idea what it's been like for me without you," she began, suddenly much more jovial, "with only Frost and the Giggle Girls; Jubilee and Paige, to constitute female company!" They both laughed; the soothingly relaxed sound echoing amongst the trees. Jean linked her left arm through Ororo's right. Giving it an affectionate tight squeeze she announced, "You have no idea how much I've missed you!"
"And I you!" She said fondly, for in spite of having her 'break-away' team around her for all those months, every single one of them a close and trusted friend in their own ways, she had felt isolated as their leader. It was a completely different experience from having been co-leader. Now she truly knew how Scott must have felt for years and understood completely the bond that had grown between him and Jean. When one lead, there had to be someone there you could lean on. And in truth, Ororo had nobody like that, she never really had. Though someone came pretty damn close...
"There've been changes, yes. But things will settle down eventually, I'm sure of it." Jean said earnestly, convinced of that truth.
"Yes." In all honesty she was tired of thinking about it now, she just wanted, for a change, to put Xavier, the mansion and everything else out of her mind. Though, her several attempts to do so had so far been abortive. The sound of a quickened step crunching on the gravel suddenly compelled both women to look over their shoulder. Remy was walking faster to catch up with them, hands in his pockets, lopsided grin; the red of his irises positively glowing in the dimness. He'd obviously had enough of hearing about whatever team it was and their big hitter for one night; so uninterested was he that he couldn't even remember what sport they'd been talking about never mind the name of the team.
Coming up around the other side of Ororo from Jean, his long legs falling easily into their pace. "What're yo' two crowin' abou'?"
"Very charming!" Jean exclaimed, at his unusual lack thereof. She ducked her head out as they walked, throwing him a mock dirty look from around the barrier of Ororo. All he did was smile, answering her with the most charm- dripping one he could muster.
The red-head narrowed her emerald eyes playfully at the gesture, as Ororo replied to his uncouthly worded question, "Nothing important."
As they walked on, coming to a gentle bend on the rough track, the lights of the tavern just came fleetingly into view; peeking through the gaps in the trees and their leaves. The crescent moon burned brighter than ever now as it hung in its domain, lighting the path ahead of them with much more lustre than before. Each little stone, each upturned root that would trip or hinder lit with the Luna orbs pale blue brilliance. Remy kicked absently at the lose stones that did happen to cross his path, causing them to bounce and skitter along the road. Storm and Jean began to chatter about something or other, he found himself paying as much attention to its finer details as he had Scott and Hank's conversation; that is to say, more-or- less none at all. He still felt a little restless, that he had to admit, but being with Ororo on the roof earlier had taken some of the edge off it. It was amazing how she always had that effect on him, just by being near. Then his mind turned grudgingly back to his current dilemma. All this time and nothing to do, he thought to himself wryly, for since he'd been back, nobody had really talked to him about his loss of power and how that would effect his role on the team. The issue had not risen because things had been so quiet for the X-Men lately, but Remy could help but get the distinct feeling that people were ducking the subject. What did a mutant without his powers have to offer the X-Men? Especially now they'd gone mainstream media. As nothing had been said, he couldn't answer, all he did know was his feeling of being on the outside looking in; never really being a true part of the clan had become much more acute because of it. But not even Storm appeared to have made that link yet and all Xavier had done since his return was to offer him a teaching post. An idea he'd laughed at so hard it had taken him a while to compose himself to turn the Professor down formally. An act that had not impressed the school head one little bit. Although, Remy would be the first to admit that being on Xavier's good side had never been his strong point.
Without warning, a random twinge ran through the pulled shoulder that he'd damaged in the Danger Room during the tag game with Iceman, who incidentally was the first person to have mentioned his power loss without feeling awkward about it. The way the others danced around the subject anyone would have thought he'd lost a limb. Though, in truth, at times he felt like he had. Again the sharp pain shot through the muscle in his left shoulder, this time severe enough to make his grumble with the discomfort as he tried a small rotation of the area to ease it out.
"Remy?" Ororo said, concerned, "Are you okay?"
"Oui." He uttered shortly, "it jus' a twinge chere, nuhddin seriou'."
"What have you done to it?" She asked, noting the place his trouble seemed to be emanating from.
"It nuhddin' 'Roro," he insisted, a little bit snappier than he'd intended; hating being fussed over for something so trivial, "Bobby an' me tussled in de Danger Room dat's all. I got sloppy, made a stupid mis'ake." He sniffed, appearing rather indignant, "It 'appens."
Ororo took the warning, his whole demeanour telling her to back off. That was the key to their entire friendship really, knowing when to push and then when it was best to leave it. They were both the kind of people who would keep things inside when it suited them. Maybe it was a peculiar quirk of being a naturally apt thief, who could say? It was just one of the things that made them so similar; two people that to a casual observer appeared as different as chalk and cheese. Storm watched him slyly from the corner of her eye as the groups started on the incline that took the path right down to the Hideaway's door, his abrupt curtness to what was a simple act of concern only started her wondering about him again. But it didn't have long to ponder.
Jean suddenly came to a halt, which consequently made Ororo pull to an unexpected stop also, their arms still linked.
"What is it Jean?" Ororo asked, somewhat alarmed. The others had stopped now as well, concerned, falling instinctually into a pensive and prepared state. The red-head closed her eyes like she was concentrating; slipping her arm from Ororo's and bringing her hand fleetingly to her forehead. Her brow creased, as she murmured something as if she were talking in her sleep, distracted and disjointed.
"Jean?" That was Cyclops as he came towards his wife, alternately checking her wellbeing and scanning the dark woods through his ruby lenses that turned the world a sickly yellow to his vision. He only had his slim shades on currently, not expecting to need his battle visor on a night out to the pub. He was apprehensive; if there was going to be trouble he didn't want to have to use his optic blasts unrestrained.
"There's...there's someone out there." She whispered so faintly Scott and Ororo only just caught it.
"What' she say?" Remy asked, looking at Scott.
He ignored the question, coming closer to Jean instead, and as he took hold of her hands he asked quietly, "Who?"
Jean shook her head and furrowed her ruby brows even more. Then, her eyelids swiftly flipped open like she'd just awoken from a trance as she turned to Scott with a subtle concern marring her features. "I don't know," she said, "But there are at least seven of them," she stopped, peering round at the tall black-looking trees warily, "...there all around us...but I can't tell who they are."
The five X-Men naturally drifted into a kind of circle, like buffalos making a formation to protect their young. All were on high alert; Ororo focused in on the energy pattern of a cloud passing over head, stoking its reticent power. Jean attempted to get a lock on their stalkers as Scott berated himself again for his out of character forgetfulness as he fingered at the edges of his glinting shades. Beast readied himself, trying to gage the direction of possible attacks using his more pronounced senses, not quite on Wolverine's level, but adequate enough to do the job. As for Remy, powers or no powers, he was more than capable of defending himself. Nobody could question his fighting skills as less than exemplary. The atmosphere could be cut with a knife as they waited for the unseen to show themselves before Jean decided to take matters into her hands and hit out with a mild mind attack, just enough to flush them out of hiding. And it worked as with several stunned cries, figures emerged from the trees from all directions, dressed almost completely from head to toe in black. But there was a tell tale admission to their uniform that gave their identity away immediately. As Remy leapt into a forwards summersault, grabbing up a lengthy stick that had fallen from one of the branches above from the ground as he did so, he noticed the steel knee-high boots that the assailant in front of him was wearing and on the one that advanced swiftly from behind him. Another swift glance around told him that they were all sporting them. They were certainly Guild, but not New Orleans, that much he was certain of.
The wind whipped up in the narrow path, courtesy of Storm as she sailed from the ground on its current, but not too high. Around six foot or so as she concentrated on bring the temperature of the air surrounding the cloud down to below zero at such a rapid rate that it burst forth a flurry of vicious hail stones. Their flow was expertly directed with a sweeping gesture of her hand towards to burly men that were heading straight for her. The brutality of the force in the hard balls of ice and the strong gust that carried them on their way as they sailed through the air being enough to knock both men from their feet. The attack was fairly restrained but they certainly wouldn't be getting up any time soon, that was for sure.
"Scott! Over to the left!" Jean cried as two more attackers tried to come in on the X-Men's leader from the side. Without much time for thought as one of the men brandished a weapon from beneath his black bomber jacket, aiming it at him with the clear intention of firing, Cyclops tipped his glasses and unleashed the fury of his optic beams. A bombardment of glowing red hit the man square in the chest as it crashed from over the rim of Scott's shades. As fast as he could he attempted to push his glasses back in front of the beam, but it was hard when it was going at full flow, he even struggled to get his eyes closed to staunch it. But he managed to eventually; though with his lids shut all he could tell about the fate of the man were from the moaning, gurgling sounds that were coming from him wherever it was he'd landed. In the mean time Jean had dealt with the other man who had been similarly armed; wrapping him in a telekinetic bubble, removing his gun from him first, and then throwing him over the top of the trees. As she tossed the man as far from the fray as she could, flames poured from her like extra tendrils of her similarly coloured locks. The Phoenix Force giving extra punch to her telekinetic abilities.
"So my friend," Beast began, as he pounced down in front of one who'd only just emerged from the trees on the right-hand side of the road, with his usual light-hearted banter, the kind he espoused before beating some one into an unconscious pulp. "Are you the silent meat-head type of henchman? Or I am, for a change, going to get a measure of witty converse before the inevitable pounding?"
The tall pasty faced man widened his light eyes at the sight of this furry blue hulk before him, his momentary flash of abject ear being swiftly replaced by an adrenaline rush, giving him the necessary energy for foolhardy action. He rushed at Hank with the six inch bow knife, its left edge dangerously serrated, his mouth agape, screaming like a banshee in some kind of impromptu battle cry. "DIE GENE FREAK!" He roared as he ran at the X-Man, thrusting the knife forwards, more with blind hope than precision or skill. As a result the most damage he managed to inflict was to give Hank a rather closes shave on his right arm. The ever plucky Beast simply laughed, a throaty rumble, as he grabbed the man by the arm that held the knife, yanked him from the floor and flicked him over, rotating his arm around as if he were about to bowl an over arm throw. The man crashed down into the ground, his entire body connecting with the hard mud with a cracking thump. His head tilted to the side and his eyes closed as he fell into instant unconsciousness.
"The meat-head type after all!" Hank mused as he looked down at his vanquished foe.
All the while Remy had been engaged in hand to hand combat with the two remaining Guild members; using the thick fairly straight branch that had been to hand as a makeshift Bo staff. He too, off the ball like Scott, forgetting to bring out his weapon that usually accompanied him everywhere. The two men were coming at him from the front and behind with staffs of their own, though of the more traditional metal type. Despite there being two of them, Gambit deflected and parried their blows with efficient ease; dodging and gliding before placing well timed hits of his own. The Lucidity afforded by the Danger Room session paying off after all; even the pain in his shoulder had quieted remarkably. But as fun and distracting as leading them on a merry dance was after months of no real action, he was beginning to tire of the game, so he determined to put a stop to it and find out what the hell he was being attacked for. He was especially keen to find out seen as his attackers weren't members of his former Guild, but from another city. A familiar thought went through his head, like it did every time he appeared to be randomly set upon; #What de fuck 'ave I done now?# In all fairness, there was usually something, he mused to himself silently.
"Righ'," he growled in his husky Cajun drawl, "Dat's it." Taking the stick into his left hand he spun it around with lightening speed and then thrust it backwards. Its torn raged end smashed into the face of the man behind him with a sickening squelch and breaking sound. He screamed out, clutching his hands over his face but the action did nothing to stem the flow of blood as it came in a fountain over the top; pouring out in copious amounts. Falling to the floor he thrashed in the agony of his injury; an injury that looked and felt a lot more serious than it looked. The wind was still blowing about them, though they were saved from the worst of the hail thanks to Storms tight control, as finally the fight was down to one on one.
"What yo' want wit' me homme?" Remy shouted above the din of the gusts as their staffs came into contact with a satisfying *clack* and they stood more-or-less face to face; features set in grim determination. The other man sneered through his rigid lips, his teeth bared; he wasn't about to tell him. It was his preference to deliver Gambit to New Orleans himself, rather like taking his quarry. He wanted the prestige of bringing him in, whether he would have agreed to go voluntarily or not. This could have all been so easily avoided, but sometimes there was nothing Guild members liked better than putting on a show, despite their obvious penchant for discretion. He tried to lash his gleaming quarter staff at Remy as the two men fell back from each other, but the X-Man leant expertly to the side, his feet not even shifting on the floor to avoid the blow. All the action did was to make Remy's coolly harnessed patience falter a little as he gutturally muttered, "Fuck dis." At the same point he whipped his leg up, taking the other man by complete surprise as he round-housed him in the jaw, sending him reeling backwards, crashing against the trunk of a tree. His job all but done, Remy strode over to the man as he slid down the greenish coloured trunk, his head lulling down onto his chest as if he were passing out.
"Oh no yo' don' mon ami." He said, his voice suddenly back to its smoothness again as he threw the now defunct branch behind him. Reaching him, Remy grabbed a chunk of the man's hair and pulled him back into a standing position. His dosing head fell back against the tree as he coughed, a smattering of blood fell from his lips, but it was hardly worth noticing as the lower half of his face was already covered from that which had poured from his nose; the steel capped tip of Remy's boot having caught it on the way round. His eyes began to flutter closed as if he were in the latter stages of intoxication and it earned him a quick, sharp slap across the face from the Cajun. "Yo' stayin' wide awake 'til yo' tell me why yo're 'ere, bas'tard." Remy jerked the man's head back further, making him observe the tight smile on his lips; a smile that had an edge of danger on it, a hint of the unknown. The bleeding man shuddered, trying to turn from those devilish eyes that fixed him intently, but being unable to. The wind had all but gone now and Remy could feel that the others had congregated around him, watching his actions closely.
"We were sent by the Guild." The man blurted out, his nervous eyes travelling from Remy's face to the people over his shoulder and then hesitatingly back again. His accent identified him as a native but Remy asked anyway.
"No shit!" Remy exclaimed facetiously. "Which Guild?"
"The---the New York Guild---we were sent to collect you." He stuttered, the blood still pouring, running thickly down his throat. The metalic taste filled his mouth and was starting the clog his sinuses. He coughed uncontrollably, making a gagging sound. But Remy pushed on regardless.
"What does de New York Guild want wit' me?" He tried to keep his voice cool, distant, but this was just the last thing he needed; another Guild joining in on the vendetta against him. He hadn't been involved in anything remotely to do with any of the Guild's for well over a year now. This was plain confusing not to mention infuriating. But he kept a tight check on that, keeping it safely below the surface.
"It's not the New York Guild that wants you," he tried to continue before gagging again and this time he did bring something up, a welt of dark blood. "It's---the New Orleans that want you---we were sent to take you down there." He erupted into coughing and gagging again as Remy released his grip on his hair and let him slid back down the tree again to expel the clotting blood at his own leisure. The Cajun stood rigid, not moving from the spot were he was, as his jaw set grimly, tightening with something unspoken.
Ororo took a few steps closer, trying to gage his mood, what was going through his head. She didn't now whether he was angry, just plain annoyed or reluctant at going back to New Orleans to once again help out the very people that had ostracised him. If indeed it was help they were after; sending Guild members to get him with hostile intentions didn't seem to be the best way to persuade him if that was indeed their intention. "What are you going to do Remy?"
After a moment in which he made no response or gesture to answer before turning his head to look at her over his shoulder. His face held that unreadable easy expression, the type he effected when he wanted to make it clear that nothing really bothered him. Fortunately, Storm had long ago learnt to see straight through it. He shrugged nonchalantly and shook his head. Turning back to look at the man on the ground as he sat or moreover slumped there and wiped at the blood that covered his chin with a trembling hand, Remy said, "I got nuhddin' better to do chere, Remy may as well go check see wha' 'is Poppa wan'." Ororo didn't miss the grudged emphasis on the word 'Poppa'.
"And who's going to sort these jokers out?" Scott called over as Remy started back up the path towards the mansion.
He carried on walking straight on as he raised a dismissive hand and shouted back, "Dey got what dey want homme. Let dem take care o' demselves."
Scott's eyes narrowed behind his glasses as he watched Remy go, his lips pursing. He was simply sick to death of the X-Men being dragged into matters brought about by the more---vigilantly, troublesome members of the group. They weren't created to clear up the mess left behind or that followed X-Men with shady pasts, quite frankly he'd had more than enough of it. Under any other circumstance, at any other time, he'd probably been happy to assemble the team and perhaps help with whatever it was that was going on. That was what family was for after all. But they had too many other responsibilities now. A school packed to the rafters with kids for one. They could afford to be dragged into situations that didn't really concern them. Hank wondered around from man to man to check that they were at least still breathing, which they all were; even the one that had received a raw dose of Scott's particular mutant gift. "Do you know?" He said lightly as he checked the last one, shivering under a pile of Ororo's hailstones. "I think he's right. Anyone for that drink then?" He looked around at the other three from over the top of his glasses ; Jean and Scott couldn't help but laugh with slight disbelief, though they were game for going down to Harry's anyway. But Ororo was looking up the path at the retreating back of Remy. "Ororo?"
"No Hank," She said quietly, as if distracted in deep thought. And without another word she followed her best friend back up the path.
"Do you think it's wise to let them go of by themselves?" Jean asked Scott as she watched Ororo jog to catch up with Remy. Then she turned to her husband, her eyes questioning and her face a picture of concern.
"We can't involve ourselves in Gambit's personal problems Jean." He said seriously, but the last thing he wanted was to come across as being callous. "We have no idea what that Guild of his wants." He peered in the direction the pair had gone although they had been consumed by the dark and could no longer be seen. "If it's serious we'll be there in a flash, he knows that." He paused, frowning somewhat; his dark brows sinking to meet the sliver edge of his glasses frames. "But you know how he can be---he wouldn't ask for our help...even if he really did need it." Jean had to concede that Scott's last statement was true, Remy wasn't the type to ask for help when he needed it, it had to be forced upon him. Which is why, as they headed on to the pub as originally planned, she gained a small measure of comfort from the fact that Ororo wouldn't take no for an answer.
-TBC-
Chapter.4.
The air conditioning in the mansion was turned up to the highest setting to filter the heat; its unceasing mechanical reverberation competing with the blare of the rec room television for supremacy. Basilisk walked through the main reception hall and past the double doors of the room that were ajar. The sound of the television caught his attention though. Coming to a halt, he peered through the slim gap with his single black eye, set in the centre of his fleshy forehead to see who was in there. He was currently looking for Barnell, as he hadn't turned up to the basket ball game that was going on out back as he'd promised to. Edging his large hairless head into the room, he instantly saw that the only occupant was the giant, blue and exceedingly hairy Dr McCoy.
*HYUK!* He fought to contain the involuntary noise but it was of no use.
The ungainly sound drew Hank's attention over to the gap in the door, momentarily stopping his incessant and never ending fight to get comfortable on the settee. "Are you alright Basilisk?" He asked the young student. "Was there something you wanted?"
"I was just looking for Bar---*HYUK!*, Barn---*HYUK! HYUK!!*---Beak." The vocal spasm always got much worse when he was nervous and he didn't quite know why but Dr McCoy always seemed to have that affect on him. Maybe it was just the sheer size of the man. That much bulk would be intimidating to anyone, though Basilisk himself hardly had the constitution of a ballerina.
"I am afraid I haven't seen him or Angel since Chemistry yesterday." Hank replied, a tad apologetically; a product of his constant good nature. Basilisk tried to say thanks or utter some kind of reply at any rate, but all that came out was another of his noises. So he ducked out of the room slightly flustered and without a word. That left Hank to continue with his struggle to get comfortable on the sofa that was now far too small to accommodate his much expanded feline frame. He at first shifted forwards, perching on its curving edge and then back. But it groaned in protest; the creek so pronounced that he feared the wooden frame would snap. Immediately he stood up, peering quickly back down in search of any visible damage.
"Something wrong Hank?"
His head shot to the doorway again as Jean came into the rec room closely followed by Scott. They both had rather bemused expressions on their faces, wondering why Hank was staring in horror at the cream coloured sofa as if it were about to consume him whole. "Uh, nothing my dear carrot-top, nothing at all."
Jean smiled and shook her head as she made her way to take up the chair by the window whilst Scott sat on the end of the sofa that was closet to her. Hank thought it best that he remained standing. Maybe the development of sturdier furniture should be his next project he pondered half seriously.
Gazing out of the French door, Jean fiddled idly with the top button of her loose peppermint green blouse, watching the kids, and Bobby, on the well- lit basket ball court out back. She glanced at her gold wrist watch, noting that it was ten to nine. Crossing her right leg over her left she turned to Scott, who'd just picked up the TV guide and was flipping quickly through it as if it were a flick book. "I think I put my foot in it with Storm." She began.
"Hum?" Scott muttered distractedly, looking up at his wife. "What do you mean, honey?"
"Well," she started, turning in the chair to face him properly, "When I went to see if she was coming with us tonight, she asked who was going to keep an eye on the kids."
"And?" Scott asked as he absently bobbed the open guide up and down in his hands, not quite seeing the problem.
"And, I mentioned about the dorm scheme we'd arranged with the more responsible students. She said she didn't know anything about it."
Scott tossed the guide back down onto the coffee table. "I'm sure the Professor was going to inform her at some point." He thought about it for a second and then asked, "Anyway, why wasn't she at the staff meeting when we discussed it?"
Jean shrugged, touching her finger tips to her lips whilst she tried to recall what was happening at the time. Trying to think of a reasonable explanation as to why an important member of the teaching staff would not have been told about a decision that affected the school. As trifling and inconsequential as the matter might have been in he face of the issues they usually had to deal with, given Xavier and Storm's relations these days it seemed best not to rock the boat.
"I wouldn't stress about it Jean." He said off-handily as he watched the T.V screen, its bright image reflecting back off his dark red glasses. "It's not exactly that important---you know, like the life and death stuff that sometimes crops up?"
Jean reached over a tapped him on the arm playfully for his good-natured sarcasm. It was nice to see her husband a bit more relaxed than his usual austere shell. Sitting back in her chair she looked at her watch again, it was seven minutes to nine now, over fifteen minutes past the time they'd arranged to meet Storm and Gambit down here before heading onto their local mutant-friendly tavern, Harry's Hideaway.
* * *
Letting her purple trousers slip to the floor, Ororo stepped out of the little heap they made at her feet and with a flick of her left foot kicked them to the side. They glided across the wooden floor and came to a stop in the corner where she piled her worn clothes ready for washing. She unfastened the fish-eye hooks that ran down the back of her strapless top. The bottom few were easy to undo, it was only the top few that she struggled with as she reached behind to get to them. She twisted her hands into an awkward upwards angle, just about managing to knock the holding bars off their securing hooks. Once they were all undone she pulled it off from the front and carelessly tossed it into the corner with the trousers and her other dirty clothes. Turning around to the double wardrobe at her back she took the dress that had already been hung from one of the round handles off its hanger. It was nothing fancy, just a simple knee length lilac and white floral affair, nothing more than a casual summer beach dress. Slipping the dress on over her head, at the same time she placed her feet into a pair of flat heeled sandals, the first ones that came to hand. She straightened the flighty cotton dress out as she made her way across the room to her dresser and picked up the thin-toothed black comb, running it over her hair swiftly. This no hassle hair care was growing on her; no thick wayward locks with a life of their own to contend with. Putting the comb back down, she picked up the cup of herbal tea that was still sat waiting for her, though it was quite tepid by now. But no matter, Ororo could drink it just as well, hot, cold or somewhere in between. Taking a small sip, she then set it down again; its bottom clinking in an unspoken toast on the saucer.
She descried her reflection in the medium sized mirror that was fixed to the wall above the dresser as she patted down the back of her hair. Her eyes seemed somehow...duller now, when once they had been crystalline blue. It wasn't a greatly perceptible change; she doubted if anyone but her would notice. The intensity of their colour was all...wrong. World weary perhaps for where once they had been clear through and through, cloudy patches intruded like a foreboding cumulus covering the brilliance of the sun. But then, like a flash of lightening that deigns to illuminate for its brief spell of energetic sentience, there was recognition of someone she had recently dwelled upon. The girl that still lived inside her and for a short time had returned to her. Maybe it was simply because she and Remy had been reminiscing about their early days together, but it had dawned on her that the last time she had had her hair this short was when Nanny and the Orphan- Maker had turned her into a child. For just a spilt second, so swift a moment that if she had blinked she would have missed it, she physically saw herself as that girl again. And the longing that had surfaced earlier, that dull ache for that free life surfaced again, swelling so forcefully in her chest that she momentarily found it difficult to take in a breath. But she pushed the feeling down once more as she had done then; ignoring the thick, muffled pain that came to her slender throat as she swallowed the lump that had formed there. She couldn't afford for doubt to creep into her heart or longing for a life that was no longer hers. Swallowing back again, her throat moving visibly with the action, she locked it away with all other things that drove pain into her heart and mind, her stoicism assured for another day at least. When one lived the life of an X-Man, it was best to keep it that way; it was the price to be paid.
Trying to break from her melancholic mode of thought, Ororo shifted the focus of her eyes to something that was hanging from the bamboo frame of the mirror. It was a pendant on a silver link chain. She reached up, plucking it from the over the rounded corner of the pale bamboo. Laying her left palm flat she dangled it above before carefully lowering it in, letting the delicate chain hang of the edge. She studied the pendant in the soft light, her eyes instantly holding a slight sadness once more. It was a fairly raw but beautiful chunk of sapphire, as irregular and natural as when it had been created. But what was arresting about it was that it appeared to form a heart shape, even without manipulation of the human hand.
"Oh Piotr," she whispered with a fondness, yet tinged with the same sadness that had beset her blue orbs as she delicately touched it with her finger. "How I miss you." As she uttered the words she closed her fingers over the precious stone that held that status for more reasons than one. The pendant she had clasped tightly in her palm was a twenty sixth birthday present from her beloved Colossus. Her darling big brother...gone now like so many others.
"Yo' ready girl?" Storm whizzed around, holding tightly to the necklace; it was unusual for her not to have noticed footsteps on the staircase that led to her room, no matter how distracted she'd been. Gambit sauntered casually into the attic space, hands in the pockets of his pale jeans, a fresh red shirt on, sleeves rolled to the elbow and a cigarette hanging precariously from his lips. She'd composed herself quickly, not letting a glimmer of her thoughts show. At that particular feat, she was an expert to poker-player standard.
"Yes." She answered, walking over to where he had stopped roughly in the middle of the room. As she neared him, she took the necklace from her hand, easily opening the latch. Taking each end in either hand she held it around her, turning around just as she reached him and holding them out to Remy to fasten up. She didn't wear the necklace often, but tonight she felt like having something dear to her close to her heart. He duly obliged; removing his hands from his pocket and stepping closer to her, being careful not to let the cigarette that hung from his mouth get too close to the back of her neck or hair. Silently, he refastened the silver latch, though despite his dexterous fingers, he still found it fiddly. A shiver ran down Ororo's spine as his fingers brushed unintentionally against her neck, causing an acute tickling sensation to course through her like the natural electricity that she was mistress of.
"Sorry." He muttered absently around his cigarette as her body shook slightly and her shoulders hitched up with the sensation. Finally, he got it closed, safe and secure. "Dere." He said in mild triumph at completion of the task.
Ororo turned around, her hand instinctively feeling for the heart-shaped stone that nestled just above the swell of her breasts. "Thank-you." She said, then suddenly reached up to Remy and took the cigarette from his mouth.
"Hey!" He exclaimed in perfunctory protest.
She raised her eyebrow at him, holding the white stick up vertically in front of him. "You can smoke them on the roof, yes. But in here?" She went back over to her dresser where there was a large jug of water sat in an old fashioned washing bowl, the type that was more for decorative affect than proper use these days. There was a small lid on the jug, so lifting it off by the ceramic ball shaped handle, she dropped the smoke in. It hissed and spluttered in protest at its prematurely snuffed out life, but not for long. "I do not think so." She said playfully but still with the sternness of a school teacher as she replaced the lid and walked back towards him.
Remy gave her his lop-sided smile as she walked past him and towards the door; her sandals tapping in a steady rhythm on the floor. As she went by he followed, saying, "Mon dieu---Remy pities de man dat marries yo'!"
"Very funny---I think not!" She replied as she started down the stair case, Remy close behind her, laughing lowly.
* * *
A meat hanger in Natchez, Mississippi...
Jean-Luc LeBeau balled his fist, slowly grinding it into the cupped palm of his other hand. The cold of the huge steel hanger was being to seep through in spite of the leather of his gloves thick bulk. He brought his joined hands up to his face, touching them contemplatively to his dry lips. Waiting tentatively for their proposal he was on tenterhooks. Whatever the price of loyalty, it would surely carry a heavy price. Clans didn't mass together on this vast scale, from across the country without something being worth the potential conflict and untold trouble. Parcheesi leant over to his left, uttering discreet words in the ear of Tyrone Macintyre to which the olive-skinned New Yorker nodded vaguely in response. His green eyes held a flicker of keen interest as he in turn uttered something inaudible to Jean-Luc's ears, with his hand raised just so, as to block his mouth and guard his privacy. Somewhere in the back of the group the dark featured girl lurked, stepping out from behind a burly San Diego guard to stand at the back of Senor Velasquez Lopez. Her face was set with the same hardness, the same quality of stone and wisdom as before, but this time she held LeBeau's attention with a quiet intensity.
"Have you ever heard of The Carcoccia?"
The Cajun's gaze shifted from the girl to the pock-marked Lopez, he nodded, "O' course, but it's a legen', nuhddin mor'. Why?"
Lopez laughed smugly, picking up the parchment and turning it around so Jean-Luc could see it clearly. "This, my amigo, says different." He quickly studied the map that was held aloft for his examination. It was very detailed, a topographic slice of the heart of the dense rainforest, daubed with notes in Spanish some in black ink, others in a more suspicious deep red, so deep as to almost appear brown. There were three key points central to the map, written in a careful yet flamboyant hand; Sao Felix, Manuelzinho and Santa Maria das Barreiras. He recognised them as the names of three Brazilian cities. The various locations formed a kind of rough isosceles triangle and in its centre was a symbol of an eye set in a triangle of its own. Around it were several delicate and intricately drawn roses that entwined and embraced each other with their blood drawing thorns and suffocating vines. It looked like an icon of the Catholic faith; equal parts reverence and death. In the bottom left hand edge, that had been badly withered away he could just about make out the date 1896, though its inscription was now faint. "This," Lopez began with a certain...veneration in his tone, "is the final key for the superiority of the Thieves over the Assassins." He turned the map back around to face him, casting over it greedily. "In my hands is the way to the ultimate elixir... the legendary Carcoccia."
"And your boy is gonna get it for us." Macintyre said with a confidence that had its heart based in indisputable fact.
Jean-Luc remained stern, although inside, he'd seen enough in his life to know that the existence of such an object as the Carcoccia, a tale of which had passed through the Thieves ranks generation, after generation, after generation, could be entirely plausible. If the myths and stories were true, Lopez would right, it would end all conflict between them and their arch-rivals for good; with the Thieves resounding victory no less. Such a thought invigorated LeBeau's mood but it was tempered with his ever present sense of restraint and caution in such matters. The power that it would grant to whose hands it fell into would be immense. Enough to tear ALL the Guilds asunder forever. And so he kept cool about the idea and even more so about their stipulated condition. "Why yo' wan' Remy?" He asked, looking at each in turn. "As far as yo' concerned, he no better dan an Assassin 'imsel', a no good traitor. If dis so importan', why yo' wan' an excommunicated t'ief to get it."
Carla Erdington offered an answer for that one, delighting in it. "The journey is treacherous." She quirked her thin lips at the corners, wisps of her blond hair clinging to their moist curves. "We see this as the ultimate test of your loyalty."
"And as a stinkin' mutie," Carter Barenboim cut across, " though we hate to entertain the idea, but he's probably got a better chance of surviving the task than most. But if not," he shrugged nonchalantly, "we'll send a second expedition---either way it's no loss." There was something distinctly strange about that excuse. It simply didn't add up. But Jean-Luc didn't voice his concern.
"So there you have it Senor," Lopez leant forwards, regarding his supposed 'brother-in-arms' darkly, "we will have your answer now---is it to be loyalty to your clan and true kin, as you swore a sacred oath to do when you took up leadership of the New Orleans chapter?" he intertwined his fingers as his thick brows creased, "Or do you prove to us that your favour still lies with the Judas that you would dare call a son?"
If he were to be asked a million times over, there was only one answer that Jean-Luc LeBeau could ever entertain an idea of giving. He'd staked his position on the day that he sent the boy that he'd raised as his own, that he couldn't have loved more if he had been his own flesh and blood, packing. Flung from the only family he had ever known for nothing more than youthful indiscretion and hotheadedness. He had let the clan down certainly, but there was never anything malicious in his failure. But to dishonour the Guild was simply a charge from which there was no return and it was one that Jean-Luc was staring head-on right at this moment. There really was only one answer... "I'll do what need t' be done...fo' de sake of de Guild." The words burned his throat, but he meant every last one.
"Good." Said Macintyre, "'cause some of my people are going to collect him," he brought his watch up to eye-level, "right about now."
With that the gathering started to disperse, amongst a spontaneous eruption of hushed mutterings, respectful handshaking and the echoing scrapes of chair being pushed backwards across the frosty concrete floor. The girl with the old eyes broke away from the group as they conversed between themselves on parting, heading straight for Jean-Luc. Put as she passed Lopez he stopped her with a hand to her arm. Whispering a few swift words in her ear, he rolled the parchment up and slotted it with the utmost care into a wooden tube that bore carved inscriptions on its outside. Placing a lid firmly on its top he handed the cylindrical piece of aged mahogany to the girl.
"You should go straight back to New Orleans now Senor, and await your son there." She said with her wise voice as she approached him, offering out the tube. He didn't respond; simply taking what was being handed to him and turned slowly around, heading out the way he came through; parting the hanging carcasses, his watchful protectors close behind.
* * *
The five X-Men stepped out the grand front doors of the mansion chatting amiably amongst themselves about the type of inane drivel that was actually a luxury to them. In their line of work it didn't happen all that often, that they could discuss stupid, trashy sitcoms they'd seen last night on Fox, instead of how to head off the next round of mutant extermination plots. It was only a fifteen minute walk at most to their regular haunt, Harry's Hideaway; tucked safely on one of the wooded back roads that could be found all over Westchester County. The night air had cooled considerably; one or two stars had pierced their way through the black velvet curtain. But Jean, Scott, Hank, Remy and Ororo were still dressed lightly, without the need for jackets. Going along the asphalt driveway and through the main wrought iron gates, the group walked for a short time on the main street-lamp lit road before turning off down a more secluded track.
"How're things 'Ro?" Jean asked as she dropped into stride with her best friend, the other three lagging a few yards behind; discussing last nights big game on the T.V.
"Fine." She replied sincerely. They walked on for a while without saying another word, listening to the woodpigeons cooing in the darkness and the boys waxing lyrical about some player that had had a killer game last night, although Gambit wasn't that much of a sports fan and was just joining in with the odd deadpan or thinly disguised sarcastic comment for the sake of it. He'd never quite been into the jock mentality.
"So do you think you've settled back in?" Jean asked, trying to foster the conversation again.
"Jean," Ororo said lightly, "there is no need for you to feel bad." She was perfectly aware of what she was up to. Turning to the side, she offered her good friend a genuine and warm smile.
"I know 'Ro," she began, still sounding regretful, "but---."
"There are no 'buts'," Storm interjected, raising a hand to stop Jean in her tracks, "I was surprised and dismayed, I will admit. But I will not let such a petty grievance get to me." She said adamantly, but no enough to convince Red completely.
"That's all very well and good 'Ro," she said as she looked across at her; Storm's white hair cutting a stark contrast in the darkness of the unlit road; her short locks appearing the blue of snow shadows. "But I can't pretend to have noticed that your homecoming has been less than...joyful."
"Almost nothing is quite as it was, Jean."
"I know that, but the mansion is your home," Jean said insistently, like she wanted Ororo to believe it with all her heart, not just say it like an empty promise. "I mean, you have no idea what it's been like for me without you," she began, suddenly much more jovial, "with only Frost and the Giggle Girls; Jubilee and Paige, to constitute female company!" They both laughed; the soothingly relaxed sound echoing amongst the trees. Jean linked her left arm through Ororo's right. Giving it an affectionate tight squeeze she announced, "You have no idea how much I've missed you!"
"And I you!" She said fondly, for in spite of having her 'break-away' team around her for all those months, every single one of them a close and trusted friend in their own ways, she had felt isolated as their leader. It was a completely different experience from having been co-leader. Now she truly knew how Scott must have felt for years and understood completely the bond that had grown between him and Jean. When one lead, there had to be someone there you could lean on. And in truth, Ororo had nobody like that, she never really had. Though someone came pretty damn close...
"There've been changes, yes. But things will settle down eventually, I'm sure of it." Jean said earnestly, convinced of that truth.
"Yes." In all honesty she was tired of thinking about it now, she just wanted, for a change, to put Xavier, the mansion and everything else out of her mind. Though, her several attempts to do so had so far been abortive. The sound of a quickened step crunching on the gravel suddenly compelled both women to look over their shoulder. Remy was walking faster to catch up with them, hands in his pockets, lopsided grin; the red of his irises positively glowing in the dimness. He'd obviously had enough of hearing about whatever team it was and their big hitter for one night; so uninterested was he that he couldn't even remember what sport they'd been talking about never mind the name of the team.
Coming up around the other side of Ororo from Jean, his long legs falling easily into their pace. "What're yo' two crowin' abou'?"
"Very charming!" Jean exclaimed, at his unusual lack thereof. She ducked her head out as they walked, throwing him a mock dirty look from around the barrier of Ororo. All he did was smile, answering her with the most charm- dripping one he could muster.
The red-head narrowed her emerald eyes playfully at the gesture, as Ororo replied to his uncouthly worded question, "Nothing important."
As they walked on, coming to a gentle bend on the rough track, the lights of the tavern just came fleetingly into view; peeking through the gaps in the trees and their leaves. The crescent moon burned brighter than ever now as it hung in its domain, lighting the path ahead of them with much more lustre than before. Each little stone, each upturned root that would trip or hinder lit with the Luna orbs pale blue brilliance. Remy kicked absently at the lose stones that did happen to cross his path, causing them to bounce and skitter along the road. Storm and Jean began to chatter about something or other, he found himself paying as much attention to its finer details as he had Scott and Hank's conversation; that is to say, more-or- less none at all. He still felt a little restless, that he had to admit, but being with Ororo on the roof earlier had taken some of the edge off it. It was amazing how she always had that effect on him, just by being near. Then his mind turned grudgingly back to his current dilemma. All this time and nothing to do, he thought to himself wryly, for since he'd been back, nobody had really talked to him about his loss of power and how that would effect his role on the team. The issue had not risen because things had been so quiet for the X-Men lately, but Remy could help but get the distinct feeling that people were ducking the subject. What did a mutant without his powers have to offer the X-Men? Especially now they'd gone mainstream media. As nothing had been said, he couldn't answer, all he did know was his feeling of being on the outside looking in; never really being a true part of the clan had become much more acute because of it. But not even Storm appeared to have made that link yet and all Xavier had done since his return was to offer him a teaching post. An idea he'd laughed at so hard it had taken him a while to compose himself to turn the Professor down formally. An act that had not impressed the school head one little bit. Although, Remy would be the first to admit that being on Xavier's good side had never been his strong point.
Without warning, a random twinge ran through the pulled shoulder that he'd damaged in the Danger Room during the tag game with Iceman, who incidentally was the first person to have mentioned his power loss without feeling awkward about it. The way the others danced around the subject anyone would have thought he'd lost a limb. Though, in truth, at times he felt like he had. Again the sharp pain shot through the muscle in his left shoulder, this time severe enough to make his grumble with the discomfort as he tried a small rotation of the area to ease it out.
"Remy?" Ororo said, concerned, "Are you okay?"
"Oui." He uttered shortly, "it jus' a twinge chere, nuhddin seriou'."
"What have you done to it?" She asked, noting the place his trouble seemed to be emanating from.
"It nuhddin' 'Roro," he insisted, a little bit snappier than he'd intended; hating being fussed over for something so trivial, "Bobby an' me tussled in de Danger Room dat's all. I got sloppy, made a stupid mis'ake." He sniffed, appearing rather indignant, "It 'appens."
Ororo took the warning, his whole demeanour telling her to back off. That was the key to their entire friendship really, knowing when to push and then when it was best to leave it. They were both the kind of people who would keep things inside when it suited them. Maybe it was a peculiar quirk of being a naturally apt thief, who could say? It was just one of the things that made them so similar; two people that to a casual observer appeared as different as chalk and cheese. Storm watched him slyly from the corner of her eye as the groups started on the incline that took the path right down to the Hideaway's door, his abrupt curtness to what was a simple act of concern only started her wondering about him again. But it didn't have long to ponder.
Jean suddenly came to a halt, which consequently made Ororo pull to an unexpected stop also, their arms still linked.
"What is it Jean?" Ororo asked, somewhat alarmed. The others had stopped now as well, concerned, falling instinctually into a pensive and prepared state. The red-head closed her eyes like she was concentrating; slipping her arm from Ororo's and bringing her hand fleetingly to her forehead. Her brow creased, as she murmured something as if she were talking in her sleep, distracted and disjointed.
"Jean?" That was Cyclops as he came towards his wife, alternately checking her wellbeing and scanning the dark woods through his ruby lenses that turned the world a sickly yellow to his vision. He only had his slim shades on currently, not expecting to need his battle visor on a night out to the pub. He was apprehensive; if there was going to be trouble he didn't want to have to use his optic blasts unrestrained.
"There's...there's someone out there." She whispered so faintly Scott and Ororo only just caught it.
"What' she say?" Remy asked, looking at Scott.
He ignored the question, coming closer to Jean instead, and as he took hold of her hands he asked quietly, "Who?"
Jean shook her head and furrowed her ruby brows even more. Then, her eyelids swiftly flipped open like she'd just awoken from a trance as she turned to Scott with a subtle concern marring her features. "I don't know," she said, "But there are at least seven of them," she stopped, peering round at the tall black-looking trees warily, "...there all around us...but I can't tell who they are."
The five X-Men naturally drifted into a kind of circle, like buffalos making a formation to protect their young. All were on high alert; Ororo focused in on the energy pattern of a cloud passing over head, stoking its reticent power. Jean attempted to get a lock on their stalkers as Scott berated himself again for his out of character forgetfulness as he fingered at the edges of his glinting shades. Beast readied himself, trying to gage the direction of possible attacks using his more pronounced senses, not quite on Wolverine's level, but adequate enough to do the job. As for Remy, powers or no powers, he was more than capable of defending himself. Nobody could question his fighting skills as less than exemplary. The atmosphere could be cut with a knife as they waited for the unseen to show themselves before Jean decided to take matters into her hands and hit out with a mild mind attack, just enough to flush them out of hiding. And it worked as with several stunned cries, figures emerged from the trees from all directions, dressed almost completely from head to toe in black. But there was a tell tale admission to their uniform that gave their identity away immediately. As Remy leapt into a forwards summersault, grabbing up a lengthy stick that had fallen from one of the branches above from the ground as he did so, he noticed the steel knee-high boots that the assailant in front of him was wearing and on the one that advanced swiftly from behind him. Another swift glance around told him that they were all sporting them. They were certainly Guild, but not New Orleans, that much he was certain of.
The wind whipped up in the narrow path, courtesy of Storm as she sailed from the ground on its current, but not too high. Around six foot or so as she concentrated on bring the temperature of the air surrounding the cloud down to below zero at such a rapid rate that it burst forth a flurry of vicious hail stones. Their flow was expertly directed with a sweeping gesture of her hand towards to burly men that were heading straight for her. The brutality of the force in the hard balls of ice and the strong gust that carried them on their way as they sailed through the air being enough to knock both men from their feet. The attack was fairly restrained but they certainly wouldn't be getting up any time soon, that was for sure.
"Scott! Over to the left!" Jean cried as two more attackers tried to come in on the X-Men's leader from the side. Without much time for thought as one of the men brandished a weapon from beneath his black bomber jacket, aiming it at him with the clear intention of firing, Cyclops tipped his glasses and unleashed the fury of his optic beams. A bombardment of glowing red hit the man square in the chest as it crashed from over the rim of Scott's shades. As fast as he could he attempted to push his glasses back in front of the beam, but it was hard when it was going at full flow, he even struggled to get his eyes closed to staunch it. But he managed to eventually; though with his lids shut all he could tell about the fate of the man were from the moaning, gurgling sounds that were coming from him wherever it was he'd landed. In the mean time Jean had dealt with the other man who had been similarly armed; wrapping him in a telekinetic bubble, removing his gun from him first, and then throwing him over the top of the trees. As she tossed the man as far from the fray as she could, flames poured from her like extra tendrils of her similarly coloured locks. The Phoenix Force giving extra punch to her telekinetic abilities.
"So my friend," Beast began, as he pounced down in front of one who'd only just emerged from the trees on the right-hand side of the road, with his usual light-hearted banter, the kind he espoused before beating some one into an unconscious pulp. "Are you the silent meat-head type of henchman? Or I am, for a change, going to get a measure of witty converse before the inevitable pounding?"
The tall pasty faced man widened his light eyes at the sight of this furry blue hulk before him, his momentary flash of abject ear being swiftly replaced by an adrenaline rush, giving him the necessary energy for foolhardy action. He rushed at Hank with the six inch bow knife, its left edge dangerously serrated, his mouth agape, screaming like a banshee in some kind of impromptu battle cry. "DIE GENE FREAK!" He roared as he ran at the X-Man, thrusting the knife forwards, more with blind hope than precision or skill. As a result the most damage he managed to inflict was to give Hank a rather closes shave on his right arm. The ever plucky Beast simply laughed, a throaty rumble, as he grabbed the man by the arm that held the knife, yanked him from the floor and flicked him over, rotating his arm around as if he were about to bowl an over arm throw. The man crashed down into the ground, his entire body connecting with the hard mud with a cracking thump. His head tilted to the side and his eyes closed as he fell into instant unconsciousness.
"The meat-head type after all!" Hank mused as he looked down at his vanquished foe.
All the while Remy had been engaged in hand to hand combat with the two remaining Guild members; using the thick fairly straight branch that had been to hand as a makeshift Bo staff. He too, off the ball like Scott, forgetting to bring out his weapon that usually accompanied him everywhere. The two men were coming at him from the front and behind with staffs of their own, though of the more traditional metal type. Despite there being two of them, Gambit deflected and parried their blows with efficient ease; dodging and gliding before placing well timed hits of his own. The Lucidity afforded by the Danger Room session paying off after all; even the pain in his shoulder had quieted remarkably. But as fun and distracting as leading them on a merry dance was after months of no real action, he was beginning to tire of the game, so he determined to put a stop to it and find out what the hell he was being attacked for. He was especially keen to find out seen as his attackers weren't members of his former Guild, but from another city. A familiar thought went through his head, like it did every time he appeared to be randomly set upon; #What de fuck 'ave I done now?# In all fairness, there was usually something, he mused to himself silently.
"Righ'," he growled in his husky Cajun drawl, "Dat's it." Taking the stick into his left hand he spun it around with lightening speed and then thrust it backwards. Its torn raged end smashed into the face of the man behind him with a sickening squelch and breaking sound. He screamed out, clutching his hands over his face but the action did nothing to stem the flow of blood as it came in a fountain over the top; pouring out in copious amounts. Falling to the floor he thrashed in the agony of his injury; an injury that looked and felt a lot more serious than it looked. The wind was still blowing about them, though they were saved from the worst of the hail thanks to Storms tight control, as finally the fight was down to one on one.
"What yo' want wit' me homme?" Remy shouted above the din of the gusts as their staffs came into contact with a satisfying *clack* and they stood more-or-less face to face; features set in grim determination. The other man sneered through his rigid lips, his teeth bared; he wasn't about to tell him. It was his preference to deliver Gambit to New Orleans himself, rather like taking his quarry. He wanted the prestige of bringing him in, whether he would have agreed to go voluntarily or not. This could have all been so easily avoided, but sometimes there was nothing Guild members liked better than putting on a show, despite their obvious penchant for discretion. He tried to lash his gleaming quarter staff at Remy as the two men fell back from each other, but the X-Man leant expertly to the side, his feet not even shifting on the floor to avoid the blow. All the action did was to make Remy's coolly harnessed patience falter a little as he gutturally muttered, "Fuck dis." At the same point he whipped his leg up, taking the other man by complete surprise as he round-housed him in the jaw, sending him reeling backwards, crashing against the trunk of a tree. His job all but done, Remy strode over to the man as he slid down the greenish coloured trunk, his head lulling down onto his chest as if he were passing out.
"Oh no yo' don' mon ami." He said, his voice suddenly back to its smoothness again as he threw the now defunct branch behind him. Reaching him, Remy grabbed a chunk of the man's hair and pulled him back into a standing position. His dosing head fell back against the tree as he coughed, a smattering of blood fell from his lips, but it was hardly worth noticing as the lower half of his face was already covered from that which had poured from his nose; the steel capped tip of Remy's boot having caught it on the way round. His eyes began to flutter closed as if he were in the latter stages of intoxication and it earned him a quick, sharp slap across the face from the Cajun. "Yo' stayin' wide awake 'til yo' tell me why yo're 'ere, bas'tard." Remy jerked the man's head back further, making him observe the tight smile on his lips; a smile that had an edge of danger on it, a hint of the unknown. The bleeding man shuddered, trying to turn from those devilish eyes that fixed him intently, but being unable to. The wind had all but gone now and Remy could feel that the others had congregated around him, watching his actions closely.
"We were sent by the Guild." The man blurted out, his nervous eyes travelling from Remy's face to the people over his shoulder and then hesitatingly back again. His accent identified him as a native but Remy asked anyway.
"No shit!" Remy exclaimed facetiously. "Which Guild?"
"The---the New York Guild---we were sent to collect you." He stuttered, the blood still pouring, running thickly down his throat. The metalic taste filled his mouth and was starting the clog his sinuses. He coughed uncontrollably, making a gagging sound. But Remy pushed on regardless.
"What does de New York Guild want wit' me?" He tried to keep his voice cool, distant, but this was just the last thing he needed; another Guild joining in on the vendetta against him. He hadn't been involved in anything remotely to do with any of the Guild's for well over a year now. This was plain confusing not to mention infuriating. But he kept a tight check on that, keeping it safely below the surface.
"It's not the New York Guild that wants you," he tried to continue before gagging again and this time he did bring something up, a welt of dark blood. "It's---the New Orleans that want you---we were sent to take you down there." He erupted into coughing and gagging again as Remy released his grip on his hair and let him slid back down the tree again to expel the clotting blood at his own leisure. The Cajun stood rigid, not moving from the spot were he was, as his jaw set grimly, tightening with something unspoken.
Ororo took a few steps closer, trying to gage his mood, what was going through his head. She didn't now whether he was angry, just plain annoyed or reluctant at going back to New Orleans to once again help out the very people that had ostracised him. If indeed it was help they were after; sending Guild members to get him with hostile intentions didn't seem to be the best way to persuade him if that was indeed their intention. "What are you going to do Remy?"
After a moment in which he made no response or gesture to answer before turning his head to look at her over his shoulder. His face held that unreadable easy expression, the type he effected when he wanted to make it clear that nothing really bothered him. Fortunately, Storm had long ago learnt to see straight through it. He shrugged nonchalantly and shook his head. Turning back to look at the man on the ground as he sat or moreover slumped there and wiped at the blood that covered his chin with a trembling hand, Remy said, "I got nuhddin' better to do chere, Remy may as well go check see wha' 'is Poppa wan'." Ororo didn't miss the grudged emphasis on the word 'Poppa'.
"And who's going to sort these jokers out?" Scott called over as Remy started back up the path towards the mansion.
He carried on walking straight on as he raised a dismissive hand and shouted back, "Dey got what dey want homme. Let dem take care o' demselves."
Scott's eyes narrowed behind his glasses as he watched Remy go, his lips pursing. He was simply sick to death of the X-Men being dragged into matters brought about by the more---vigilantly, troublesome members of the group. They weren't created to clear up the mess left behind or that followed X-Men with shady pasts, quite frankly he'd had more than enough of it. Under any other circumstance, at any other time, he'd probably been happy to assemble the team and perhaps help with whatever it was that was going on. That was what family was for after all. But they had too many other responsibilities now. A school packed to the rafters with kids for one. They could afford to be dragged into situations that didn't really concern them. Hank wondered around from man to man to check that they were at least still breathing, which they all were; even the one that had received a raw dose of Scott's particular mutant gift. "Do you know?" He said lightly as he checked the last one, shivering under a pile of Ororo's hailstones. "I think he's right. Anyone for that drink then?" He looked around at the other three from over the top of his glasses ; Jean and Scott couldn't help but laugh with slight disbelief, though they were game for going down to Harry's anyway. But Ororo was looking up the path at the retreating back of Remy. "Ororo?"
"No Hank," She said quietly, as if distracted in deep thought. And without another word she followed her best friend back up the path.
"Do you think it's wise to let them go of by themselves?" Jean asked Scott as she watched Ororo jog to catch up with Remy. Then she turned to her husband, her eyes questioning and her face a picture of concern.
"We can't involve ourselves in Gambit's personal problems Jean." He said seriously, but the last thing he wanted was to come across as being callous. "We have no idea what that Guild of his wants." He peered in the direction the pair had gone although they had been consumed by the dark and could no longer be seen. "If it's serious we'll be there in a flash, he knows that." He paused, frowning somewhat; his dark brows sinking to meet the sliver edge of his glasses frames. "But you know how he can be---he wouldn't ask for our help...even if he really did need it." Jean had to concede that Scott's last statement was true, Remy wasn't the type to ask for help when he needed it, it had to be forced upon him. Which is why, as they headed on to the pub as originally planned, she gained a small measure of comfort from the fact that Ororo wouldn't take no for an answer.
-TBC-