Warning: swear words and some violence
Expected but uninvited trouble
"What do you believe in?"
The sturdy man looked up from behind the counter, his eyes steady as he cleaned the whisky glass with a towel. Samuel 'Sam' Rodkins was an odd fellow, he wasn't talkative, or rash, but usually had a calm predisposition. Those who didn't know him would call him shy, others wouldn't be as naive, for Sam was the toughest man around these parts of down town New York. He put the glass away next to its brothers and took another one between his large hands, repeating the same old gestures.
"What I believe in is non' of yar business, lad," he told the young man that was sitting on the red stool, Red Bull in his hands. "I'll give ya some advice though..." Sam propped his arm on the counter, leaning close. "You should keep yar beliefs to yarself, before someone decides to off ya fo' good."
"I'm not frightened," the young man answered, swinging his drink to his lips and taking a gulp. "Tis a free country."
Sam lifted an eyebrow in amusement. "Indeed." He took a closer look at the lad. He was tall and gangly with close cropped brown hair. He wore a black Tee with the logo of some kind of barbaric music group on it. 'Young people today' Sam scoffed. However, he knew that young men and woman hadn't changed much in fifty years. He could still remember the old days when he used to go around his hair sculpted and sleek, with a trench-coat, just like the one the man in the corner wore. He glanced at the mentioned fellow who was busy smoking like a steam engine, his eyes dark behind the bangs of hair that fell across his face.
Sam turned back the young man next to him. "What's yar name?"
"Niles, Niles Brook. Down from Washington DC to visit my sister's place," he explained as his glass was filled up again with amber liquid.
"Niles, ever heard about Jones Harold?" Niles shook his head. "Jones was a friend of mine, a good fellow, really. But he just didn't know what was good for him." Sam paused. "He started chatting up with the folk in here, telling us what his beliefs were." He eyed Niles knowingly. "Got in a pretty good fight, I can tell ya." Niles was listening avidly. "Found him next morning dead in the street between the dustbins. Got his throat slit, the dumb chap. His wife Sandra was left with nothing but his body to bury. So ya just be careful."
Niles shook his head and shrugged. "Don't worry your ass off. I know how to defend myself."
"Sure you do..." Sam's words trailed off as he watched the man in the trench-coat approach, leaving his change on the counter and heading for the exit. Again he leaned close to Niles. "I can guess what kind of person people are. Ya saw that man, rushing out?"
"Yeah. He got bad taste, that's all I can tell," Niles told Sam. The trench-coat was a little over, so he thought, plus, he hadn't liked the bandanna he wore.
"He's a killer." Sam said this in a whisper. "I have one look in his eyes, and I can tell you that he's no angel kid." He smirked at Niles' bemused expression.
"You're kidding me." He looked around at the front door, trying to catch a glimpse of the man, but he was already long gone. "What do you see in me?" he asked turning back to the bartender.
Sam's brow furrowed for a while as he concentrated on Niles' face. "You're nearly drunk," he finally declared, rather bemused.
Niles grinned. "You got that one right, sir."
°
It was Sunday today, and Susan sat in church. First she prayed for her son, she hoped he could finally get his life going instead of fooling around doing nothing with his life. As much as she loved Tom, there were just some days when she couldn't stand his ways anymore. He would crash through her door every so night, completely drunk and loony. She'd tend to him till morning, let him sleep in her bed while she took the sofa. She'd then go work at seven in the morning, and when she got back, the food would be raided, and the house empty once more. That's it, her son was lost, he'd lost his way to god, had gone from depression to something deeper. And she wished it was his fault, but it wasn't, it was hers all along. How she'd brought him up, how she would let her husband have his way with him. And then leaving school so early, Tom never managed to fit with the others, and then unemployment, and what she deemed failure. It was these last days that worried her most.
Tom was man of Art, he could hardly count or read, but god he knew how to draw. And it was the one thing she respected the most in her son, he knew how to draw like no one else. He would draw portraits, and he would tell her all about them. Tom's artwork had such an air to it, it seemed so real. It was a blessing at times, or a nightmare at others.
He'd show her a small freckled lady with twinkling eyes. "This is Shirley. She used to like the Beatles but hasn't listened to any song from them since Lennon died." Then he'd grab another drawing, and Susan would look at it with thought. "Jeremy, he's a gambler, got into loads of trouble once. Couldn't pay off his debts."
Then one day, months later, Susan would take the drawings out again and ask what the people had become. "Shirley died last winter. She was getting old. Jeremy is luckier. Someone cut his debts off and is now helping others do the same."
When Tom talked about his drawings he always looked happy, and Susan loved it when Tom was happy. However, it took different, darker turns sometimes.
He'd yell and cry, and brake everything he could, becoming frantic. The young man that she knew would crumble under her eyes.
"Tom!" she would cry. "Baby, what's wrong?"
"He's gonna die! He's gonna die!" He'd push her away, but finally he would dissolve into her arms and would finally show her the paper he was clutching in his hand. "That's Jones," he'd said showing the new ink drawn portrait. This man had a broad nose and forehead and small beady eyes. If she looked any closer she would have noticed the pores of his skin, the perfectly shaded irises. "Jones Harold. He's gonna get killed." And then he had started sobbing.
It had struck her blood cold. Tom had changed since then; he wasn't as carefree as before. He was stuck in depression.
Susan sighed and looked up at the large holy cross ahead of her, The Son of God crucified upon it. She joined her hands and laid her forehead against them, closing her eyes. She stayed like this for minutes, maybe more, until she heard the bench creak beside her, sign that someone had sat down. She looked across at the man that had taken place at the end, near the aisle, and cringed.
She could smell him from where she sat, alcohol and dirt. He wore a bright blue scarf and grinned ahead from behind his thick dreadlocks. She noticed a large white flower stuck in his tangled hair and wondered what this man had came for.
He turned around to face her, winked and then spoke to her in a cheery, loud voice. "I believe, Ma'am, that you're in need of some help. It's your lucky day then, for I'm the one that is givin' it out."
o
Joe made his way out of the church, he had work at hand. He tightened his coat and blue scarf and headed outdoors into the cold streets of New York, skipping lightly with a tune on his mind.
Joe had a gift, and he was very proud of it. He'd got it off his dad, Sam Rodkins. He liked to call himself the King, The King of Hearts, not that he gambled, hell no, he hated gambling, but because he could see into people's hearts. That was his gift. He just had to cross someone in the street to know that they were sad, stressed… in need of help. He didn't do it for a living, help must always be free-given, or it just wasn't worth it. He'd usually live off the street, or stay at a friend's place one night or two, but that was it. The street was where he felt safer.
As he made his way it started raining, but the station was close now, and he didn't bother taking shelter. The Station was overcrowded with people, smell and noise, and he had to push his way past, yelling loud 'sorry's and 'Scuse me miss', and 'beg you pardon's before getting to where he wanted, not before noticing that he was followed. He continued on as if he hadn't noticed, dodging people before he entered a small cafe. He quickly ordered a beer and went to sit down next to his waiting friend.
"Hey Love, what's up, man?"
The man called Love looked up and made some space for Joe. "You're soaking wet, dude! Get a chair an' dry off." He was a wiry guy under a large military coat, another white flower producing from his front pocket. He petted his dog as Joe made himself comfortable, taking out his laptop and setting it up on the small table.
"So, what's the news?" Love asked.
"Met the mother," he said while he tipped away on the keyboard, his eyes focused on the screen. "She's a sour chick, I can tell you-Ow, shit... Damn connection." He tapped the laptop before continuing. "Well, she told me she ain't sure where to find Tommy boy, so, we'll just have to stay around for a while…"
"Went to see your dad yet?"
"Nah, I'll check him out tonight." He suddenly stilled. He smoothly closed the laptop with a click, took out a cigarette, lighted it and said: "Guess who's who's come to visit us, Love."
"Who, Joe? It ain't Nora, I hope, she's such a tight bitch."
"Nah, it ain't Nora, she's still in LA. It's worse, Love, it's Gambit."
Just as the words left his mouth, Gambit walked through the door, trench-coat shining with rain, hair plastered to his head. Joe knew that Gambit sure wasn't in a good mood, in fact, he'd never felt Remy LeBeau this angry. It was always for the worse with him, and Joe hated gambling with that son of a bitch.
He wasn't surprised when Remy's first words were: "I need your help."
Joe first cursed his philosophy, and then the Cajun.
o
Gambit was in a mess. He was waiting for Joe's answer, his thoughts running wild. If he refused, it was the end. Meanwhile, he scrutinised the two men. He noticed the white flowers, they'd kept up the tradition since last time he'd seen them.
Joe looked as wild as ever, his black hair a complete mess. He had his hands resting on his closed laptop. Always the one for technology. Love kept his dog close by, the animal seemed to watch Gambit with knowing eyes, a quit growl escaping it's throat. It was on its guard, and it had reason to.
Last time Gambit had crossed their path, it was back in New Orleans. He had guessed straight away that they were special, that they were mutants. They didn't call themselves that, though. Joe was an empath, Love had a gift with animals. Both had been friends for ages, and they went everywhere together. They had helped Gambit once, and they had paid the price dearly.
"I won't, Gambit. I ain't doing this."
Gambit froze, his fist clenched. His voice came out throaty, cold. "Ya're goin' ta help me, fils de pute, ya have to help Remy."
Joe grinned and laughed, it high pitched and unpleasant. "No, I don't. Your girl is a murderer, and you want me to save her?" His cheery manner dropped. "She deserves going to prison, she deserves what's happening to her."
"De fille never chose t' kill. Ya can't let her be taken… Ya say that ya help people help Rogue, at least, if not Remy."
"You tell me that this girl is behind a massacre up in a lab someplace important, because she was working for a nutter. You tell me that this goodie good professor of this mutant school is going to wall her up for what she did, because, fuck, he's just realised she's raving mad." Joe was now whispering dangerously. "Guess what I'll tell you now, I bloody well think… he's right to do so."
Gambit's blood ran cold. He couldn't stop himself from reaching over the table and slamming his fist right into Joe's face. Blood ran over his knuckles, and before he knew it, the dog had jumped up from behind Joe's chair and snatched his jaws around Gambit's forearm.
Remy yelled in pain, throwing the canine off him, the arm of his coat already red with blood. Love's pet went whimpering to his master. As Joe held his bloodied nose, the cafe became silent, it's inhabitants staring worriedly in their direction. But Gambit didn't care anymore.
Ignoring the throbbing wounds of his arm, he fished out something from a pocket and threw it on Joe's and Love's table, between the beer and laptop. "Gambit saw yer père earlier, seems as if de homme is doin' fine. You don' want somethi' t' happen to him, neh?" It was clearly a threat. Without another word, he left.
"Quit staring!" Joe yelled at the curious onlookers. "Got your own lives? Get back to them!" His voice was slightly muffled from behind his hand, two fingers pinching the top of his nose painfully. He sat back down rumpled, taking a gulp of his beer. "Shit."
Love gave his friend a handkerchief, which was quickly soaked up in blood. "He sure didn't miss you, Joe."
Joe shrugged. "He never does." The photo Gambit had left on the table, however, got his attention. He picked it up and examined it. "Mother Fucker." He gave it Love to have a look.
"It's the girl, right? Rogue?" And sure enough, it was Rogue on the photo. He picked up Joe's discarded cigarette and set fire to it, leaving it to burn on the ashtray. Things always had a cost with Remy Lebeau.
o
Inspector Henry was a man of honour. He spent most of his time in the police car than in his own lonesome apartment. Sometimes he wondered why he still rented the place. He'd never chosen to enter the NYPD in the first place, it had been that or filling cans with chicken juice twelve hours per day. But serving as a policeman had finally pleased him, and then it became more than that, it became his life, his passion.
Right now he was on a murder case. Jones Harold was found dead at half past six on Tuesday morning. Cause of death, a 5 mm bullet gone right through his mouth and into his brain at around 2AM. Instant death, precise. The autopsy report told of a couple of rib fractures obtained before he was shot. Nothing seemed to have been stolen, he still had his wallet, and his credit cards and cash, so the motives were other, more personal maybe.
He went to meet a friend of the deceased Jones Harold, Samuel Rodkins. He owned a bar. Harold would usually go and have a drink there every Friday night. He said he got into a row with some customers about mutants. He was talking about "Tom somethin' or other, can't remember the name, sir… Anyway, said that this mutant told him that he was going to die soon. Shot. Oh, wait a minute, his name was Tom Bradson, I think. You know, if the chap hadn't talked to Jones, Jones wouldn't have thought that he would be killed, and he wouldn't have started this debate on mutants… do you follow me sir?"
Henry had checked out this Tom Bradson. The man didn't have a clean slate. Was found buying heroine and crack once or twice, was taken to the police station after have been spotted raving on Sixth Avenue, getting violent. He was no angel. And if he was mutant, didn't that make him even more dangerous? Henry started wondering about what power he had: seeing the future? Didn't people call that precognition? Tom Bradson would be dead useful in NYPD. But for now, the man was a suspect.
He finally pulled over and parked on the sidewalk, impatient with the traffic jams and decided to continue his way on foot. He needed to visit Sandra Harold, Jone's wife, now a widow, once more. Ask a few more questions.
He soon arrived at the foot of a brick building. He rang for second floor and waited next to the intercom.
"Yes, who's there?" a distorted voice came out of the communication device.
"This is Inspector Marks, can I have a word or two?"
There was a buzz and Henri was able to open the door. He took the elevator and found Mrs Harold's door already open with Sandra waiting for him.
"Come in," she told Henri, making a light gesture to match her words. The woman had bags under her eyes, she wore a baggy purple Lakers sweater. Her hair was wait, maybe she'd just come out of the shower, had she been under the rain too?.
"You're a fan?" Henri asked as he entered the humble home, mentioning the basketball name embroided on the sweater as headed for the sitting room only to find someone already there.
"No, Jones was," she replied, her eyes cast downwards. "This is Niles Brook, a close friend of mine. He came down from Washington DC to keep me company," she said avoiding Henri's gaze. The man looked up at his name and came to greet the police man.
Niles smiled politely and shook Henri's hand. "I'm glad that somebody's already on the case." Henri smiled back, more forcefully.
"Yes…" Henri started. "I have a question or two. Mrs Harold, maybe you would like to sit… Yes, so. Do you know someone by the name of Tom Bradson?"
She looked a little surprised. "Actually I do… Mr Bradson phoned once or twice, about a month ago asking to speak to my husband."
"Are you aware that Tom Bradson and your husband were last seen together about 48 hours before his murder?" She shook her head, negative. It was time to go and check out this Tom personally, Henri thought.
°
Love knocked on the door, one hand on the lead of his dog, glancing at his friend. Joe now had a plaster over his nose, he was looking grim.
"Remember last time?" he asked. Love nodded. "With that stupid Thieves Guild. Course, the Assassins just had to be around the corner. He used us. He had it all planed. He needed an escape root, and we just happened to be there, ready for diversion. Gave us a false address, we went right into that bloody trap…" He stopped talking when Love kissed him, shutting him up for good.
Love knocked again and finally the door was opened. Susan appeared, teary eyed.
"They took my baby away… They took my Tommy away."
"Who?"
"The police. They found that man's drawings. Said it was a real person, that he had been killed; that Tom was guilty. I thought he was inventing everything., but, it was all true. I don't understand what's happening."
"Calm down," said Joe, placing a hand on her shoulder. "We have some explanation to this."
Love nodded. "Hello Mrs Bradson. I'm Joe's friend, you can trust me," he told the petite woman.
A couple of minutes later.
"My baby is what?"
"Tom is a mutant. He is gifted," Joe explained. "He is gifted with precognition. That's why he had a hint about this Jones Harold's death. He draws what he sees in the future. We know that Tom isn't aware of this, that he thinks that he's mad. He isn't, that's why we wanted to find you, so he could understand his gift, so he doesn't get in trouble, or exploited."
"Yes," Susan said. "It makes sense. All those people he drew, he'd tell me about their life, like if he knew them personally. Ever since he was just a kid."
"Mrs Bradson," Love started. "Do you have any more drawings? Maybe you should destroy them, before the police get its hands on them."
Susan looked startled. "I couldn't possibly. It's his Art, it's what he is."
Joe and Love shared a look. They knew too well the trouble this could lead to, but they realised that maybe these drawings were too important to be destroyed. Plus, maybe Tom would need them when Joe and Love would go and get him out of his cell. "Maybe if you put them in a file?"
°
Tom had his head between his hands while he sat on his cot in a cell at the police station. He knew exactly what was happening. They thought he had killed Jones. His hands shook as he let them fall next to him, he needed a smoke, or something to calm his nerves. He needed a pen and paper. But he had neither. Someone else was in the cell. They had brought him in about an hour ago. Since then the man hadn't stopped staring at him with his dark eyes. It unnerved Tom, he was deathly pale, had jet black hair, around twenty, maybe, yet he seemed much older somehow.
Tom wiped his forehead; he was sweating terribly. He felt like a lamb trapped in a snake's nest. He soon felt dizzy, and he knew what would follow. A mad vision, distorted. This one left him breathless and shaking. When he next opened his eyes he was on the ground, in cold sweat. And he knew.
The other man hadn't moved an inch, his eyes were still strained on Tom.
"You're Death."
The pale man smiled unpleasantly. "Indeed, I am." There was pause, uncomfortable, threatening. "I've heard that you're an accomplished artist."
°
Professor Xavier had his eyes closed. He felt betrayed, but tried to restrain the powerful emotions that where threatening him. He also felt guilty. Rogue, he had promised to help her, bring her to the light after her chaotic childhood, the suffering, help her with her powers. He had miserably failed, but he still had to do what was best.
Gambit had fled the institute, leaving his fellow Acolytes behind. Magnus had been most displeased, for he affirmed that he had nothing to do with Gambit's quick escape from the med-lab. Meanwhile Rogue was still in bed, taken care of by Dc McCoy, recently returned from his journey with the most disturbing news.
Rogue was still intubed, her trachea still sore from the severe mutilation she had endured. She was awake and conscious but enable to talk yet. Wolverine's healing she had obtained just minutes before her injury had surely saved her life. It had clung to a thread, but she was able to come through and survive.
It had been a clean and swift cut right across her throat with the help of a scythe. Rogue informed them scribbling across her small blackboard, that she hardly remembed the whole ordeal, her mind being afuzz. However she was able described her attacker precisely, Logan confirmed the information, adding that the mutant fled as soon as he arrived ( he also added that he was disappointed, for he wasn't able to show the mutie "the fine art of slicing and dicing") Xavier was not aware of this mutant's existence, which troubled him greatly.
The Security camera's tape rested on Xavier's desk, DNA samples enclosed in a file at it's side. These elements informed him more than he would have liked. Hank had worked well. He wished it wasn't true, he had tried denying his worries for a while, but now he had to embrace the truth, and make Rogue confess and explain in detail her whereabouts during her one-month of disappearance. And then he would take the necessary measures.
°
Joe and Love sat underneath Brooklyn Bridge, enjoying the view. It was wet, but they didn't mind. They kept themselves warm enough, Love's dog between them. They had found a small radio and some batteries and had switched it on. Soon they heard the confident voice of a reporter.
"The president declares that necessary measures will be put in place to keep the mutant threat at bay this afternoon, for people must be informed of the dangers that mutants might present in every day life. I quote "In these troubled times we must stay together, united, so we can face the future's challenges and come out victorious."-End quote. Many supporters were demonstrating their approval on the White House's steps. ...
"Flash News: New York Police Department alerts citizens of Thomas Bradson's escape from Police Station, suspected for murder. One meter seventy five, black man, last time he was seen he was wearing a blue shirt and black pants. Police advises to report if sighting…"
Joe turned off the radio. "Fuck. Why did he have to go and do that? Couldn't he have guessed we were coming to fetch him? Ungrateful bastard. What are we going to tell his mum?"
"Mh… He'll probably return home to fetch his belongings if he's dumb enough- and if he's smart, leave the city straight away or…"
"... stay low for a while, and then try and flee the state?" proposed Joe, rubbing his hands together for a bit of warmth. White mist was now escaping his parted lips, temperature was quickly plunging; it was a matter of minutes now before it snowed. He picked up the purple file where all of Tom's drawings were stashed away. "What do we do with this?"
Love took it from Joe's hands and opened it. "We need clues," he said when he noticed Joe's warning gaze. "Might as well start here." He slid a couple of drawings out and handed them to Joe while he looked through another stack.
"Hey, this one," said Joe showing the picture of woman. She had a small new-born child resting in her arms, breast feeding it gently, head tilted over the baby's small form. The stroke of the pencil was soft on the paper, her curves inviting; she was more attractive than any top model on the catwalks he'd even seen. Joe noticed that she wore a ring, and told Love so. But what was particular about her was her two toned hair.
"This is Remy's girl, then?"
He turned the page around and swore under his breath. "You're not going to believe this." He gave it back to Love who had a look. The back was black with writing and scribbling.
"Fuck, she said that he drew, no one told us about writing a novel to go with it! Check it out. 'Goes by the name Rogue'…"
°
Sandra looked out onto the gloomy street from her window, hugging her sweater.
"Cold, sweetheart?" Niles asked, coming up from behind.
"No." She took a deep breath. "Niles?"
"Mh?"
"You'r crazy."
Niles smiled warmly. "Yeah, baby, I'm crazy of you."
This is a special chapter, makes a large detour without saying much, really. I couldn't focus on Gambit or Rogue directly, they needed a short brake. By the way, no use searching in the Comics' data, they're original characters. They're thriving, I can tell you. Hope it doesn't put you off, though. At least you get some answers. And more riddles, and see Remy getting violent and frantic. Hope you've actually noticed who's Jones' murderer is. Niles that little creep. Oh, and by the way, I'm enjoying writing about Death.
Cass: an update an update un update! I'm all exited, I just can't hide it! I hope you're too!
Gothic Cajun: Rogue is in big trouble, but super heroes always survive, even when they die, so hey! No worry!
Rogue4787: Woah! Long review! About figuring out the plot? Don't count on it too soon. I've just made a turn on the right, heading in I don't know what direction (I thought I had an ending, and I've just screwed it up good with this chapter. Besides, there's usually a change of plot every five days or so… Can't figure out how this is going to continue right now either.)
Crysala: hope this ads up to suspense then, because they're be hell to pay in next chapter!
Ms.RogueLebeauright. Clarification, I wrote 'sugar' to show that her accent was different, sorry if it was that confusing. I rather like the words rubbish, flabbergasted, gobbledegook, bloody hell and so on. I actually keep a kind of list in these words. I keep trying to pop them in.
Enchantedlight: I didn't update soon after all. Enjoy. Better late than never, huh?
X2P3: Ah, the clone question… mh… I haven't figured it out yet. Sorry.
Sweaty8587I'm letting the clones down, just for a while.
Star of Chaos: sorry I'm so late with this chapter. I'v actually made three versions of this one, and it's actually rather frustration that so much is put in the trash. Oh, yeah, I actually find Death rather cool, in a bizarre way.
IvyZoe: I'm not sure that what I state in the author notes before are valid anymore, as I've changed the plot rather drastically several times already. But, I'll try to clarify everything out (or nearly everything) in next chapter, when I get around to it.
Ishandahalf: I've been practising portraits. Hope you like these new characters. Joe and Love are actually inspired by these two guys that were sitting next to me during a train ride across France. Damn I couldn't stand them (they were speaking so loud!), but they seem to have reincarnated here, so that's cool. I forgive them.
As you must already know… I LOVE YOU and your reviews. So keep it coming so I can stay high (you can also ad comments and criticism, plain flame, suggestions, point out errors I made, laugh at my expense and bless Stan Lee and the likes. It's warmly welcomed and fun to read.)