To an overwhelmed, wide eyed tourist, New York City at night was a display of flashing lights, honking yellow taxi cabs, and endless streams of beautiful people. Doors opened, spilling waves of music and conversation out into the street with every swing. Young men strutted about in packs, trying to catch the wandering eyes of young women or other men. Laughter rang out, horseplay ensued, and the city was the center of fast, exciting, fulfilling life.

On the surface, anyway.

Underneath the polish and the glamour was a nasty monster waiting to rear its ugly head and swallow its unsuspecting victims whole. Suspicion ran through the crowds of people like some airborne disease. Second glances were followed up by unspoken questions, some backed by naivety. What about that one? How the hell do you tell? Some backed by viciousness. I'll teach those freaks to steps foot in my neighborhood. I never liked those punks anyway. Dirty filthy scum. Faces and bodies were scanned with intensity, differences noted and filed. Fear pulsed like a heartbeat as they struggled to come to grips with the reality that had been exposed to them only a few months before.

Mutants were real.

What to do about it?

I'm not looking for an answer, anymore. I'm not looking for a visionary, help me Mother Mary I've done my time. I'm closer every day to a life, of. . .  . crime  . . .

Like the old speakeasies back in the troublesome times of Prohibition, there were a number of bars and establishments that catered to the shunned. Mostly those run by mutants themselves; mutants who wanted to provide an hour or two of protection for their own kind. Still, collections of mutant groups filled the air with quiet tension. Something akin to a group of people sitting around a nuclear weapon while a two year old played with the trigger.

Remy didn't really care about the atmosphere. All he wanted was a game or two of pool, a couple glasses of bourbon, and a few hours away from the scheme of world domination. It was amazing how quickly it became tiresome listening to various lectures on how mankind needed to be suppressed by the superior mutant race, spoken by a man who wore a tin hat on his head. Sometimes Remy had trouble remembering what had enticed him to join Magneto's band of merry men.

Oh wait. Escape from guild wars and almost certain death. Right.

The God above us in every way, you know He watches all the people die. Killing them as others waste all their time in asking why. Time is all we're given and the happiness we seek, it may be the beast within the meek or maybe the statement of the freak.

Taking a sip from his glass, he set it down on the edge of the table and lazily took aim with his pool cue. He drew it back smoothly and sent the white sphere spinning towards the neatly made triangle of balls. It crashed into them with a satisfying crack, sending colors flying off in different directions. Of fifteen, fourteen spun off into the pockets, almost simultaneously. The eight ball rolled lazily down the table, coming to a rest at the edge of a corner pocket.

A scattering of applause came from the small group of spectators that always seemed to be around pool tables.

And don't be fooled, don't be flattered. It's not like you ever mattered. When the world around is falling down, and every ships been shattered.

Remy tapped the eight ball in and gave a small bow before handing his cue to the next person waiting to play a round. He picked up his glass and headed back to the bar, nodding lightly to the various "nice shot" comments that followed him.

Don't be fooled, don't be flattered. It's not like you ever mattered, not to me. Rick James was the original superfreak.

The bartender had seen his approach and had a fresh shot waiting for him by the time he made it up to the stretch of mahogany. Setting his empty glass down, Remy picked up the new one and swirled the amber color liquid lightly, trying to decide if getting drunk could be construed as constructive at that point. After all, the equivalent to a god had just been ushered into the twenty-first century and he seemed awful keen on redecorating. For the first time in his twenty-one years, he felt unsure and . . . and a little afraid. He had felt Apocalypse's power first hand; had watched the first mutant brush aside the combined strength of the X-men and the Acolytes. If they couldn't have any affect on him, there wasn't any chance the largest armies in the world could stand up to him. Countries would fall like dominoes. How could they not? It was hard not to want to run anywhere, so long as it was away. But Remy knew you could run forever and still be in the same place. Besides, where would he go? There wasn't anywhere in the world that would be safe. And could he really just turn his head and do nothing? He was a thief. Morals weren't really his strong point. That didn't mean he could condone the death of innocents. Then again, there weren't really all that many innocents left in the world.

Sighing, he tipped his glass back and drained it, closing his eyes as the liquid burned its way down his throat. All this philosophical thinking made his head hurt. And it made him question things about himself, things that he'd rather not think about. He raised his head to signal for a refill when he noticed that someone familiar had just come through the front door. His curiosity was instantly peeked.

Rogue stood in the doorway for a moment, her eyes scanning the bar's occupants as if she were daring one of them to so much as utter a word to her. Remy wasn't sure why he did it, but he averted his eyes, sliding into the corner so that she wouldn't notice him. Then he watched her. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that last time she had noticed him, she'd left him unconscious. But he didn't think so.

When no one approached her, she visibly relaxed and moved over to the bar where she leaned over the counter and said something to the bartender. The thief couldn't hear what it was, but he saw him slide open a cooler and come up with a bottle of Corona. The bartender snapped off the cap and held it out to her. She lifted one finger and pointed at something. Smacking his forehead with his empty hand, the bartender reached down, picked up a slice of lime, and tucked it in the neck of the bottle. Then he said something that had her laughing as she accepted the beer. Remy raised his eyebrows in surprise; she looked . . . . different with a smile. After take a slow pull from the bottle, Rogue headed towards the back of the bar. And had his eyebrows shooting up further.

Now I'm not trying to be rude, but hey pretty girl I'm feeling you. The way you do the things you do, reminds me of my Lexus coupe.

Some girls walked, some swayed, some sauntered. He'd seen it done a thousand different ways for a thousand different reasons. Flirtatious, seduction, power. But he'd never quite seen anyone move the way Rogue moved.

This is the remix to ignition . . .

Slow, lazily really-

 . . . hot and fresh out the kitchen . . .

-like she didn't even know-

. . .  momma rollin' that body got every man in here wishin'. . .

-what it did to a man to see those slim hips shifting back and forth and-

 Sippin' on coke and rum, I'm like so what I'm drunk. It's the freakin' weekend baby I'm a about to have me some fun.

"Garçon? A bottle of dis." He watched her settle at a table in the corner, far away from anyone else. "And two glasses, s'il vous plaît."

***

Rick James by Jude

Ignition (remix) by R. Kelly