Jean Grey reached down toward her much younger, smaller companion and adjusted the leather collar on the girl's neck. I hope I don't need to go over the reasons, she said, without moving her vocal cords, that we won't be telling your parents about any of this.
Kitty Pryde thrust back her shoulders, allowing breasts that were much more developed than Jean had ever noticed to strain against her hot pink top. Of course, Jean had never seen her student decked out in bondage gear from Lady Lucianne's Leather Emporium before.
She had to hand it to the girl, though; Kitty could give the same happy-go-lucky smile in the strangest of circumstances. Now, she cocked her head and answered Jean, silently. Do you mean the part where I shoplifted these clothes? Or just the part where we're using them to fake our way into a den of vice and iniquity?
Any of it.
Don't worry, Dr. Grey. I promise. What happens in alternate dimensions stays in alternate dimensions.
I'm not actually convinced this is an alternate dimension. A squat, broad-shouldered man with a six-inch purple Mohawk tried to shove in front of them in the crowded line. Jean put a hand on his chest, straightened her arm, and nodded for Kitty to move in front of her. Mohawk spread his hands and backed off; for a second, Jean thought she must accidentally, in her state of nerves, have used her telepathy to work what the kids called a "Jedi mind trick" on him. But as the guy backed off, he cast an appreciative eye at the tight black corset and leggings in which Jean was – to use the term loosely -- dressed. I'm not sure this an alternate dimension, Kitty. Maybe it's just Los Angeles.
II.
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had encountered some real depths of depravity in his life, but, as he looked up at the flickering crimson flame on the neon sign, he was starting to think that this Hellfire Club was in a league of its own. For one thing, the management clearly had a limited understanding of irony. If you wanted to start an organization dedicated to sowing discord and perpetrating evil deeds – well, you could call it the Ministry of Love, or the Committee on Public Safety, or the Wal-Mart Corporation. But if you opened a bar in Los Angeles and claimed it was operated by the Hellfire Club, you shouldn't be up to anything more evil than charging twelve dollars for mojitos without any detectable alcohol in them. Doing bad deeds out of the "Hellfire Club" was just gauche. You might as well expect to be attacked by poisonous snakes in the Viper Room down on the Sunset Strip.
At least, this was the excuse Wesley made for himself, as he waited in the seemingly interminable line, in this dark steamy street, and tried to look comfortable with the shaft of a crossbow tucked into the back of his tight leather trousers. He tried telling himself that he wished Cordelia were here, but he hadn't been able to reach her, and besides, this was just reconnaissance. He didn't know for sure that Angel was being held in this place, and chances were he wouldn't actually be able to get in at all. Wesley's sources had provided a bit of information, though, and he just might have acquired a few names to conjure with. That damned lawyer Lilah Morgan, for instance, always seemed to be hanging around at the fringes of this type of mischief. Thanks to Angel's growing obsession with her firm, Wesley now knew more than he wanted to about her client list. Paul Lanier of Consolidated Curses, dark sorcerer Cyvus Vail, movie star-turned-murder-suspect Aaron Echolls and. . .
"Sebastian Shaw." Wesley straightened, as he heard the name spoken. So his hunch was correct. At least one of Ms. Morgan's shadier clients was involved in this enterprise, and currently was being invoked by a woman trying to make an impression on the doorman. She stood a few places ahead of him in line, and so Wesley tried to watch without making it obvious he was looking at her. "We are very close friends of Mr. Shaw," the woman purred. "Verrry close, you understand." Not that it would be surprising if Wesley had been staring at her. Even in this crowd, Mr. Shaw's friend didn't exactly blend. She was at least six feet tall with striking auburn hair and her outfit consisted of little more than a tight black corset, and high leather boots.
"Who the hell are you?" grunted the doorman, unimpressed.
"Who am I?" The redhead drew herself up even taller and as she did – was there no limit to the depravity of these people? – yanked a leather strap which was attached to a much slighter young woman. Christ, she couldn't have been more than sixteen. Well, Wesley considered, neither was Faith when. . . That line of thought wasn't going anywhere good.
The doorman grunted. "I thought Mr. Shaw's special friend already got here."
"As though a man of Sebastian's . . . proclivities. . .would limit himself to a single partner?"
"You're not on the list. Who the hell are you?"
"My name," said the tall woman, "is Xenia Onatopp."
Wesley blinked. What? Like the Bond girl? It occurred to him, suddenly, that he might not be the only one trying to pull something over on security. How dense were these bloody guards, anyway? It might be useful to find out.
"Like the Bond girl?" demanded the guard. Not as dense as all that, apparently.
"That's – my performance name. Of course." The woman leaned forward and put a finger on the guard's throat. "My real name is Madelyne Pryor."
"I'm Ariel," the teenage girl piped in, before the guard could ask. "Ariel, umm. . .Pryde."
Whatever those two were up to, Wesley thought, they were astonishingly bad at it. But the guard just grunted and said, "Didn't know Mr. Shaw was coming tonight. You know the way to his private suite?"
"But of course," purred the woman who wasn't Xenia or, probably, Madelyne either. But she jerked on not-Ariel, and they slipped quickly inside.
After them, a guy in a purple Mohawk, and a woman in a maid's costume and fishnets flashed some kind of ID and walked in. The guard then looked at Wesley, who breathed deeply and said, "I'm a close friend of –"
The man held out a hand and flicked his eyes down Wesley's ensemble. "Lemme guess. You're part of Mr. Shaw's entourage, along with Bond girl and the little mermaid." Before Wesley could answer, the guy shook his head. "I gotta say, with the three of you and the blonde? Sebastian sure knows how to throw a party."
III.
As soon as Jean got inside, she ducked into a side hallway. This would have been a better plan, as far as Kitty was concerned, if she hadn't yanked on the knotted leather cord attached to the girl's neck.
"Hey!" Kitty yelped, pulled along by the force of the turn.
Jean winced. "Sorry. I'm not exactly used to –"
"It's all right. But –" Kitty placed a hand on the collar. The outline of her figure flickered briefly, and she pulled the leather straight through her temporarily incorporeal neck. "No offense. I think the point still comes across. I'm not sure why I couldn't just phase us through the walls in the first place --"
"No good," Jean shook her head. "We'd still raise questions, walking around here on our own. This way we look like we belong."
"Right." Kitty nodded hopefully. "So we have a plan." Mr. Summers would have a plan, she thought. She didn't mean to think it loud enough for Jean to hear but. . .
"Mr. Summers," Jean retorted, "is the one who got himself knocked out and dragged into this place. As soon as Dr. Grey saves Mr. Summers' life, Mr. Summers is due for one major ass-kicking."
"At least you're dressed for it," Kitty said philosophically. "So. How about I sneak through some walls and you sneak through some brains and we'll see what we can find."
"Not so fast," echoed a commanding voice from the other end of the hall. The women both turned to see a tall man with a weapon pointed at them. Almost before Kitty could register, he had been pulled off his feet and slammed against the opposite wall. He lost control of the weapon and a projectile came flying toward them. Kitty instinctively phased, letting the missile pass harmlessly through her.
"What was – Dr. Grey are you -- ?" When Kitty turned, Jean was staring at an arrow, which hung frozen in midair. She shook her head and it dropped. "Watch where you're pointing that thing!" Kitty scolded, bounding toward the man, who was now panting for breath against the wall.
"How did you --?" he gasped, and Kitty noticed he had some kind of accent. She had always liked guys with English accents. Of course, she liked them more when they weren't shooting at her, or her teachers. Looking down at the weapons in his hand, she demanded, "Is that a crossbow?"
"Allow me to explain," he gasped, struggling to his feet.
Before he could stand fully, an invisible force seemed to slam him down. "Don't bother." Jean stepped toward the man and held out her hands. "I'll do it for you."
IV.
Jean knelt in front of the stranger and pressed a hand to each of his temples.
"Tell me again why I have to endure this –" the man began. Jean silenced him with a look, and he didn't try to stand or move away. He must have figured out that her telekinetic powers had knocked him down, and would keep him there, slumped against the wall, until she was satisfied. He seemed to be taking all of this in stride, too, which suggested that he had some experience with mutants or -- if, as Scott had insisted before inconveniently disappearing, the solar storm had slipped the Blackbird into an alternate reality – whatever this dimension's equivalent might be. "So you're going to read my mind?"
"I need to know you're telling the truth." Jean leaned her forehead down towards him. "Who are you? Why are you here?"
"As I said, my name is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce –"
Don't talk! Jean put the words directly into his brain. His body jolted a little from the unexpected voice, but Jean didn't apologize; she needed the concentration because his mind would be open to her – soon – soon -- now --
"My God!" She jumped back. "Can you not be thinking about my breasts at a time like this?"
"Can they not be so very close to my face, then?" Wesley retorted.
Jean looked down at where she was straining against the laces of the bodice. "Oh. Sorry." She straightened. "I don't usually dress like this." Running through the thoughts she had gathered in her quick reading, she said, "So you're one of the good guys." She kept the next thought to herself. Or you think you are. "You're here at the Hellfire Club on a rescue mission. You came to help your -- " She wasn't quite sure what name to place on the relationship she was sensing. "Friend" didn't exactly do it, but --
"Employer," Wesley said, stiffly.
Jean stood and stepped back from him. She didn't fully understand the story, but his sincerity checked out well enough. "You can get up."
"Oh, really, may I?" His voice dripped sarcasm, but she noticed that he did as she said, and started to get to his feet. "I don't suppose I may ask what you are doing here?" He turned to look at Kitty, who was twirling the bolt of the disarmed crossbow. "To say nothing of her."
"I'm supposed to be on Teen Jeopardy," Kitty answered.
"The quiz show?" Wesley blinked. "What is this, Dom/sub week?"
Kitty giggled, and Jean glared at her. It was hard enough to breathe in this get-up -- which Kitty, due to the ease of breaking and entering, had been charged with picking out. She suspected that the girl was enjoying the situation, and that only made it more annoying. "How do you even know about these things, Katherine?" Jean demanded, playing with the lace to see if she could give herself a little more room to breathe.
"John Allerdyce has this magazine. . ."
"Not when we get home he doesn't." Jean turned to Wesley. "Kitty goes to a boarding school for the gifted. I'm one of her teachers. My colleague and I were flying her to Burbank in the school's private plane. We were going to hand her off to her parents and then --" Spend the week together in Palm Springs, which wasn't supposed to end with Jean dressed like a bondage queen. Well, probably not. The further Scott ventured from Westchester, the more he was willing to let his hair down, but his preferences didn't usually extend to Lady Lucianne's. Although there had been that one time. . . "Long story short," Jean continued hastily, "our equipment started to go nuts and we had to make an emergency landing. . ." In another dimension.
Wesley, who must have sensed that Jean was being cagey with her facts, broke in. "Let me guess. Your colleague was abducted and brought to this place."
Kitty sighed. "I told Mister – um -- Cyclops to let me do the recon. I'm good at it." To demonstrate, she stepped backward and disappeared into the wall. Just as quickly, she emerged, and bowed in Wesley's direction.
"I – I -" Even people who had lots of experience around those with special gifts, Jean had noticed, could find themselves baffled by Kitty. In a half-strangled voice he said, "Yes, yes, I see," then addressed Jean. "So. Ms. -- Pryor, was it? May I assume that Mister -- Cyclops also has -- special abilities?"
"He shoots laser beams out of his eyes," Kitty answered matter-of-factly, then asked Jean what she clearly considered the more important question. "Who's Madelyne Pryor anyway?"
"Somebody I knew in college. I didn't like her very much." She turned to Wesley. "Listen, I'm Jean Grey. I'm an associate of Charles Xavier and –"
"And you also work with a Cyclops who shoots people with laser beams."
Jean brought a hand to her temple. "They're not laser beams, they're – never mind. Look. Cyclops is – Scott is not just a colleague. I –" When she had read Wesley, he gave off a bit of a white knight vibe. Maybe she could get some use out of that. Putting a little quiver in her voice, she said, "I love him. I'm going to marry him."
"You just said you were going to kick his ass," Kitty interjected.
"Yes. . .Kitty," said Jean. "And if I didn't love him so much, I wouldn't have to kick his ass so hard."
Wesley coughed and looked at the floor.
"You know I can read your mind anyway."
"I was just going to say --" Looking at a spot slightly over her shoulder -- certainly not at anything she was (or wasn't) wearing -- he mumbled, "Are you sure you don't usually dress like this?"
Jean put a hand on her hip. "What about you? That Masterpiece Theatre accent doesn't exactly go with leather and a crossbow. And what do my fiance's special abilities have to do with the reason we're here?"
"My employer has particular abilities of his own. As much as I regret to say so, this isn't the first time Angel has come up missing. The last time he disappeared in similar circumstances, it was to an establishment that specialized in staging gladiatorial games between -- special individuals."
"A fight club?" Kitty squeaked. "Oh my God, I've seen that movie like fifty times. The part where the guy just starts beating on himself and –" She mimed punches. "Bang! Pow! And then the girl gets him to feel her breasts and -- " Her eyes traveled to Jean, and she trailed off.
"John again?"
"Jubilee," Kitty answered meekly.
"For what it's worth," said Wesley, speaking directly to Kitty, "I don't think any teacher who makes her students go out dressed like this can complain about an R-rated movie."
Jean whirled on him. "Do you actually have any constructive suggestions? Because if my colleague is going to be fighting your boss, Scott is not the person I'd be worried about."
Wesley raised a supercilious eyebrow. "Angel is quite capable of fending for himself. I hardly think a few laser beams –"
"They're not lasers," Jean snapped. "They are concussive force blasts based on solar energy and like any mutation it's not something he has any control over so I'd thank you not to mock a man you've never met just because --" She could have kept this rant up for quite a while, but she noticed Wesley's face getting whiter as she spoke. "What?"
"Did you just say 'solar'? Oh dear." He crossed his arms and lowered his head, a pose that Jean found not entirely unfamiliar. Then he looked up and jutted out his chin and – in a tone Jean definitely recognized -- said, "All right, then. We need a plan."
TBC