Boston, Massachusetts

The Past, Ten Weeks Ago

She often had the television tuned to the twenty-four hour news station. The incessantly regurgitated news updates and the political pundits were of no interest to her. It was the DOW and NASDAQ ticker crawling along the bottom of the screen that held her attention. The rest was just background noise and usually ignored. That changed the day the Phoenix Force rained balls of flame from the heavens. The city of Boston had sustained some damage, but not like New York, London, Wakanda, or San Francisco. Even as the sights and sounds of terror could be seen from the office window of her brownstone home, she kept her eyes trained on the television screen. Her sudden interest in world news had nothing to do with the terrifying events of that day. In fact, she had only turned the television on to discover why Wall Street was closed. This was a rare event that had only happened twice in her memory; the first time having occurred after the events of 9/11, the second and most recent due to the superstorm that had left New York without power.

She watched reports of devastation that left most of the world's infrastructure in ruin. There would be no trades made today, no exchange of stock, no money to be made. There was nothing to do but sit and watch. So she sat on the edge of her mattress staring at the television screen, the remote held limply in her hand, watching the events unfold with the same vague sense of helplessness that she felt for the last three decades of her life.

That was when she saw him. The hand that held the remote came up so quickly, the device nearly launched itself from her fingertips. She hastily stabbed the pause button and rewound the live feed on her DVR. Her hands shook as she did this, her eyes not believing what they had seen. Seeing the flash of images on the screen a second time, she paused the feed again. The caption at the bottom of the screen said the footage was from Paris, France. The images in the background showed the Paris skyline aflame. But it was the man captured in the foreground that had claimed her attention. It was the briefest of clips and she carefully used the forward and back buttons on the remote to move frame by frame, so she could witness every instance of his sudden and remarkable appearance on the television screen.

She felt all at once a sensation of disbelief, of surprise, and of fear. It was impossible that he was alive, and yet there he was, she was certain of it. Could there be another person on the planet who had eyes like that, who looked so strikingly familiar to her as the man on the screen? She lost track of how long she sat before the television, clicking back and forth between frames of his first spontaneous appearance to his last and equally quick disappearance. She thought he might have been smiling as he spun before the camera, completely oblivious to his audience as he sent a missile burning bright with some kind of energy into the air. The missile, which looked very much like a playing card, detonated a descending fireball into harmless fragments. He then leapt from the rooftop and was gone. She allowed the clip to play at normal speed; it couldn't have been more than five or six seconds of footage. The reporter's voice came to her then.

...The vigilante team of mutants known as the X-Men, seen battling one another...

She stood and walked to her laptop where it sat on her desk. She lifted the lid and entered her username and passcode. She rested her fingers lightly on the desktop to keep them from trembling. She knew of the X-Men, but had paid little attention to the affairs of superheroes. A basic search in her web-browser turned up numerous news articles which she scanned for further information or perhaps an image of the man she had seen on television. She knew that the X-Men resided in San Francisco, on an island named Utopia, but as the news reports came in, it seemed that Utopia had been destroyed. Not far down the list of search results she encountered the name of a school: The Jean Grey School for Higher Learning located in Salem Center, New York.

The link took her to a webpage of what one could assume was an elite preparatory school, except that the entire staff and student body seemed to be composed of mutants. There was an admissions page, information about the campus, and a calendar of events. She clicked on the tab marked "Faculty & Staff." The page began with a headshot of the Headmistress of the School, Katherine Anne Pryde and the Headmaster, James L. Howlett. The remainder of the staff was listed alphabetically. She had only passed Robert Drake, Rachel Grey, and Samuel Guthrie when she found Remy LeBeau. She stared at the small image that accompanied his name. The face wore the same close-lipped grin as the man she had seen on the news report.

Now she'd seen his face and had a name. She sat transfixed for a moment, possessed with the thought that she was glad he'd been taken in by a French family. It wasn't too much to assume that he had perhaps been raised Catholic as well. He was also a teacher; that must mean he was reasonably intelligent and liked children. She took some small consolation in that. Then followed the feeling of terrible loss, the twenty, no, nearly thirty years of separation she'd experienced, of irretrievable time stolen from her. Then came the anger.

He had been lying to her all this time, letting her believe their son was dead.

~ oOo ~

Helen Moreux hadn't yet completed her Political Science degree at Tulane University when she was accepted as an intern for the senator's re-election campaign. She was credited with excellent writing and organizational skills, was well-spoken and a spirited debater, as well as being a very good student. She never missed deadlines and was never late to class. That all seemed to change after she met the senator and had the bad luck to fall in love with him entirely.

She was nineteen when she first met Senator DesJarlais, Republican, State of Louisiana. Though she had been campaigning for him for the last six months, making phone calls, training volunteers, canvassing neighborhoods, and organizing fund-raising events, she hadn't formally been introduced to DesJarlais until the night of his re-election. He was warmly thanking each member of his staff with a handshake or hug. She thought him incredibly handsome, though he was quite a bit older than she was. He was tall, with distinguished Gallic features, olive complexion, and a great head of hair that had only just begun to turn gray at the temples. He was even more charming in person than he was on screen, with his softly accented voice and his dark brown eyes. To hear him speak was to have your vote. His political opponent called him DesJarlais le Beau Parleur; "The Smooth Talker," as it seemed that was the only thing he did.

Helen was just one of the many eager young interns dressed in dark suits, with red ties or flag lapel pins. Still, it felt special when the Senator took her hand in his and smiled into her eyes while thanking her for her hard work and dedication. She had helped organize the re-election celebration party. She had chosen the decorations, the caterers, and the band. She knew what was being served, the food and drink. When he passed her a champagne flute, she demurred. She wasn't old enough to drink.

"My apologies," he said with surprise. "It's only you seem so mature for someone so young."

She felt herself blush and she looked away from his penetrating gaze. He briefly squeezed her shoulder before he moved on to the next intern hoping to bask in the glow of DesJarlais' attention.

Later, she found herself on the back veranda overlooking the country club grounds where the party was being held. She felt anxious as she looked over the partygoers from the balcony. Was the food good, was there enough of it? Was the music appropriate? Were people enjoying themselves? Given time to think, she reexamined her every decision for its most minute flaws. She found it difficult to enjoy herself. Her head ached and she pulled her brown hair loose from its chignon, letting it fall around her shoulders. It was November and the weather was pleasant and mild. Still, she put her arms around herself and shrugged into her jacket.

To her increasing nervousness, DesJarlais appeared, slipping through the glass French doors to join her on the veranda. He smiled at her and her heart fluttered.

"I understand it's you I should be thanking for this celebration," he said. He offered her the glass he held in his hand. "You deserve a bit of a reward. I won't tell if you don't."

She gave a forced girlish giggle which she instantly regretted, and took the champagne from his hand to cover up her embarrassment. "I can keep a secret," she said and was glad it was too dark for him to see her flushed face.

Helen searched her mind for something polite to say. "I'm sorry your wife couldn't make it. I hope she feels better soon."

DesJarlais looked remorseful. "Lynn thought it would be best to stay at home. These kinds of events...well, she tires easily."

Helen nodded her understanding. His wife had long been ill with recurring instances of cancer. Helen had only seen Lynn in images of the DesJarlais family shown on the campaign ads. The senator stood on a platform of strong, traditional family values and was pro-life. He and Lynn had two children, girls, both adopted and as different as two children could possibly be. Lynn herself was skeletally thin, but immaculately dressed and composed. She was from old money and a politically connected family.

"I had hoped to hold the event closer to your home in Lafayette, so she might have been able to come," Helen told him.

"That is very considerate of you," he replied.

At a loss and feeling flustered under his gaze Helen said: "I – I don't want to keep you from your guests. Congratulations, Mr. Senator."

"Please, call me Ray," he said and took her hand. "And you're Helen. My campaign manager speaks very highly of you." He surprised her by genteelly kissing the back of her hand. She felt like a real southern belle being courted by a beau. Helen immediately squelched the thought.

"Ray," she repeated. "I'm flattered. Thank you."

He straightened but still held her hand. "I'm impressed by you. I could really use someone with your talents with me in Washington."

Helen glanced away and put the champagne flute to her lips. She took a nervous sip.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked her.

She shook her head no and then in an effort to seem more adult, asked if he minded offering her a cigarette as well.

Helen didn't finish her degree, much to her parents' dismay. She felt that she could finish her bachelor's any time, but the offer to go to Washington D.C., to live what she had learned, was a once in a lifetime opportunity. She would be the professional assistant to the Senator. It opened up possibilities she hadn't considered before. Helen believed she would someday work for a not-for-profit, lobbying politicians for support and funding for the Urban Institute. Now she could potentially serve as a member of a senator's staff. Who knew where that would lead?

~ oOo ~

In the months that followed, Helen was never far from Honoré DesJarlais' side. His wife remained home in Lafayette, Louisiana with their two daughters. Helen lived in a nicely appointed apartment in Arlington, Virginia. Ray became a frequent visitor.

Helen was in love with him, and as he often told her, he loved her as well. But in mid-March, Ray went home to his wife. When he was away, it gave Helen time to think and consider her situation. She was remorseful. She hated disappointing her parents and felt guilty for not finishing the degree she'd come so close to achieving. Worse, she was an adulterer, the Senator's mistress. But then Ray came back, and when they were together she never believed for a moment that he cared for anyone other than her. The next time he returned home to Louisiana, Helen began concocting scenarios where she and Ray could be together forever, out in public. Lynn was a sickly woman. Perhaps she would pass away from her dreadful disease and end her suffering. Helen was ashamed to have entertained the thought. Ray would never divorce Lynn. Though other politicians' careers survived through such affairs, Ray's career was based on making as few waves as possible while subtly acquiring connections and allies in Congress. He wouldn't bring undue attention to himself with scandal.

Helen could give Ray something his wife Lynn, with all her money, business connections, and political friends, could not: a baby. It was a desperate act. She pretended to continue taking her birth control pills while hoping to get pregnant. She told herself it was out of love for him. Even after she discovered her pregnancy, she kept it secret. Helen went home to Louisiana and waited months before telling Ray about the baby. By the regulations Honoré helped to enforce in his own home state, it would be too late for her to get an abortion. Besides, there were few clinics left, especially in the rural area outside of New Orleans where she lived with her parents.

He was not pleased with the news, even when she told him the baby was a boy. Helen was terrified Honoré would leave her then, so in an act of panic, she threatened to tell his wife about their affair. Ray became instantly conciliatory after that. He went back to his loving ways, doting on her, buying gifts for the baby and sending money for her medical bills. Helen began to believe everything would turn out all right.

Helen was alone at the hospital when her baby was born. She was in the largest medical facility in New Orleans, Big Charity, an exceptionally busy hospital which often served the impoverished. She was one of many women giving birth that day, her son would be one of nearly two dozen infants. Helen intended on naming her boy Grant. It was a strange name to choose for a southerner, but it wasn't the Union commander she was thinking of. She was thinking 'grant' in the form of giving, of granting a pardon, or a wish. She was thinking you could also take something for granted.

The moment Grant was born, she waited to hear his cry, then continued to wait. The seconds seemed to stretch on for eons. Her baby wasn't breathing. The doctor and nurses rushed to suction fluid from his nose and mouth. At last, she heard him give a coughing cry, and her infant was placed against her bare breast. His crying stopped instantly. His skin turned from blue to pink as she held him, and she was grateful he was alive. She moved him to gaze into his eyes, hoping to see vestiges of the father's face in her son's features. What she saw was that her child's eyes were unusually dark, and glowed like red coals.

There was much commotion over the baby's appearance. Helen continued to stare into his face with awe. The nurse took her child and he was spirited away for examination. Helen lay for hours on the hospital bed waiting for Grant to be returned. But she never saw her baby again. Instead, Honoré appeared to tell her that the baby had died. He gave her documents to sign, granting her son's body to science to ensure that no other child would suffer from the same condition. Helen was stunned into submission.

She scrutinized her actions for clues as to why she had so horribly failed her infant son. Was it the cigarettes she now smoked regularly? Was it the alcohol she imbibed? Perhaps it was her own evil actions, and this was some kind of divine punishment. She was inconsolable. She no longer cared if Honoré would ever love her as much as she loved him. He surprised her by continuing their relationship. He too, seemed broken-hearted and contrite. Honoré begged for her forgiveness, and too weak-willed to do anything else, she remained by his side.

~ oOo ~

Boston, Massachusetts

The Past, Seven Weeks Ago

Helen no longer served as Ray's personal assistant. She remained at the home he bought for her in Boston, trading stocks by day. She was regularly supplied with trading tips through e-mail which she checked every twenty minutes. Messages were sent through an account she shared with Ray, kept in the drafts folder and never actually sent so they were not leaving any evidence of their actions. Honoré served on the Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations of the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission. He had connections within the DOJ, FBI, CIA, and SHIELD. Often he would hear of one investigation or another, and Helen would buy, sell, or hold depending on the situation.

Today's message re: NABC, the North American Banking Corporation, inferred an impending investigation into unreported money filtering to terrorist organizations. Being the sixth largest bank in the world, it stood to pay billions of dollars in fines just for allegations of money laundering. Helen chose to ignore the message.

It had been nearly a month since she had seen her son Grant Moreux, now known as Remy LeBeau, appear on television. She spent the days composing her thoughts. Helen was always very organized. Today she would make two phone calls. The first to her son, her words carefully chosen in the hope of making a connection with the child she lost twenty-six years ago. The second would be to a close family friend, a judge in New Orleans, who knew a man who might know a man who could be paid to end another man's life.

Helen thought of all the years that had been stolen from her while she waited for her love to be reciprocated. The years that she could have spent watching her child grow up. Helen would demand recompense for the years she had lost. She would see Honoré DesJarlais pay with his life.