Title: Lost Causes

Author: the laws of transitivity

Rating: PG-13 (For now, at least)

Summary: Toad thought that he could put his torturous childhood behind him, but someone appears from his past and brings it all screaming back.

Disclaimer: I don't own the X-Men.

Please Read and Review.

Chapter One

Present day Manhattan

"It's Toad," he barked, "Sabertooth, wake up! Over!"

A moment later, a gruff, sleepy, yet concerned voice crackled over the Com unit. "I'm here. What's the problem? Is there activity?"

Toad sat back in his seat and picked at the dirt under his fingernails. "Nope. Jus' turned off th'telly an' now he's going to sleep. Over."

With a groan of irritation, Sabe snapped at him, "Runt, when was the last time one of these Com units failed?"

"Uh… never? Why? Over."

"Because they all work two-ways so why d'you bother with all that 'copy' 'over' shit?"

He paused, trying to come up with a good reason for it. The real reason, of course, was that it sounded cool. "I's jus'… a habit. From th' old radios," he told him.

Sabertooth snorted. "Yeah, well, you sound like a five-year-old playing cop, so shut it."

Glad that the oversized cat wasn't there to see him blushing, Toad sank down in his seat. "Look, Vic, this guy hasn' done anythin' interesting in three days. Why're we still doing surveillance on him?"

"Because you fucked up at Liberty," his friend explained easily, "You're lucky you didn't get sacked altogether, but now you've got the shit job. Deal with it."

"Yeh, well, he's down for th'night, so I'm goin' back to the apartment an' sleepin' in a bed for a change," Toad grumbled back.

"If anything happens, it's your ass."

With that statement of approval, Toad put down the Com unit and put the truck into drive. He was staying in a shitty corner of town. It was mutant friendly and therefore poor as dirt. Magneto had apartments and safe houses rented out under various aliases throughout the city. This was probably one of the worse ones.

He forgot all about that when he got to the front door, though. His jaw dropped along with the keys that fell next to his feet. There was a large, dripping frog stuck to his door with a knife through its middle. The sight of it didn't bother him. Gore was no big deal for an assassin, but that meant someone knew he was there. That meant no sleeping there. He retreated back to the truck immediately and got into the truck.

"I'm blown," he barked into the Com unit.

Sabertooth sounded sleepy again. "Already? Jesus that was fast."

"Not tha' kind of blown, moron," Toad snapped, "If it was tha' kind of blown, I'd sound happy. Do I sound happy to you?!" He didn't sound happy.

"Okay, what are you talking about?" the cat demanded.

He took a deep breath as he took off toward a motel. "There was a frog. Stabbed t'my door."

There was a pause on the other end. "So someone knows you're staying there," he summarized slowly, "So you have to get out."

"Thank you, genius boy," he muttered, "I'm stayin' in a motel tonight. Tell th'boss there's a leak." There was no response, so for good measure, he added, "Over and out."

The next day went business as usual during surveillance. The subject went to work, picked his nose, watched CSPAN, and went to sleep.

However, when Mort returned to the motel, there was another surprise waiting for him. It was a small figurine of a nun that he recognized at once. Rita of Casca: Patron saint of lost causes and abused children. Her small head lay on the ground next to her upright body in front of his room. Who would know that? He didn't talk to anybody about his stay in the orphanage.

He moved to another safe house that was a bit out of his way.

The next night, he came home to something a bit more straightforward. In the front stoop, sunk into the concrete as if it had been written in the day it was poured, were the words, 'I'M GOING TO KILL YOU, MORT'. He was starting to panic now.

Mort swore loudly and backed away from the stoop, glancing around wildly for the threat. Nobody used his real name. Nobody knew about the saint. No one. He'd gone so pale, he might have passed for a normal human in a dark room. "Shit," he muttered, hurrying back to his truck, "Shit, shit, shit…" He got in, slammed the door behind him, and sat there, staring straight ahead.

After a moment, he jerked the truck into gear and started off down the street. There was nothing for it but to find another motel- far away. Maybe he'd drive to Brooklyn. It might throw whoever was tailing him off for a few days.

Little did he know, the stowaway in the bed of the pickup was laying comfortably, ready to go wherever he planned to.