"Tante Mattie, what be all dat noise?" He asked, eyeing her over a big steaming bowl of her famous jambalaya.

She hummed softly as she strained the rice over the kitchen sink. "Oh dat jus' be de neighbors again, chile."

"Damn dey be LOUD!"

"Remy LeBeau, you watch yo mout' fore Mattie has to teach it somethin'." Lapin and Henri snickered at him from across the table and he stuck his tongue out at them both using the distraction to snatch a piece of fresh cornbread out of the basket sitting in the center of the battered metal table. "An' you put dat piece of bread back right dis instant. Dere be no t'ievin' food at mah table, boy."

"Yes Tante Mattie," he scowled, replacing the still warm bread. But the banging kept on, and he could've sworn the neighbors were calling his name. Although he knew better than to get up from her table without asking to be excused, Remy couldn't help but be curious. He swung himself around and planted his feet on the floor…only to find himself blinking at the door to his bedroom at the mansion. Split seconds later he realized that the banging in his dream was coming from that self same door. He shook his head violently once, then twice, dislodging cobwebs that never should have been there to begin with. Slowly he stood, allowing muscle to stretch while he gained his equilibrium, marveling at the fact that he had been having a good dream that didn't involve blood or murder or sewers…yet.

"Ya in there Swamprat?"

"Merde," he muttered, reaching blindly for a T-shirt or some kind of clothing to cover the upper half of himself. He didn't like the idea of chancing another broken nose just for answering the door half naked. Remy always fancied himself a fast learner when it came to Rogue's mannerisms, though his teammates would certainly claim otherwise. "F'once 'm tryin' ta do what you done tol' me!" He attempted to snarl at that damn woman pounding on his door. He winced as the sound of his voice reached his ears, realizing it sounded very similar to a whine. Grabbing hold of something that was cloth but wasn't his sheets, he threw it over his head and staggered to the door. After a few seconds of fighting with the doorknob he managed to wrench it open. "Whatchu want?"

"Now that's a fashion statement!" Rogue giggled in reaction to his appearance. Curiously, Remy glanced down at what he was wearing, noting it was a pair running shorts that he'd meant to put in the laundry last week. Deciding it really didn't matter he shrugged.

"Dis what you woke me up for? Comment on m'wardrobe, chere?"

"Viable," Rogue simply replied, crossing her arms over her chest and assuming her patented self satisfied smirk. The word failed to make purchase in his sleep fogged mind, and he just stared at her blankly as way of response. "The word, Remy!" Rogue shouted, and stared back at him disbelievingly. His face and his brain felt frozen, and Rogue, he was pretty sure, had finally lost the remainder of her own mind as well. "From the translation…." Still nothing. "The one I couldn't figure out…."

"96% viable…." Once his mouth muttered the words it was as if someone upstairs had slapped his mind awake with a nine iron. "Fuck!" He stared at her momentarily like a deer caught in headlights. "Dat cain't be no good."

"Exactly what I thought. When I figgered it out it was like a chill crept up my back and somethin' froze in my blood."

"Tol' ya to stop hangin' around with Iceman."

Rogue returned his deadpan stare. "Har-har-har. What are we gonna do?"

Remy thought about it for a minute, then gently grabbed her by the shoulder and turned her back toward the hall. "We gon' do nuttin', chere. I am gonna talk to my contact in Moscow when he lands, then –"

"Remy…."

"Qui est-ce?" He shouted, feeling the annoyance seeping out through every pore.

"Yer guild contact should already be on the ground, didn't Theoren tell you he was flyin' out yesterday?"

Remy bounced those words around inside his head for a few seconds. "Non, he said he'd get somebody out dere dis mornin', den you worked on de translation for me…"

"That was yesterday, Cajun." Rogue stated.

She may as well have dumped a bucket of ice water on him. "Y'mean I've been asleep fer a whole day?" He shouted, turning to stare wild eyed out one of his windows before ripping the shorts off from around his neck and getting down to business looking for a real shirt. "What de hell has everybody been doin' all day?"

Rogue snickered. "Pretty much what we been trained and scheduled to do. Shockingly the house didn' fall down without you micromanagin' it to bits, an' nobody even got killed. It was amazin!"

"Now look who ain' funny." Remy grumbled, plopping himself down in his desk chair, shirt forgotten. "Cerebro!"

"Good afternoon, Gambit." Absently he wondered why the Professor had programmed the computer's voice to be so eerily friendly. At times it was unnerving.

"Afternoon?" he mouthed to Rogue, who only stuck her tongue out and shrugged in response. Damn stubborn woman, he silently cursed her. "Cerebro I need you to dial the phone number Theoron inputted into the system yesterday. Please encrypt transmission and monitor the line for interference."

"Certainly Gambit." There was a pause while the computer dialed up the direct line to Moscow, during which Remy violently shooed Rogue back out of his room. "Your line is connected Gambit, have a pleasant rest of your day."

"T'anks." Remy mumbled, turning toward the display screen on his computer. Because this wasn't a video connection, the screen would stay blank, but it felt odd having a phone conversation into nowhere. It was one of the reasons he had never taken to using a Bluetooth. He was still somewhat convinced that it was a tool used by schizophrenics to help them appear normal in the everyday world. He heard the door close behind him and didn't bother turning to see if Rogue had decided to stay or go since it honestly didn't matter one way or the other what she overheard.

"Ello." Came the voice through the computer speakers.

"Bon jour my friend." Remy smirked, "an' how is Moscow treating you today?"

There was a pause on the line. "Pretty bloody awful, to be honest. You have any idea how fuckin' cold this place is?"

"Pretty sure what I'm payin' ya will more than make up for a little frostbite, mon ami."

A snort carried through the speakers. "Easy fer a body who ain't riskin' loosin' his little mate in the cold to say, but yah. So what am I doin' out in the middle of the former Soviet Union?"

"Well, I be needin' some information and I ain't in a position to be gettin' it on my own, so you gonna be doin' a little hands on research for me."

There was decent pause. "Research my bloody ass." Gambit felt a grin grow on his face. He was pretty sure he liked this particular contact. "A body don't get flown to Russia in the middle of winter to do research. I ain't no stupid git, mate."

"Non, 'parently not. You're investigatin' a company for me. See dey interested in sellin', which would be fine by me homme – cept I been hearin' some pretty nasty rumors about some 'side projects' dey got goin' on."

The voice was silent for almost a full minute. "You flew me half way across the world so you could avoid a bloody PR nightmare?" The hollowness of the statement carried through the line. "You're loony."

"Per'aps, mais I be de one writin' de checks, non? I t'ink I'm entitled to some eccentricities. De company be pretty deep underground, y' gone have to dig to get some contacts and intel."

"That's not a problem." Remy heard a deep exhale. "This company got a name?"

The grin stretched into a smile and idly Remy tapped his fingers on the desktop by way of a victory dance. The little fish had taken the bait, now it just needed to lure the bigger fish out of hiding. "Mutragenics."
"Never 'eard of 'em."

"Most people haven't."

"What exactly am I lookin' for?"

"I wan know 'bout anyt'ing suspicious, anyt'ing dat jus' don' seem right. My contact tol' me dat you were good wit' y' gut. Fin' dem, find out eveyt'ing y' can. I be touchin' base in tree days, my financiers be needin' answers by den."

He heard his contracted employee choke audibly. "You ain' askin' for much, are you? Jesus!" There was another long pause. "Alright, I'll let you know what I got in three days, but you ain' bein' very specific, which means you get what you bloody get."

"Jus' remember, de deeper you dig de bigger your check's gone get." Remy pressed the escape button on his keyboard at that, disconnecting the call.

"Yah didn't tell him bout any of the stuff we found." Rogue suddenly protested from behind him.

"Y' right, chere. I didn'."

Her left foot began tapping the floor erratically, sometimes Remy wondered if she even had control of her reactions. "Why in the blazes not?"

There was something in the look on her face this time that kept him securely gripping the handle that her comments typically made him fly off of, something that he hadn't seen before: curiosity. "Y' actually wanna know, don' ya?" Rogue tersely nodded the affirmative. Realizing that for this one time she was not questioning his authority, his motives, his methods or his ethics but actually attempting to understand shocked him deeply enough that he motioned for her to take a seat. For the first time since he had known this annoyingly stubborn woman she was acknowledging that she did not, in fact, possess the answers to all of life's mysteries within her coiled fists. Rather she was striving to learn not only what it was that Remy LeBeau did to work his magic, but why he did it. The why was something that he had yearned to impart on her so many times before that he found himself somewhat skeptical that she would grasp the sometimes counter intuitive reasoning behind his methods.

Much as she tried to deny it, Rogue was a battering ram, hit first and think later. Remy, on the other hand, lived the life of a true and trained thief. Smoke and mirrors did more than keep you alive, they were tools that could be used to manipulate everything around you: the people, the environment, and most importantly outcomes and opportunities. A thief who couldn't ensure a perfect heist was not worthy of the title 'thief'. Of course, smoke and mirrors backfire. Therein lay the risk and the excitement, the moment when you have to trust that you have truly judged everything correctly. More than anything else, being a thief was about TRUST, which Rogue lacked in ample quantities.

At this moment, he was trusting that he had read her expression correctly and that the time was finally right to reveal to her a sliver of the information that he had longed to give her years ago if she had only cared. "It's simple, chere. My ground informant, he ain' guild, which means I can't trust dat he gone keep a secret. So I ain' gone give him a secret. If dese people as bad as you an' me t'ink den we don' wan' dem knowin' dat somebody onto deir little game. I don' tell him what I lookin' for an' he can' tell dem what I lookin' for. If de left hand don' know what de right han' be doin' den both hands covered by 'plausible deniability'." He watched her nod slowly as she puzzled her way through what he had just told her.

"So what you're sayin is that you don't trust this guy not to screw up. Which means that you aren't gonna tell him what your suspicions are because then he might rat us out if he gets caught."

If it didn't mean a guaranteed coma, Remy could've kissed her. "Zactly! Plus, it also gives me an idea of how 'top secret' all dis stuff really be. If dey not really tryin' hard to keep it under wraps den it probably not as big as all dat. But, if my guy lands himself in some serious trouble…" he watched her eyes widen as she caught on. "Bingo! We found ourselves some bad guys to take care of."

"He's bait!" Rogue stood and stared at him in a way that he was pretty sure meant she was either awestruck, dumbstruck or about to strike him. "Y'all're usin him to try and stir up a hornet's nest without even warning him."

He was starting to feel like the latter of the three options was most likely. "He was warned when he picked up a Guild contract, chere. Nobody who ain' spectin' trouble ever gon' make it to the level where we'd hire 'em. He's gettin' paid by de T'ieves Guild to investigate evil rumors bein' passed around about a company's practices. He's gotta know dat dere's some element of danger involved." Somehow the volume of this conversation had turned itself up to shouting, he realized, and with some effort calmed himself back down. "It ain' like T'eoren gonna just up and hire some green kid off de streets who ain' got two brain cells to rub toget'er to fulfill a guild contract for me."

The sneer plastered across Rogue's face at that comment looked rather painful. "Yer right, swamprat. Yer cousin ain't half as thoughtless as some of his younger relatives." That said Rogue swooped out of his office and slammed the door behind herself hard enough for a hairline crack to form along the frame.


Growing up as a child in a world rife with uncertainty, Bishop had found the ability to calm himself through routine. What might appear an obsession to some was merely a habit of trying to create order within the chaos of a life spun out of control. Food was eaten in a particular manner, clothes put on in a certain order, prayers always said at a set time; all of it had a reason and purpose. The soothing mantra calmed his frayed nerves when nothing else could. But of all his habitual routines, nothing enabled the same response as cleaning and oiling his weapons. Each piece had to be methodically removed and placed in just such a way to ensure that the whole would be reassembled correctly when the job was done. This was the equivalent of Bishop's 'me time', which was why the interruption begun with "Whatcher doin' Bub?" was more unwelcome than typical.

"Cleaning," he replied tersely, choosing to concentrate on the oily rag in his hands to avoid making eye contact with his sudden companion. He heard a snort from his left and glanced over to see the stocky intruder handling a piece of barrel, eyeing it dubiously. He forcefully willed himself not to clench the stock in his hands any harder than necessary and opened his lips just enough to squeeze out "you mind." He watched Logan shrug and toss the cylinder down onto the table top like a worthless broken toy.

Bishop watched it roll to a stop against a small bearing and stared, wondering if he should let it lie or realign it in its proper position with all of its compatriots. "Got a job fer ya." If it hadn't been so silent in the back shed where Bishop habitually broke down his weapons he might not have heard the statement. As it was he felt at a loss for exactly how to reply. Logan had made it a statement, not a request. This meant he wasn't entirely sure if he could refuse. Glancing again over his shoulder he merely lifted an eyebrow as an indication of his acknowledgement of the statement. Logan apparently took this as indication to have a seat on one of the wooden crates of ammunition lined up along the back wall and simply nodded back.

Realizing that nothing short of his full attention would convince the Wolverine to vacate his domain, Bishop carefully replaced the small part he was handling and turned bodily toward Logan. "What 'job' is that?"

A feral grin appeared on Logan's face, "You n' me are taking a mini vacation, boss' orders."

Bishop leaned backward against the table and crossed his arms over his chest. "I see." He contemplated whether or not it was worth asking exactly what Logan's idea of a vacation was, then decided he may be better off not knowing what the deranged man considered to be fun.

"Ain'tcha curious where we're goin'?"

Bishop could see the vicious glint in Logan's eyes, but for the sake of simply having his shed to himself once again decided to humor him. "Where is it we are being sent?"

"Madripoor."

Now suddenly the wicked smile on Logan's face made perfect sense. "No." He stated, turning his back to Logan once again to resume his routine.

"Sorry kid, but you can't back out on this one. Gambit's sending you and me to dredge the local rumor mill." He heard Logan stand and felt himself pressing his fist down into the table top out of sheer aggravation. "We'll be leaving tomorrow, but don't worry." He heard the door behind him open, "you'll be back to see 'Ro again in just a couple days." With that the door slammed shut behind the Canadian. For a split second Bishop wondered if he should go after him and attempt to explain that there was nothing going on between himself and Storm. However, logically he also realized almost immediately that with Logan there was no explaining or reasoning, and attempt to do so would only cause Logan to believe that he was correct in the first place.

Madripoor. He entertained the thought for a brief moment, then shuddered. If there were any place on this planet right now that resembled the future of his birth it was Madripoor. Eventually it would, in his reality, become the Witness' base of operations. It was a city of criminals where the only valid currencies were: violence, drugs, alcohol and sex. What on earth Gambit could possibly have them fishing for in that tiny Asian city, Bishop wasn't even about to hazard a guess.

Instead, he returned to his guns and his cleaning. Even though all his routine preparations for the week were now null and void, the order in which he cleaned his guns would always remain the same. It was something he could always count on, even as the world around him seemed to crumble.