Well, finedy-dandy, Elise thought. The doors were louvered, so she could peek out where the action was. After tucking her knife in the proper sheath, she wriggled her fingers between the short slats, coaxing them open. Much better. A more panoramic view, if interrupted by thin wooden stripes and partly blocked by her would-be rescuer. But she had no business hiding in a man's bedroom, even a seemingly sweet fellow like the new guy.
That rascal! He was holding the door closed, tail wrapped about the round white porcelain handles. What nerve, and how did he know she'd try to pounce out? Most women would stay put and cower.
She didn't plan on remaining tucked away very long. For one thing, she'd landed on her bum, and the bullwhip was digging into her hip. Besides, it was impossible to be useful in the enclosed space. Scooting closer to the back wall of her hidey-hole, she encountered a hard object against her arm. Further inspection revealed something metallic – and ornate, judging by the delicate protuberances as she slid her fingertips across it. Any man who shoved her into his bedroom closet shouldn't take her to task for giving in to a little honest curiosity. What the heck? She had nothing better to do, so grasped whatever leaned against the far corner and pulled.
A sword! What kinda guy did they invite to work here?
At last Wagner moved away from the doors, catapulting himself to the ceiling to skitter across it; he slithered over the lintel, and in a moment, Elise heard a choking cry, swiftly cut off, before he leaned in, piggybacked on a stumbling intruder. As the duo returned in reverse to the other room, Nightcrawler slammed the bedroom door shut with his right hand while the left continued to push upwards on the chin of his involuntary mount.
Something else was pressing against her rump; she grabbed the cool metallic cylinder and brought it to her lap for observation. A flashlight: perfect! The controls were exactly where expected; it was one of hers, borrowed but never returned by the former occupant of this room.
Trapped in her shelter as it were, she surveyed the environment. Not many clothes in the way; he had, what, three? of something dark with ... red in the middle... kinda like leotards, hanging not by the pointy shoulders but draped in half over sturdy wooden hangers. Oh, uniforms. Better than Wolverine's ridiculous getup -- not that she'd ever say that to Logan's face, masked or otherwise. A few shirts featuring busy patterns and nifty buttons, a black woolen duster, and a couple of hoodie jackets. But no shoes. Odd. His feet were different, so maybe he only wore custom footwear like the white boots of the uniform. Or, like Benjy Grimm and Henry "Bones" McCoy, didn't need any?
He did that smelly pop-goes-the-weasel thing again, looked around the room, and seized a brass lamp to conk the head of the fellow whose neck was locked in the grip of the blue guy's arm. With a glance at the closet, he flashed that brilliant smile and said, "One down, six to go," and BAMF! disappeared again, leaving the body slumped in a heap on the floor. Elise scrabbled out to retrieve the guns the man had dropped, shoving them under the bed for the time being. The thumps and grunts of heated struggle, coming closer, convinced her to return dutifully to the closet in all haste.
Right in the nick of time. The door to his room opened – his tail twisting the handle – then the X-man tumbled backward, a gargantuan baddie in a wrestling embrace. "Try picking on someone your own size," he suggested as his slender but vigorous arms throttled the breath from the behemoth, who joined his fellow invader on the floor. A pounce, and Wagner was out the door; another heartbeat and his torso slid into view as he shut it again, fire-snapping eyes glancing in her direction. The noises of physical strife continued through the walls.
Someone was shoved against the wall which the bedroom shared with the living room, hard enough to dislodge a roll of heavy paper from the shelf above the place where Elise squatted. She twisted on her ankles, unrolling the treasure, and shone the light on it. A circus poster! Well, duh. But – on the trapeze – it was The New Guy. The fancy writing referred to him as The Incredible Nightcrawler. If he expected more treats in her kitchen, there would be a price to pay, with the currency of information. The thought came that he might be the first X-man since Wolverine to arrive complete with perfected powers and code name.
BAMF! He had two villains this time, a head nestled in the crook of each elbow. She wondered if their senses strained as hers had, to keep up with the stinky-tornado effect. As they sought to swing at him, he bent back – how the heck flexible could he be, mutant or no?! – and the impact of their jabs knocked them both out. He rammed their skulls for good measure and deposited them on top of the others. "I hope the cleaning service doesn't mind a little heavy lifting," he grinned, and disappeared with that car-smack sound and the obligatory cloud o' stink. The tap-tap-slide of his Bavarian accent made the remark even funnier for some reason.
Sitting in the closet grew wearisome. Why did she take this job, anyway? Oh, right: good pay, close enough to the folks for visits but far enough away for independence, use of a house all to herself (including the privilege of adding on such things as the hydroponic garden and a hothouse), a huge operating budget along with a totally boss kitchen at her discretion, and a chance to meet interesting people. "Interesting people," did that include the freakazoids intent on destroying the mansion this very day? Not exactly what she'd had in mind.
Maybe she should get out. Nightcrawler, Incredible or otherwise, needed to learn sooner rather than later that nobody excluded Elise Stringfellow from the action for long. Upon her hiring, The Prof had given her warnings about dangers likely to be encountered, but she'd never promised to sit back without defending herself, or others if the occasion demanded.
On the other hand, it was cozy-ish in the nice clean closet, and the circus boy seemed capable of handling a few rowdy ill-wishers.
Spoken too soon. She peered throught the slats and witnessed the lean blue form being tugged at by several brawny guys, each grasping a different writhing appendage as the bedroom door sagged off its sturdy hinges. He'd said six to go, then downed three, and now there were ... five, count 'em, five? Guess the guy was too busy to count precisely. Or too thrilled.
Or … more were coming all the time.
[to be continued ...]