Chapter Three: Meet and Greet

The Ballroom

Monet's polite smile had not so much as wobbled since Romanov's odd behaviour had prompted a prudent retreat, but inwardly she was seething. It was not that she was particularly jealous, Stark had merely been a diversion not an active pursuit, but it stung that she had not proven triumphant, as was her custom. Briefly she contemplated using her telepathy on the Russian woman regardless of her strange psychic defences- Monet knew that no-one could possibly match her mental mastery, but Romanov may prove resilient enough that her humiliation would be all the more satisfying. Monet considered her options. She could subsume Romanov's mind entirely, and make her act in unusual and embarrassing ways- an impromptu strip-tease perhaps, or running around yelling insults at everyone present. No, that was too crude, not subtle enough, and too unlike the Russian's normal poise; someone would suspect something was wrong. Of course, there were other options. Monet's telepathy was masterful enough that she could bypass Romanov's consciousness and simply seize control of her bodily functions; it would be amusing to watch the Russian try and maintain that arrogant posturing with her bowels and rectum voiding themselves uncontrollably (or at least, beyond Romanov's control.) Monet eventually ruled that option out as well. Although she was sure she could penetrate Romanov's defences, she had to concede it would be hard to do without making it obvious something was going on, and she was not about to give the redhead the satisfaction. She contemplated using her powers on Stark instead. Despite the ambiguous nature of their relationship, with Romanov's protective nature being professional not personal, you did not have to be as capable a telepath as Monet to tell that Stark's own feelings on the matter were much beyond professional. Some of the thoughts Monet was picking up from him were enough to make even someone as worldly and poised as her raise a bemused eyebrow, and it would make an entertaining diversion to make him vocalise some of them aloud- particularly the one involving hamsters and peanut butter. Monet would love to see Romanov remain aloof and professional after hearing that.

Eventually she decided to write the entire plan off, not as a failure- that would be unthinkable- but merely as a waste of time and effort that could be more productively spent elsewhere. She was forced to pause her planning by the sound of two very familiar giggles. It had not taken long for those idiot twins of hers to fall under the charm of a young man with passable wit and moderate good looks -from his appearance, Monet would have guessed him to be a relative of Sebastian Shaw, an industrialist who also happened to be one of the few people her father could not even dissemble politeness around and towards. For that reason alone it would be tempting to leave the situation as it was, simply for her father's reaction when (or if) he noticed. On the other hand, it would be a very sad day that a St. Croix had anything to do with those upstart posturing pretender Shaws, and it would give Monet a valid excuse to use her powers. She started to make her way over, mentally running through a list of hallucinations she would subject the arrogant young fool to, when a voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Excuse me, Ms. St. Croix?"

The newcomer had either the temerity or foolishness to dare to lay a hand on her bare shoulder without permission, and she whirled around to punish the transgression, only to be greeted with a smile so warm and charming even she found herself short of words. The hand belonged to a tall, blonde haired young man of about her own age, and even after he turned the smile down a few notches he remained one of the best-looking people she had ever seen outside a mirror.

"How did you know my name?" she demanded rudely, recovering admirably quickly. The smile vanished, but was replaced with an amused expression that proved annoyingly infectious; Monet had to make a concerted effort to stop her own lips twitching upwards.

"Your beauty precedes you, Ms St. Croix- you are the talk of everyone present," the man said smoothly, and mostly truthfully- it had not taken long to find someone who could identify the beautiful girl in the purple dress. Monet had by now fully recovered, and no matter how incredibly attractive she found the man she was not about to fall for a line like that.

"And you were doing so well," she snapped, swiping his hand away. "Follow me, and you lose that hand." She turned and flounced away. Warren watched her go, eyes drawn to the long, slim legs and firm, proud backside so prominently highlighted by her dress. It had been a long time since anyone had rejected him quite so brusquely, and there was now intrigue mixed to his more visceral interest, not to mention his suspicion that she was indeed the one responsible for the psychic probe he had felt earlier. He hurried to catch up with her, managing to catch up with her in the middle of the room amongst the dancing couples. Despite her earlier warning, he again reached for her shoulder. She spun around in anger, one hand raised reflexively, but Warren was still faster- one hand grasping the outstretched arm and the other snaking around her waist and pulling her close, into a waltz. His gamble that she would not cause a scene surrounded by others proved successful, and although her eyes blazed angrily at him she found herself falling into the dance.

"Enjoy yourself while you can, because I'm going to make you regret this for the rest of your short life," she murmured into his shoulder.

"It would be worth it," Warren whispered back. "Nothing could make me regret a dance with such a beautiful girl."

"Keep talking, please, it will only make it more satisfying to break you in half," Monet replied. Despite the anger she tried to put into her voice, not even Monet St. Croix could totally resist the devastating Worthington charm for long, and Warren sensed her body relax subtly.

"You have more powers than telepathy, then?" he guessed as they swayed to the music. Despite herself, Monet stiffened in surprise, but Warren spun them gently to hide her shock from those around them.

"How did you know that?" she asked, in as demanding a tone as could be mustered without raising her voice above a murmur. Warren gave her another smile and again she was obviously softened.

"Let us just say that it takes one to know one, Ms St. Croix," he suggested.

*You're a telepath?* the voice in his head had the same throaty, entrancing accent, and her curiosity was obvious. *No... But you are a mutant...* He felt the familiar but still unsettling sensation of a telepath exploring his mind. A second later the arm she had on his waist rose up and ran circumspectly across his back- or more accurately, an inch or so above it. Warren felt her cool fingers on his wings.

"Interesting," Monet said aloud, but still too quietly for a passer-by to hear. "How did you know it was me?"

She had clearly gathered that he had sensed her telepathic probe earlier, and was now trying a more mundane version to find out how- and why.

"Would you believe me that I didn't, and merely wanted an excuse to dance?" Warren said lightly.

"Would you believe me that I could crush your hand into powder if you try one more line like that?" Monet replied. Warren was intrigued by the contrast she presented- the incredibly attractive appearance, but the abrasive personality to repel anyone who came close. He was also aware enough of the deceptive, disproportionate strength in her slim arms to know she was perfectly capable of pulling through on her threat should she so wish.

"Why the hostility, Monet?" he asked. "I'm merely making small talk..."

The band reached the end of the song and Warren fully expected Monet to pull away and walk off, but although she did step backwards she did not leave, merely looked at him with an expression somewhere between annoyance and interest.

"Small talk, small interest," she said simply. "Clearly you lack the brains to match your looks."

The band started up again on their next song, and this time it was Monet who pulled Warren closer. The winged mutant was not foolish enough to mistake it for affection or attraction though- he was aware that Monet was establishing her physically superiority and making it clear whose terms the conversation was to be on.

"And you lack the manners to match your beauty," Warren said, his tone soft but words sharp. He saw the anger pass across Monet's face and smiled to himself. This girl was interesting and attractive but he was not about to let her walk all over him.

"At least you have a spine," Monet conceded. That seemed to be the closest to an apology he was going to receive, but he let it slide. He noticed that Monet was paying no attention to him, her body moving automatically but her mind elsewhere. Something about her expression was troubled and he realised she wasn't ignoring him to be rude, she was genuinely distracted- and disturbed.

"Monet? What's wrong?" he asked.

"Anger, lots of anger," she said vaguely. "It's coming closer..." Her expression changed to one of, if not fear, then at least severe concern. "Warren, we've got to get out of here, now." She fitted actions to words and began hauling him across the room with more haste than dignity. People had noticed and were beginning to murmur when suddenly a far more pressing concern grabbed the attention of all present as the door was smashed open and men wearing expensive suits and black masks piled into the room. Any thoughts of laughter at the incongruity of their appearance were instantly hushed by the sight of the heavy guns in their hands.

"No-one move!" one of the men bellowed, sweeping the gun before him for emphasis. "Everybody against the wall, now!"

The men began spreading throughout the room, shoving people towards the sides and poking gun barrels into the backs of those too slow to comply. One woman screamed but a thug rammed the butt of his gun into her stomach and forced the air from her lungs, and the woman wheezed painfully as she was propelled towards the closest wall. One of the younger men present made to resist the thugs, but the man who seemed to be the thugs' leader levelled the gun at the man's face.

"I wouldn't if I were you," he said threateningly. The man subsided and slunk away.

Monet had made the most of the confusion to yank Warren out of sight behind the platform the band were still standing on in shocked silence. Warren was no coward, as he had proved more than once with the X-Men, but alone against all these men were not odds in his favour.

"Are your wings your only power or can you do something useful?" Monet demanded. Warren was annoyed with her dismissal of his powers- flight was much more useful than commonly supposed.

"Hey listen, flying might just be more useful than you- oh, come on!" His whispered protests were cut short when Monet rose off the floor and floated across to the other side of the platform, staying low enough for her manoeuvre to remain unnoticed.

*If you're not going to help me, you can at least be a distraction.* Monet didn't risk her voice carrying and resorted to her telepathy instead. Ironically enough, Warren ignored the mental demand, being rather distracted himself. His father was standing right before the thug leader, fists clenched.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked angrily. "You think you can just barge in here with your guns and take us all hostage? You think you can really get away with this? Because I promise you-"

"That's exactly what I think," the thug smirked, swinging the barrel of his gun into Worthington's temple and knocking him to his knees. "This place is locked down, all communication is blocked off- no calls or contact in or out, so you better listen good."

*That's the leader* Monet said, rather unnecessarily. *The others are just goons, we take him out and the rest will be no problem.*

*Take him out? He's got a gun, they all have!* Warren thought, assuming Monet could receive thoughts as well as send them. *We're not going to achieve anything by getting killed. We need a plan!*

*You plan! I'm going to deal with these morons myself!*Monet said angrily. She soared into the air and began to speed towards the leader, fists before her, but even at her speed she had covered only a few feet before a scarlet beam of energy flashed through the air and smashed her into a wall hard enough to leave an imprint. The energy beam, whatever it was, had not come from any of the thugs, but from the direction of the stand Warren was hiding behind. Warren risked raising his head and saw that one of the tuxedoed band members had discarded his tuba and was holding a weapon like the thugs'.

"Nice work, Reese," the leader congratulated him. The leader made his way across to the prone Monet and stood over her, gloating. "You might be invulnerable to physical harm, St. Croix, but these babies will kill you just like anyone else. Don't try anything clever- the Reavers don't do second warnings."

It was worrying that they knew who Monet was, and the extent of her powers well enough to design or buy a weapon specifically to counteract them. Warren was aware of his earlier warning regarding acting before planning, but he couldn't just leave Monet there at the thug's mercy. On the other hand, if they had weapons to handle Monet, Warren was not optimistic about what would happen if they were used on him. With Worthington Senior's brief rebellion over, the other men and women were quick to toe the line and obey the Reavers' orders. The leader began walking along the line of men and women, pointing seemingly at random.

"You, over here, and you, and you," he said, gesturing with his gun to the middle of the room. "Stark, come here- uh-uh, not you Red, you stay right there, it's just your boyfriend here we want- Worthington, stop snivelling and get yourself over here."

Warren watched the small group: his father, Stark, Trask and both the Shaws were the biggest names, with a few others that Warren recognised by face but not name. The only thing he could think of that would connect them was the fact the chosen few were all known for their advanced work in technology, but some of those left behind had similar, if smaller, operations. A sixth sense suddenly warned Warren to duck, and he did so reflexively, not knowing why. He heard the Reavers' leader barking orders.

"Markham! Check the stand, I think we've got a hero wannabe!"

A Reaver appeared before Warren without warning, brandishing a gun. Warren reacted on pure instinct flexing his wings. One buffeted the unfortunate Markham against a wall, where he slid to the floor with a groan.

"Suppressive fire!" The leader barked, hearing the scuffle. "Reese, Silvestri, take him both sides."

Energy beams began smashing through the stand and over head, trapping Warren in place. Footsteps either side of his hiding place indicated his time was running out, and he took a desperate chance, throwing himself directly upwards. Several shots seared his side but he made it into the air still alive and conscious. The Reavers adjusted with worrying alacrity, firing upwards at him, not at random but with precision and coordination, forcing him backwards towards a corner. No matter how Warren pirouetted and jinked in the air, the sheer volume of fire forced him backwards, so he changed tactics, sweeping his wings backwards and diving straight for the Reavers' leader. In their overconfidence, the Reavers were this time slightly too slow to react and Warren's wings snapped open, taking out three other Reavers as his shoulder rammed into the leader's stomach. Warren landed neatly and swiped with his wings, taking two other Reavers out in as many seconds, but he had forgotten Reese, the one who had been masquerading as a band member and who was now behind him, lining up a free shot.

"WARREN!" Worthington shouted desperately, but too late. Warren spun around, but it only ensured that the beam that would have landed between his shoulders hit him in the chest instead. He found himself blown off his feet and across the room, molten streams of lava-hot agony pouring across his body from the point of impact, and when the impact of the wall sent him tumbling from consciousness, his last second of thought was one of relief that the pain was over.

"Yo, what do we do with these freaks, Pierce? You wanna ice 'em or what?" One of the Reavers asked. Justin Pierce, the leader of the Reavers, looked over at where St. Croix and the Worthington kid had been dragged into a corner. He scowled at the stupidity of his underlings; his uncle had promised him highly-trained recruits, and for the most part had fulfilled that promise, but it seemed that ramming military knowledge and skill through these clowns' thick skulls had forced out common sense. He had specifically wanted the mutant pair alive, why would he then kill them?

"Nah, find somewhere to stick them, somewhere they won't get out in a hurry," he said irritably. He snapped his fingers as inspiration struck him. "Ice them."

"But you just said-"

"Not literally, you moron," Pierce said, annoyed. "They do catering in this place, there'll be a big freezer unit somewhere. Cold should keep these two from waking up any time soon, but I want a guard on them in case they play up."

"Right," the Reaver said, nodding decisively. "Uh... where is the freezer?"

"How the hell should I know? Find it yourself." Pierce turned aside. The two mutants were not his concern, but his benefactor had requested they be brought in alive. Actually, it was only St. Croix mentioned, as no-one had expected the prodigal son to return to the Worthington fold, but Pierce knew it would not do his prospects any harm to bring in an extra mutant free of charge- beyond the extortionate rate he was already charging. He had started with a fee three times higher than anticipated, expecting he would have to haggle with his mysterious employer, but instead the money had been paid immediately and without comment. That told him two things: his employer had big bucks, bigger than anyone he had dealt with before, and that whatever they wanted from the businessmen Pierce had captured, they wanted it badly.

There was a buzzing sound that jerked him from his reverie, and he realised that the mobile phone in his pocket was receiving a call. The phone was the only means of contact he had with his employer, but he was mystified about how the signal managed to get through a field specifically designed to stop all signals in and out of the building.

"Pierce?" the voice was heavily distorted and warped, and Pierce had no doubt that no-one would have any luck tracking the call, even if they could receive it.

"Sir." Pierce did not know the man's name, status, race, nationality. It might not even be a man at all, the amount of distortion put onto the voice, but professional standards had to be maintained.

"Do you have the targets as requested?"

"Yes sir. We've put them all in separate room, to avoid them trying to communicate, but they are all in the same corridor, and heavily guarded."

"Good. I am glad my faith in you has been rewarded."

"Sir?" Pierce asked hesitantly. It was not strictly correct to ask questions of the client- the customer was always right, as the adage went- but the answer could have a bearing on the success or failure of the operation. "There are some very important people in here, we can handle the security- no-one's getting in or out- but eventually people will notice. There's no way we can handle a public operation."

"Justin, Justin," the voice chuckled. "You leave that to me. This operation stays buried until I say otherwise- and I have no intention of doing that."

"I'm glad to hear it," Pierce said, slightly more sharply than was prudent. Whether intentionally or not (and he was strongly inclined to the former) his employer had just emphasised precisely where the power lay in their partnership. He could ruin Pierce's plans with ease, whilst Pierce had no way of implicating the mysterious partner, even if he had known who he was. Fortunately the other man either didn't notice or didn't care.

"I have every confidence in your ability," the voice went on. "That's not why I contacted you."

Pierce hadn't thought it was. His reputation was good, very good, and there was no reason for anyone to doubt it. He suspected that whatever the man wanted, the next few words would be significant.

"I wish to contact the captives directly. I will call again in five minutes. Make sure they are ready."

"Yes sir."

The line went dead. Pierce scowled at the inoffensive plastic device as though it was totally responsible for his confusion. He had at least been correct as to the nature of the call, but had barely advanced discovering the reason. He had hoped for at least a small clue as to what his employer wanted with the captives, but had had no luck. Well, that would soon change. Whether his employer liked it or not, Justin Pierce was going to be listening to the conversation between captor and captives with a very interested ear.

On the other side of the hall, someone else was listening just as closely. Natasha Romanov was almost as angry at the kidnappers as she was at herself. She had been assigned to bodyguard Tony Stark only the week before, and already he was a captive. Under the guise of the Black Widow, Natasha had been by trade a spy, assassin and mercenary, and had regarded bodyguard duties as a definite step down. Stark's incessant and ineffective attempts at flirting had not helped the situation in the slightest, but Natasha was a professional, with training, experience and scientific enhancements that would allow her to match anyone short of superhuman, and even several of those, in a fight... except for all of those enhancements and abilities, a bunch of masked thugs with laser guns had waltzed right in and stolen her client right from under her nose. She just hoped she could retrieve the situation. She could outshoot any three mercenaries, and outfight any six, but without her gun no amount of combat skill would result in anything but her short and inglorious tenure as a bodyguard ending with a bullet- or perhaps an energy beam- between the eyes. Her gun of choice, a Beretta, had been selected for its ease to conceal, and was strapped to the inside of her left thigh, but in terms of range and stopping power fell well short of the high-tech weaponry of the Reavers; the stiletto (concealed rather appropriately in one high heel of a shoe) was even less useful. Alone, she had absolutely no chance of rescuing Stark- she would need help. The other party-goers around her were a varied mixture of age and profession, with one factor uniting them all: their absolute lack of use in a fight. The only people she could be sure would be of any assistance would be the two mutants whose foolhardy rescue attempt had lead to their swift capture. With a professional like her to guide them, they may prove more useful. All she had to do to rescue them was sneak across a wide, brightly lit ballroom, full of trained, heavily armed mercenaries, discover the mutant's location (without giving away her own), break them out and come up with a plan to then actually rescue the other hostages. She smiled to herself coldly. To think she had thought a bodyguard's job would be easy...