Disclaimer: Not mine.

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Two: My Fake Accent

Lance hated planes.

It wasn't that they flew so high above the ground. It wasn't claustrophobia, as he'd heard some people explain.

It was the speed.

He was no genius, but did they really have to go so fast to stay up in the air? Back in the day (the day in this case meaning "when black-and-white TVs were still commonplace") had they really needed to go six hundred miles an hour? Or was that some new innovation? In modern times, he decided, people were in too much of a hurry. If people would just stop for a second and enjoy life, then maybe the airlines could scale it back a little. Just a bit. Oh, say, to three hundred? Two hundred, maybe?

To be perfectly honest, it wasn't just the speed. He did feel a little claustrophobic in the cramped four-passenger government-issue jet, and it was a little disconcerting to look out the window and see nothing but clouds.

The only way it could get any worse was if there was turbulence.

"We're reaching a rough patch," the pilot announced in his seat in front of them just as Lance thought this. "Buckle your seatbelt and hold on to your lunch, boys."

Sometimes Lance hated life. And apparently vice versa.

-

It turned out that he didn't throw up, which was in itself completely shocking. Pietro was pretty smug about his airsickness, but that was anything but shocking.

Pietro was still going on about something or other when they packed their bags into the cab. The driver was less than helpful, but it didn't matter much, as they'd long since learned to travel light. They sat down in the back seat and the driver turned on the car. Lance just rested his head against the window and watched the city skyline as they lurched forwards. His rest was interrupted by an all-too familiar beeping noise.

"Who're you calling?" he asked, not even needing to turn to see that Pietro was calling someone. The speedster had turned into a cell phone addict.

"No one, just an old friend from way back when. Don't worry your gruff little head about it." Lance could hear it ringing on the other end. Pietro's phone had always been loud. "Lalala… oh? Hello?"

Deciding that there would be nothing of further interest to him in the conversation, Lance closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep.

Emphasis on "tried."

"Yeah, hey, Kit, it's Pietro." Lance's eyes shot open. He twisted over to stare his (stupid, idiotic, clinically insane) friend in the eyes and perhaps get in better position to throttle him. "Oh, not much, just the usual. Anywho, I was just calling because I'm in town and just thought I'd say hi. What? Well, technically I probably shouldn't be too specific, but we're in town for work. No, the whole team's not here, just a couple of us."

Lance sat straight up. He began mouthing, "No, no no!" to Pietro, but he was just hushed. "Oh it's just me and La-" Pietro wheezed as he was punched in the arm "– Todd." Lance shook his head and waved his hands side-to-side; Kitty actually liked Todd, except for the smell and all. "Did I say Todd? I meant Pyro."

Lance nodded. Pyro scared Kitty senseless, as she thought he was completely mad (and she was right, too).

"What're you talking about? I'm not lying." Oh Jesus. Lance put his head in his hands and moaned. "You know I'd never lie to you, Kat. Could I ever lie?"

"Yes," snorted Lance, but Pietro paid him no mind.

"Well, I would put Lance on the phone with you, but I'm with Pyro, so I can't." Pietro waved his hand in the air in surrender, seemingly unaware that Kitty couldn't see him. "Fine, Kitty, I'll put Pyro on the phone."

He handed Lance the phone. Lance took it and promptly ended the call.

"What'd you do that for?" Pietro asked, offended.

"I'm not talking to her as me, and I'm not trying to fake an Aussie accent to talk to her as Pyro." The phone vibrated in his hand and he offered it to Pietro. "She's calling again. You can take it."

Pietro held it up to his ear. "Helloooooo? Oh yeah, sorry, Pyro's not really feeling very talkative. Yeah, you know, he's hung over." Lance resisted the urge to strangle Pietro, because in all honesty, it was true. "Tell him something? Sure can do. Talk away."

There was a pause as Kitty delivered the message. Lance bored of waiting and began writing on the window with his fingertip.

"All right, let me tell him." Pietro set the phone against his shoulder and looked at Lance. "Kitty says you – and by you I mean Pyro – need to stop avoiding her, and that she wants to talk to you whenever you've stopped throwing a tantrum."

"I'm not avoiding her," grunted Lance.

"He's not avoiding you," Pietro babbled into the phone. "Why would he have any reason to avoid you? Pyro doesn't care if you went off to college. Pyro's insane, aren't you Pyro?"

"Yes!" Lance said very loudly and in a poor imitation of St. John's accent.

Kitty was obviously saying something on the other end, and from Pietro's expression she wasn't happy. "Oh, of course it's Pyro. You know how bad Lance is with accents. Oh, gotta go. Job stuff. Yes, yes, I'll call you later." Lance had the impression that Kitty was swearing or threatening Pietro now. "Yeah, love you too, Kit. Buh bye."

Pietro hung up and placed his phone in his pocket. "You know, Lance, I think you two have some unresolved issues."

"No, really?" Lance muttered.

The cab ground to a screeching halt. "We're here," announced the driver unnecessarily.

Probably the best part about this entire mission was the hotel. S.H.I.E.L.D. may have screwed over their employees in a lot of ways, but they didn't skimp out on the rooming accommodations. Only the finest for the men (and woman) with the most dangerous jobs in America.

It took them a while to get checked in and get their things upstairs, but as soon as they were in their room they both threw their things down and flopped down on their queen-sized beds.

"Ah, my legs are sore from sitting down so long," Lance moaned as he relaxed his head into his pillow. "Need to stretch them out a bit."

"There aren't any chocolates on the pillows," Pietro stated, none too pleased. "What kind of crap motel is this?"

Lance was about to reply when he felt his pocket vibrating. He grumbled and reached into it and pulled out his phone. It was ringing, and it had gotten out, "It's more than a feeling (more than a feeling) –" before he shut it, red-faced. He really needed to change that ring tone.

"I thought Nirvana was your ring tone," Pietro said, amused. "Unless… Kitty was calling?"

"Shut up. I need to change the ring tone." He tossed the phone down beside him on the bed. "And I'll call her later."

He had just closed his eyes when Pietro's voice rung out again. "She texted me. She says you're dead if you don't pick up your phone next time she calls."

"Oh no."

"I'll text her and tell her you said that." He could hear Pietro tapping away at the phone's keys. "By the way, what ring tone do you have when I call? The James Bond theme? Something equally classy?"

Lance grinned. "I think I've got Shania Twain for you."

Pietro was spared from responding when Lance's phone began buzzing on the bed. "Everybody's working for the weekend!" Lance fumbled about for it, bringing it up to his ear and speaking.

"Yeah, boss?" he said.

"Alvers." Even on the phone Fury was intimidating. "Just calling to let you know an operative will be up to your room to debrief you soon. Password: spamalot."

"Okay, but –"

Fury had already hung up. He didn't waste time beating around the bush.

"Fury's sending up an operative," Lance said as he put his phone away. "She's going to tell us what's what and all that shit. Password's 'spamalot.' Stupid password."

"Almost as bad as back in New York when Richards's codeword was 'Dumbledore,'" Pietro agreed, but he wasn't even looking at Lance. He was busy tapping away on his phone, no doubt texting (texting, funnily enough, was one of the few things Pietro was unable to do at superspeed – it annoyed him to no end).

"Who're you texting?" asked Lance, already knowing the answer.

"No one."

"No angry ex-girlfriends?"

Pietro was unapologetic. "None of mine, at least. Possibly someone else's."

"You know what? Whatever. Let's just watch TV." Lance grabbed the remote and pressed the power button. With a fuzzy sound the TV burst to life, spouting jazzy music and the text on the screen boasting about the hotel's wonderful selection of channels. "What do you want to watch?"

"I dunno." Pietro frowned. "All the shows are just so slow. I mean, they take so long to develop their plot and stuff."

Lance mumbled under his breath, "Surprise surprise. Fine. Let's just watch a show with no plot. Then you can't bitch and moan about it."

Naturally, they ended up watching a Seinfeld rerun. They were only five minutes in – "I'm a man who respects a good coma," Jerry was saying – when there came a knock on the door.

"Couldn't they at least call us first?" Pietro bemoaned, and then he was at the door, peering through the peephole. "Whoa. They sent a hot babe up to debrief us. I wish I meant that in the way that Todd'd twist it."

"These doors aren't soundproof," said someone from outside. Lance had to admit, even her voice sounded attractive. "I assume you're Quicksilver."

"Maybe. Maybe not." Pietro always got childish when he was around attractive women. Lance had no clue why. Overcompensating, probably. "But you won't get in without a password."

"Fine. Spamalot."

Pietro threw open the door and in walked the second-most beautiful woman Lance had ever seen. She had dark, curly hair that fell below her shoulders, a tall, voluptuous frame designed to make men salivate, and stylish glasses that hinted at her own intellectual assurance and self-confidence. She dressed classily, but she was also fashionable. Her lips were red and moist, and her eyes were greener than Lance had thought previously possible.

She couldn't hold a candle to Kitty. But she came closer than most.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," she greeted them. Pietro offered her his bed as a seat, but she declined, and he hurried to pull up a chair, which she graciously accepted. "Thank you. Now, as you know, Fury sent me to tell you more about your mission."

"God bless Fury," Pietro grunted. The woman, to Lance's shock, smiled.

"I'll take that as a compliment, Maximoff." She crossed her legs and placed her briefcase in her lap. "My name is Jessica Drew, and I'm a member of an organization affiliated with S.H.I.E.L.D. I've been investigating this Hellfire Club, and while others say that it's no serious threat, I think there's something more sinister going on behind closed doors."

"I got that feeling, too," Pietro concurred.

"Splendid, Maximoff. I knew we'd get along," she purred, and Lance knew she was just toying with Pietro. Hell, Pietro probably knew it too, but at the moment he just didn't care. "Your job is to infiltrate the Hellfire Club. Now, we thought originally of portraying you as two trust-fund progenies, but Fury doubted that you'd be able to pull off that kind of sophisticated snobbery. Also, it's come to our attention that they may recognize you from your previous… escapades. Naturally, we had to come up with an alternative."

She opened the briefcase and withdrew two watches. Handing one to each, she continued, "These are image inducers. I believe your friend Kurt Wagner used to employ one quite regularly."

"Sweet!" Pietro laughed, holding his image inducer up in the light to better inspect it. "I've always wanted to be a six five, jacked Austrian bodybuilder!"

"The disguise are preprogrammed," Drew informed him, and he pouted. "The technology is far from perfect, and it's best if we stick close to your natural features. That worked well for Wagner, and I've heard stories of your cohort Tolensky trying to use it and nearly breaking Wagner's device. In case they become suspicious, there's a backup disguise as well. You know your aliases."

"Bruce Kent," Lance said, distracted by the new toy.

"Clark Wayne," Pietro replied with even less enthusiasm.

"Right. You are both applying for waiter jobs at the club's exclusive restaurant." Drew handed them each several papers. "There are further details in the file. We have arranged it so that you will be hired. While inside, we wish for you to listen in on discussions of any of the higher-ups. Again, they are detailed in the file. We are primarily interested in Sebastian Shaw, Emma Frost, and one Donald Pierce. Included in your inducers are tape recorders. They're digital and relay information straight to our mainframe, so don't worry about your memory running out. You should also write down anything of note and contact us with your findings. My e-mail's in the file. The jack in this room is secure, but I can't promise you anything if you go wireless."

"Right," said Lance. "Record their conversations. Do want us snooping around?"

"Only if you find some information that deems it necessary," responded the lady. "However, before you go adventuring, tell us what you found. It doesn't do us any good if you get killed before you report your findings."

Lance remembered the waiver he'd signed before his first mission. When he got home he was writing a will, he decided. "Gee, thanks for the support."

"I've got ten operatives in Kevlar waiting to knock down the doors of the Club if we need to rescue you," she said tartly. "We're supporting you plenty. I assume you both have your guns?"

"Yeah," Pietro said, distasteful tone in his voice. "Useless things. So Neanderthal."

"Incredibly effective as well," Drew retorted. "They just might save your life. Keep them on you, and keep them concealed. We imagine they'll have metal detectors at the gate, but you're Quicksilver. I'm sure you'll find a way around that."

Pietro grinned. "Well, when you put it that way…"

"Of course." She closed her briefcase. "If you get in trouble, call me. I'll dispatch my men, and if I'm not currently disposed I myself will come to your aid."

"Don't worry, beautiful," Pietro said, making Lance want to hurl all over again. "We've got this covered. You just sit in your office and look pretty for us."

Drew just grinned. "Go ahead, underestimate me, Maximoff. I love it when men do that. Just because I haven't bragged about my hand doesn't mean that I don't have a royal flush."

"I'll pretend I know what you mean," replied the silver-haired boy. He waggled his eyebrows. "Lucky for you I kinda like strong, intelligent women."

Lance tried not to scoff. The only girls Pietro liked were the only ones that could be tricked into going out with him: giggly bimbos with a head full of air and cobwebs. Useless, like so much mutton.

"As much as I'm loving this, I've got to go. You can flirt with me later, Maximoff."

Drew uncrossed her legs and stood. Pietro was already at the door, holding it open for her.

"It's been a pleasure, Ms. Drew – or can I call you Jessica?" he asked.

She pursed her lips. "Ms. Drew is fine."

"No worries, we'll work on that," he said, flashing her a grin. "As I was saying, it's been a pleasure. If there's anything you need, you know where we are. Don't be a stranger."

"I'll try to remember that," she remarked as she walked out the door. She looked back at Pietro and then at Lance. "Alvers, I can already tell there are going to be major issues with you two. Attempt to keep Maximoff from doing anything incredibly stupid, won't you?"

Lance laughed. "Don't worry, I'll try. I'm not saying it'll do any good, but I'll try to keep him in line."

"Lance is one to talk," Pietro replied. "If a customer in the restaurant pisses him off he'll do his thing and bring the roof down on our heads."

"Well, I suppose you'll have to look after each other." She nodded and adjusted her glasses. "On a serious note, call if there's any trouble. You've got my number."

"Will do. Adios. Don't worry about us. We're professionals."

Lance had to credit her; she kept her expression neutral. She didn't look back as she began walking away, and Pietro stuck his head out of the door to wave at her as she went. Leaning back inside, he sighed. "Wow. What a girl. I knew there was a reason we came to Chicago."

"Besides annoying me, you mean."

"Besides saving your ass, I mean," Pietro clarified.

Lance sat back in the bed and turned to the TV, which he'd placed on mute while Drew had visited them. "Whatever."

He was just about to turn the volume back up when there was another knock at the door. He glanced at Pietro, but his face was unreadable.

"Room service?" Pietro offered.

"Somehow I doubt it," Lance said. "Open it."

Pietro just sat down. "Nah. Maybe if we ignore them they'll go away."

Whoever it was, they knocked again. Grumbling under his breath, Lance threw himself off the bed and got up to go to the door. "All right already, I'm coming."

He reached out for the handle and pulled. It occurred to him a split-second too late that he should have checked the peephole, but he'd always been a bit reckless. Sometimes it came back to bite him. Sometimes more often became most of the time.

"Lance."

Lance swallowed the lump in his throat. "Hello, Kitty."

-