So after I wrote that letter, I started feeling over the next couple days this creative urge to write and try to continue this story as much as I can for now. It's been YEARS so I'm going to be a bit rusty, but if you bear with me, maybe you'll still be as equally entertained by my fic now as you were all that time ago. I hope not to disappoint!
Enjoy.
Chapter 7 - Encounter
The explosion occurred at 3pm. Garrison Smith's Brooklyn convenience store was blasted to smithereens in the blink of an eye, his livelihood gone. He was a furry man with glasses, and fangs that stuck out just too far past his lips to be regarded as fully normal.
The reporter on scene must have been a veteran crime reporter. She held the flagged microphone steadily, shooting question after question at the distraught mutant as he stood before pillars of smoke streaming from a scorched building.
"And what do you have to say to this?"
"I haven't done anything wrong," Garrison Smith wailed, eyes teary. "They could have killed me!"
"Do you think that was their purpose?"
"Yes. Yes, I do."
"How does this make you feel?"
"I-I'm devastate. I don't have any special powers. I just look different. Why did they do this?"
Rogue switched the channel. CNN.
"What do you think, Anderson, will this Mutant Registration Act pass?"
"Well, Wolf, it's a sensitive topic for lots of people and brings up similar policies from the past — do we need to be reminded of Japanese internment? Nazi Germany? However, our elected officials must answer to their constituents. A recent poll shows us that 57% of the country wants the Act to become the law of the land. Here we'll turn to Congresswoman Michelle Bachmann, who is on the committee spear-heading this bill."
Rogue almost smirked. She couldn't wait to hear what this woman was going to say.
"Anderson, all I know is this country was built on the hopes and dreams of God-loving people. The U.S. Constitution was written by and for those people. Mutants have become a threat to the very foundations of our country, of our way of life. What sort of future will we be leaving for our children if they could run around using their abilities helter-skelter? What is to prevent them from using their powers for their own cynical advantage, to rob a bank or control our own minds? The Mutant Registration Act would allow the government to create the very policies that will protect everyone's livelihood, maybe even protect mutants against themselves, Anderson."
"I think it's safe to say this is an opinion shared by – according to CNN's recent poll – 57% of the United States. Now we'll turn to Graydon Creed, president of the Friends of Humanity, a human rights foundation."
As Creed's familiar face filled the screen, Rogue thought about all the news she'd seen in the past two days. Random attacks on mutants and humans alike had inundated mainstream media broadcasts, increasing the sense that there was a war going on right outside one's door, in the very communities everyone you knew frequented. Panic was beginning to fester.
And there are only a few more days till Congress votes on the Mutant Registration Act, Rogue thought.
"How can you listen to this garbage?"
Rogue turned around, surprised to see Kitty. "Guess Ah just like to be informed," she replied.
Kitty hesitated a moment, then sat down on the couch on the opposite end.
Rogue momentarily forgot all about anti-mutant sentiment, the Act, Creed, and the infuriating jabber of journalists and policymakers. She looked at her once-close friend and wondered what she was going to do. She hadn't really concerned herself too much with Kitty's animosity toward her since she got back, but now she realized how saddened she was by their estrangement.
"Do you think they're really going to make mutants register themselves?" Kitty suddenly asked, eyes glued to the TV screen.
"Ah hope not," Rogue said and cleared her throat.
Silence.
"Rogue," Kitty said, after a few moments.
"Yeah?"
"Are you really better – or are you just pretending?"
Rogue looked down at her arms. The scars from her knife-happy days were still there, unable to be healed away. She wasn't sure if it was because she really couldn't heal them, or because she just wanted the reminder of her past to be there. "Ah think Ah'm better. Ah really do. And Ah'm really sorry for how Ah treated you before."
"I believe that," Kitty said. "But it's not the same. I don't really trust you in that way anymore."
"Ah don't know how to fix this."
Kitty sighed and looked down, "Me neither, I guess." After a few seconds, she abruptly stood up, "Uh, sorry, I came to find you because Logan wants you."
"What for?"
"He said something about how depressing it is to see you be such a couch potato. We're going to some fundraiser thing? He's going to brief us about it."
Rogue could feel her muscles tense with anticipation, "You mean Ah'm gonna go with?"
"Guess so? Come on, he's in the War Room."
Rogue switched off the TV and followed Kitty out of the living room. They strode side by side through the corridors the way they always used to in high school. When they were just outside the War Room, Rogue pulled Kitty to a stop, "But Ah'm going to try, Kit, to fix this."
Kitty looked at her hesitantly, "I'll try to help."
A voice called to them from inside the War Room, "If you two are done having your 'moment', we can start."
As they entered, they saw only Logan and Bobby had gathered. "Hey...where is everybody?" Kitty asked as she took a seat. She glanced quizzically at Bobby, who didn't seem to notice. He looked as though he were sitting in detention.
"We're not bringing the whole team in on this," Logan said. "I've got Jean, Elf, and Scott on another task. Jean used Cerebro to trace that number you gave us, Rogue."
Rogue bristled slightly that she hadn't been told sooner. How could they be so focused on her "relaxing" that they would cut her out of important developments in intelligence? Then she realized it was probably because they thought she was still delicate enough to go off the deep end again. The thought made her cringe inside. Everybody thinks I'm made of glass. "So where's the source?" she asked.
"Warehouse district in Jersey. But you gotta focus on this tonight." Logan handed her a file. "Everything you need to know is in there."
"What about us?" Kitty asked.
Logan picked a shopping bag up off the floor and slid it across the table to her, "Hope yours and Iceman's customer service skills aren't rusty."
"What?" Bobby finally spoke. He reached into the bag and pulled out white and black uniforms. "You want me to be a waiter? What sort of mission is this?"
"The sort that gets you off your emo ass and out into the world," Logan snapped.
With a scowl Bobby sat back and crossed his arms, "Fine. Whatever."
Rogue looked at him carefully, at the brooding look in his eyes that seemed all too familiar. When he caught her stare, she didn't look away. He shook his head and returned to staring at the table.
Logan continued, "Xavier and Ororo will be attending as guests of John Abernale. It's our your job to watch their backs. I've just been cleared as part of the security detail for the Friends of Humanity."
"I wonder how you pulled that off," Kitty smirked.
"With a lot of teeth-grinding."
Rogue opened the file and saw a profile of a mutant she had read much about in the X-Corps database: Sebastian Shaw.
"Think you can handle this one, Stripes?" Logan asked.
Without missing a beat she said, "I know exactly how to handle this one."
"Good. Kit, Bobby – report to the Plaza at 5. Rogue, you're on at 7."
"Wait – the Plaza Hotel? Omg seriously? That's, like, one of the glitziest hotels in New York!"
"Don't get so excited. We ain't going for the canapés."
As they cleared out of the War Room, Rogue ran through her mind various ways tonight's mission could unravel. She used the protocols Sean Cassidy had developed and trained her with to perfection. After feeling so useless for so many days, she was finally getting back into the field, where she thrived, where her powers had the best possible outlet to expend energy. She would be lying if she told anyone it didn't excite her.
Manhattan
The night air blew an occasional chill, uncanny for late August. Ororo was probably the only person who could notice such a nuanced oddity. Unsettled, she pushed the Professor down the red carpet toward the doors of the Plaza Hotel. They were both dressed for an evening black-tie event, Xavier in a tuxedo and Ororo in a colorful wrap gown of reds, greens, black, and yellows, the colors of her home continent. Her silvery hair was pulled up into a elegant low bun.
Paparazzi and anti-mutant protestors pulsed and flashed cameras at the edges of her vision, held at bay by the NYPD for now. The evening had attracted a lot of attention, not only for the controversial role of the Friends of Humanity, but also for the attendance of many of Washington's prominent senators and representatives. The excitement itself was almost stifling. And there were too many people around. Ororo felt her claustrophobia simmering just below the surface of her control.
"I have a strange feeling about tonight, Charles," Ororo said.
The Professor's gaze was fixed straight ahead, but his mind was ever-vigilant of the activities around him. "Your intuition is rarely wrong, I'm afraid."
"What do you sense?"
"That's the very problem, Ororo, my telepathy is strangely askew, as if I'm trying to see in murky water."
"What could that mean..."
The doormen greeted them with practiced courtesy, pulling the doors of the Plaza open to a grand foyer filled with gold light. The guests and dignitaries filed into elevators that took them up to the rooftop ballroom, where the entirety of one high-ceilinged wall was glass, providing an unrivaled view of the scintillating cityscape. Tables of the finest cloth were decked with the purest china, a group of big band musicians on the stage playing soft tones to set a elegant dinner ambiance. Above the stage hung a large banner: FRIENDS OF THE FUTURE – FORWARD FOR HUMANITY.
"Unbelievable excess," Ororo said.
"Only possible with the most eager of financiers," the Professor agreed. He spotted John Abernale approaching them.
"Ms. Munroe, Charles – thank you so much for coming," the DA said. "I know this must be quite the pill to swallow."
Professor Xavier shook Abernale's extended hand, "I am grateful for the opportunity to be heard."
"As am I. Your speech will come right after Graydon Creed's, and I hope you can drown out all the detritus he'll probably spew. I finally had the chance to visit Hank. I made sure the guards are keep him as comfortable as possible. I assure you he's safe while I deal with the legal proceedings. The mayor is not as reliable as we had initially hoped, I'm afraid."
"You are doing so much for mutants, John," Xavier said. "It's of utmost importance not to put yourself at risk in the process."
Abernale looked around the ballroom at the finely dressed guests of the event. "It's a travesty, really," he said, "all this pomp and show of civilization, as if we were so evolved." He shook his head as if clearing it of dreary thoughts, "But I'm being rude. Come, you're both sitting at my table."
As they took their seats, Xavier scanned the room, trying to make himself aware of every presence. The cloud over his telepathy remained, sometimes sporadic, sometimes all-concealing. Its irregularity made him believe it was unintentional, as if some force were doing it by default, possibly while unaware.
"Champagne?"
He turned to his right to face a white-clad, black-vested Kitty Pryde holding a tray of sparkling champagne flutes. "No thank you, miss."
"Would you prefer the wine, sir?"
"It's all right. I am content with water."
Ororo smiled in amusement, "I'll take a champagne, miss."
Kitty gave Ororo a flute and shot her mentors quick wry glances before ambling away to serve more guests.
"Why da hell am I here?"
"Aren't you a debbie downer, Mr. LeBeau. It's a party, lighten up."
They stood on the rooftop terrace of the Plaza Hotel, Malice smoking a cigarette as Remy peered through the glass wall to the event in the ballroom. As more and more guests arrived, a sinking feeling began to grow in his stomach.
"Dis the opposite of a party by my terms, fille."
Malice's chuckle held a sneer underneath, "As if you've ever been invited to anything this classy." She snuffed out her cigarette and brushed renegade ashes off her black dress. Her lime green hair was bound with so many black ribbons, the unusual color was hardly noticeable. She curled a stray strand around her ear, "Don't mess this up, LeBeau, or you know, your brains will probably explode. Literally." She laughed as though she had made a clever joke. "Come now," she said, "we're going to have a chat with the moneyman."
Remy followed her off the terrace and into one of the back corridors around the exterior of the ballroom. As they walked he watched her movements, remembering the young girl who lay in the Xavier Institute's med bay. How did she get here?
"What are you staring at," she said.
"How old are you anyway."
"What's that matter."
"Seem kinda young."
"So?"
"Where's your family?"
"Are you trying to bond with me, LeBeau? Are we suddenly besties?"
"Must've been hard, leaving y' life behind to work for Essex. To work for a psychotic scientist. Wasn't dere anot'er life you wanted? Wasn't dere dat boy, what was his name...mais, I forget. One o' de X-Men?"
Malice stiffened and for a moment she looked like she was only the young Lorna Danes. Her expression softened, the cynical opportunism that dominated her countenace faded, replaced by the visage of a distressed girl. But as quickly as it happened it disappeared.
"I wouldn't be talking about the X-Men if I were you, 'mon cherie'," Malice said as they reached the end of the corridor. She pushed open a door and waved his path inside, "I'm not the one about to make a few unpleasant encounters tonight."
What did that mean? Remy entered the room, a dimly lit library of dark woods and green velvet surfaces of the sort old Englishmen would meet in to drink brandy and smoke cigars. He sat in one of the leather armchairs as Malice opened a safe in the corner of the room. He watched her pull out a box, set it on a desk, and flip the latches free. What she pulled out was unexpectedly uninteresting: thin metal collars with a red, unlit bulb embedded in them.
"And those are?" he inquired.
"Something an idiot woman at the Friends of Humanity nearly lost," Malice sneered. "But no matter. Now it's ours and Sebastian Shaw will be quite excited to see them." As if suddenly disinterested, she walked away from the items on the desk to the mini bar at the side of the room, poured herself a drink. "I'm going to make a phone call," she said, tossing Remy an empty tumbler. "Have a few swigs and relax, LeBeau. Don't try anything or, quite simply, I'll kill you."
"Y'don' scare me, p'tite."
Malice laughed as she left the room, cell phone in hand, "That's your first mistake." She shut the door behind her.
Finally alone, Remy seemed to deflate. He breathed deeply to calm the anger and vexation that had been writhing in the pit of his stomach. Without a second's hesitation, he snatched up the decanter of whiskey and poured himself two fingers. He gulped it down, relishing the burn in his throat, and wondered what atrocities Malice had in store for tonight.
It wasn't the ideal way she wanted to attend an event at the Plaza, but the intent of the evening made her stomach clench anyway. A fundraiser for the Friends of Humanity, for the haters of mutants? How was anybody swallowing all the demagoguery? How were these supposedly respectable members of government accepting such a farce on legitimacy?
"This absolutely sucks." Bobby came up beside her with a tray of canapés. "Why'd we come to a stiff fundraiser for rich people anyway?"
"You know why," Kitty rolled her eyes.
"Ok, fine, why the hell do I have to be part of the catering crew?"
"Maybe if you pulled that stick out of your butt you'd have an epiphany!"
Bobby stared at her, surprised by the outburst, "Jeez, Kit, can't a pal vent?"
"That's all you constantly do, Bobby. You're the most depressing guy to be around. As if nobody else has problems?" She sighed, half-regretting the irritation with which she said those words. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so mean. I hate being here too. This whole place has tons of negative energy."
"Yeah," he said, before something caught his eye. "Uh, hey, is that...?"
Kitty followed his gaze to a woman approaching them. A dark green dress clung to her curves and fluttered lightly over the floor as she strode. Long sleeves of lace shaped like leafy vines wound around her arms and her otherwise completely naked back from the nape of the neck down to her lower spine. The neckline drooped far down her chest without revealing a single thing. Partially braided blond hair trickled down her shoulders in soft waves that were lightly swooped into a long side ponytail.
Kitty hardly recognized Rogue, "Champagne, ma'am?"
"I vould love one," she said in a thick German accent. "When does zis party get exciting?" She downed the entire glass in one swig.
"Yeah," Bobby agreed, visibly staring at the region below her face. "Exciting."
Kitty stepped on his toe, "Be. Professional. Go cover your part of the room."
As Bobby moved away, Rogue took another glass off Kitty's tray.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," Kitty said, "but I should make my way around..."
"Are you not allowed to, what iz it Americans say...'chit-chat'? Shame. I'm so bored."
Kitty stifled a chuckle, "Well, ma'am I hope for your sake things liven up."
Except not really, because that would probably mean trouble.
Ah hear ya. This outfit is way less comfortable than Ah thought it'd be. Ah would def have some difficulty fighting in this.
Kitty wasn't even surprised to hear Rogue's voice in her head. I hope you don't have to – that dress is too gorgeous to ruin.
No kiddin'.
You ready for this?
Why does everyone keep asking me that? Rogue sighed in exasperation.
Um, history?
Fair 'nough point, Kit. Trust me, Ah got this. All that time with X-Corps wasn't spent readin' romance novels, ya know? She suddenly turned, eyes seeking out something in the medley of people.
"Looks like zsings have juzt gotten more interesting," she said, German again. "Ze banker of ze biogted haz arrived." Rogue knocked back another glass of champagne, placed the empty flute back on Kitty's tray, and sauntered off toward the bar.
Sebastian Shaw plod through the ballroom with the air of someone who had the money, power, and audacity to acquire whatever he wanted, two of his trusted aides behind him. He was one of the country's wealthiest and most influential businessman, though his success certainly didn't stem from his taste in clothing. The barrel-chested magnate wore a dark suit with long coat tails and an old-fashioned frilly cravat tucked into a deep red vest. His shoulder-length black hair was tied back with an almost-laughably silken ribbon. Despite his unusual attire, he lacked no respect from the guests he personally greeted: Senator Kelly of New York state, Congresswoman Haigle of Texas, and Mayor Thompson's wife, there on the hospitalized mayor's behalf.
"All of us at Shaw Industries pray for your husband's full recovery," he said to Mrs. Thompson with the utmost charm and command.
"Thank you, Sebastian. He appreciates your concern, as do I."
"Enjoy the evening, dear Jacelyn! My people have spared no expense to make this a remarkably memorable night for us all."
Rogue watched the charades from the bar. She chose her target from the flock of eager women who stood to attention when Shaw began mingling with his guests, each looking for their window to the big rich man. One of them seemed to be friends with Graydon Creed, an eager redhead that stood by his side with a drink in hand ready to be served.
"Mr. Shaw," Creed approached and shook hands. "I cannot express my gratitude enough for your support. The Friends of Humanity are forever thankful."
"No need, Mr. Creed!" Shaw laughed thunderously and clapped him on the back, nearly knocking him forward a few steps. "We have the same goals, you and I."
"May I offer you this whiskey, Mr. Shaw?" the coy redhead said.
"Just what I needed — "
There. Rogue concentrated on the glass until it tipped forward from the redhead's hand, spilling its contents all over Shaw's frilly white cravat. A second later a bit of commotion erupted as the redhead pawed desperately at Shaw in an effort to dry him up, Creed trying to push her back, and the two aides fussing over their boss.
"Lookz like you need a hand," Rogue called from the bar, waving a white handerchief over a bottle of club soda on the bar counter.
Shaw saw her instantly and a smile curved his bearish mouth. He shooed away his aides as he went to join the gorgeous creature in green smiling at him. He had a thing for blonds. "Timing is essential," he said, "and it's clear you have that skill down pat, miss."
Rogue splashed a bit of club soda onto the handerchief and leaned forward toward Shaw. She began slowly dabbing at the whiskey stains, "I have more zsan zsat in my repetoire, I azzure you."
"What's your name."
"Maxine Köhler."
"Sebastian Shaw."
"You need no introduction, Mizster Shaw."
"Please, Maxine, call me Sebastian."
Rogue didn't think it'd be this easy, but she played the role to her best anyway, just like with the hit in Belgrade with a similar type of bloke. Couldn't risk the mission by being sloppy for a seemingly-easy target. Sean Cassiy would be proud of her performance, if he wasn't too busy scowling at the mission itself. He never approved of using his female operatives in this way. As she smiled and giggled coquettishly at the prattles of Sebastian Shaw, every so often stroking her finger across his forearm, she kept one eye on the goings-on in the ballroom.
The Professor and Storm were seated at their tables in a deep discussion with the DA, John Abernale. Kitty and Bobby were already beginning to serve the appetizers with the rest of the catering crew. All the politicians and dignitaries had already taken their seats. The evening was officially beginning and Shaw had noticed.
"Maxine, my dear," he offered his arm. "Would you be so maganimous as to join me at my table?"
"I vould love that," she smiled.
He looked like a Men in Black, and it annoyed him. He also hated the fact that he was wearing a suit at a hoity-toity sham of an event. He stood in the top floor security office surrounded by eager beaver goons fresh on the job for the Friends of Humanity. Exactly where he wanted to be on a Friday night.
"How's it going, Logan? Your earpiece workin'?" the chief of security pat him on the back.
It took some effort not to shove him away. "Yeah, bub, all good here."
"You've been assigned to Mr. Creed's secondary security detail."
"That so."
"One of the guys is a no-show tonight, the nerve eh?"
"Absolutely," Logan agreed. Nobody had to know about the shmuck shoved in a storage closet downstairs, knocked out with a tranquilizer.
"Besides, we don't have enough strong-lookin' types like you," the chief said. "It'll send the right message. And your background check cleared – impressive actually – ex Navy Seals?"
"Just another walk in the park, bub."
The chief laughed, "You're all set. Your team leader is over there. Go introduce yourself. Here's your ID tag. Don't lose it or you may be shot on sight."
Logan huffed, "Ain't that a lil' harsh?"
"We don't take risks with mutie freaks. You never know what cursed abilities they'll throw at you. Or who they may be looking like at the moment."
"Right."
"G'luck."
Logan clipped the ID tag onto his suit and checked the firearm at his belt. What a ridiculous charade this was going to be.
A group of other baffoons in black huddled near a computer screen with the schematics of the hotel. The biggest one – a gruff man with a crew cut, probably ex-Marine – was running through an explanation of the Plaza layout, specifically about a discreet room where a meeting between Creed and Sebastian Shaw was to take place.
Amateurs, Logan thought.
"You – what's your name?"
"Divers. Logan Divers."
"Am I boring you, Divers?"
"Just a tad, sir."
Crew Cut sneered and pointed at a man, "Cowan, you and Divers run a preliminary check on the meeting room. Cowan, you run point. Don't let the newb get smart on you."
"Copy that. Come on, newb."
Logan nearly rolled his eyes at the pseudo-professional manner in which these goons conducted themselves. Who were they kidding? They were the security crew for a racist whackjob, not the Secret Service. Without another word he followed Cowan out of the security office.
"Let's take a shortcut," Cowan said. "And maybe nab some booze while we're at it." He lead them through a short hallway into the main ballroom. Glitz and glam greeted their every turn. Cowan made himself right at home, grabbing a glass of wine and some finger food as they made their way inconspicuously along the edges of the hall.
Logan spotted Ororo and Charles at Abernale's table. Sebastian Shaw stood on the stage beside Graydon Creed and a dark-haired woman in a blood red dress he'd never seen before, giving a speech. The whole hall was rapt at attention.
"...here to celebrate the glorious founding of a new organization that watches over humanity's future... and its creator: Mr. Graydon Creed."
Applause filled the hall as Creed stood before the microphone, "Thank very much Mr. Shaw, whose support the Friends of Humanity could never survive without..."
The Professor turned as he sensed Logan. The two met eyes.
What have you uncovered thus far?
Not much, Chuck. Honestly I'm starting to think we've wasted our time.
Far from it, Logan. Abernale tells us Sebastian Shaw is not only funding the Friends of Humanity, but that there are rumors that Shaw is actually a mutant himself. And he's gathered all these politicans in hopes of garnering their vote for the Mutant Registration Act.
Logan bristled, What? Why would a mutant help mutant haters?
I can't access his mind to find out. Something ominous is here, Logan. I feel it. My telepathy is being blocked.
At that news, Logan's keen senses went on high alert. You always knew things could get real bad when a mutant as powerful as Charles Xavier could be affected. Don't worry, Chuck. We'll get to the bottom of it.
Cowan had reached the other end of the ballroom, "Hurry up, Divers." He pushed through a door that blended into the wall and led them into a dark corridor. After a few more strides and turns, they entered a sparsely lit room of dark woods and the scent of high quality leather.
"Who the hell are you?" Cowan barked.
When the Cajun stood up with a tumbler of whiskey in his hands, Logan almost laughed at the irony. His actions did not betray his surprise. His first instinct was to extend his claws, but remembered he had a facade to keep up. Wthin seconds of first laying eyes on Gambit, his gun was cocked, aimed, and ready in his hands.
"Offer y'gents a drink?" Gambit gave no sign that he recognized Wolverine.
All too clearly Logan remembered the devil-may-care youth who'd left Rogue in a self-destructive state. Logan hadn't been privy to all the details, but he knew enough to see it was beyond a normal broken heart. Rogue, the toughest girl he knew, had been left in sheer tatters because of this git. He knew all too well what that felt like. And here he was after all this time, Gambit, as glib as ever.
Cowan had also drawn his firearm, "You've got 2 seconds to tell us what you're doing here. I have clearance to shoot at discretion."
"Mais, y'don' leave me much chance t'en, mon ami." Somehow a deck of cards appeared in his hand. He shuffled them effortlessly. The faint glow of a charge crackled on the edges of the top card.
"Hold on there, bub -" Logan's finger tightened over the trigger. He wondered how Rogue would react when he told her he had shot the Cajun. Hopefully she'd be slightly on the schadenfreudistic side.
Suddenly their guns flew out of their hands and floated above a doorway, where a woman in a black dress stood. Her lime green eyes burned with anger, lips tight in a sneer. "What the hell kind of monkey show is Creed running?" she growled.
"M-M-Ma'am," Cowan stammered. "We weren't b-b-briefed."
Lorna Danes. Logan was beginning to feel like he'd wandered into a soap opera, with all the unexpected faces popping up. He also wondered if Lorna Danes had seen him enough around the Institute two years ago to recognize him now. If so, he was going to have a very big problem. He could tell Gambit had a similar thought, standing with his card still charged and ready, red-on-black eyes darting guilefully back and forth.
Malice hovered the weapons above her open palm. Slowly the metal began to crush and crumble under the pressure of her magnetism.
"Uh...ma'am, is that necessary..."
The two guns were nothing more but a ball of crumpled metal. It fell to the hardwood floor with a heavy thud, rolling to Cowan's feet.
"I'll leave you to explain to your boss how you lost your weapons," Malice said. "Now do your job and try not to fuck anything up."
Cowan eagerly nodded, "Divers, I'll sweep the exterior. You take care of the inside." He disappeared before Malice could give him another terrifying look.
She tsked at Remy for his attention, "I'm going to go fetch our guests. Keep an eye on these two." The door slammed shut behind her. When he was sure she was out of earshot, he let out a sigh of relief and put away his cards. He acted too soon, because the next moment, Wolverine was slamming him up against a wall, breathing hot and angry air into his face through three metal claws gleaming lethally.
"You got some explainin' to do, bub."
"Hey mon frère, let's talk nice..."
"Cut the act, Gumbo. Why you working for this trash?"
"Not like I got much o' choice."
"What are you sayin'?"
"M'sayin' y' best let go f'r I blow this entire room up, Wolverine." The cackle and spark of energy surrounding them carried a threatening heat.
Logan didn't want to blow his cover. He released the Cajun and took a few steps back, "What's their plan?"
"Hell if I knew. T'ey don' tell me much, mon ami." He seemed to hesitate then said, "Y' best get yourself and whoever you brought outta o' here quick."
"What's this meeting about?" Logan demanded.
"Goddamnit, Wolverine, I said I don't know!"
At that moment Cowan re-entered. "They're on their way," he said.