Chapter 27

Jean woke up with a crick in her neck. She twisted herself upright, stretching as much as she could in the flight harness still strapped around her body. Ouch. Apparently she hadn't done as good a job of suppressing the backlash of that fire stunt as she'd thought. "Where are we?"

"Sea of Japan," Logan told her.

"Already?" She turned in her chair to look for Laura, and found her still in the back corner where she'd fallen asleep. She was awake now, sitting cross-legged with the water-warped copy of Little House pressed open against her knee. Her face was as closed and hostile as ever, but she didn't close the book or try to get up and move away. "How long was I . . . wait . . . Sea of Japan? Isn't that on the other side of Japan? Did we overshoot, or what?"

"Change of plans. My contact's on a business trip in Seoul."

"Seoul, Korea?"

"That's the one. We'd be there already, but you've got to swing down out of your way to get there or else you get shot down by communists. And fun as that would be, we really don't have time for that kind of thing."

"Do we have someplace to land?"

"Yeah, I've called ahead, so we're expected."

"Is that safe?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

Logan didn't dignify this with a response, and Jean decided in hindsight that it had been a foolish question. Logan didn't trust people readily; anyone he did trust was someone who had proven himself beyond question.

As promised, the rest of their flight wasn't very long. It probably wasn't more than fifteen minutes before the endless, unchanging ocean gave way to a thickly wooded landscape, and half an hour beyond that, the woods disappeared and were replaced by a seemingly endless panorama of city.

Jean was no stranger to cities; she lived only a few hours outside of New York. But even to her jaded eyes, Seoul was spectacular. It just kept going, skyscraper after skyscraper after skyscraper, for mile after mile after mile. Every so often mountains jutted up through the urban mess, but the city just poured around them, splashing buildings up their sides as high as they would stick. As she stared out the window, feasting her eyes on the endless panorama, she felt Laura come up behind her. Out of strictest curiosity, Jean brushed at Laura's mind, and saw a systematic hunt for hiding places, vantage points, structural weaknesses. There was no whisper of appreciation for, or even awareness of, the beauty of the sight.

Involuntarily, she shuddered. Laura's mind was an unsettling place to be. What had HYDRA done to this poor girl?

"There," Logan told them, pointing in front of the chopper. One skyscraper tower stood out from the others . . . not the tallest in the city, but the largest in the immediate vicinity, and distinct from any of the buildings around it. It had a clover-leaf footprint, probably to maximize the number of windows in the rooms inside. The windows-dozens of levels of them-were a deep, grayish blue-green. On the tower's flat roof was a wide platform, with the bold white H and circle that marked a helicopter landing pad.

Logan switched from the jet engines to flying solely on the blades, and Laura automatically caught her balance to compensate for the change in Velocity's movement.

"Office tower?" Jean guessed.

"Hotel," Logan corrected.

Holy cow, thought Jean. The building had to be fifty stories high at least. That was a lot of hotel.

Velocity settled neatly into her place in the middle of the pad, and Logan killed the engines, letting the rotors slow from a high roar to a low, sleepy, fading drone. He unbuckled his harness and turned in his chair to look at Laura. "Okay, Kiddo," He told her. "You ready for this?"

Laura looked at him, impassive, but the involuntary tilt of her head betrayed her inward curiosity.

"As near as I can tell, nobody waiting out there for us is going to try to hurt you, so try to keep your claws in. I know it's a reflex, but try. Bend your wrists if you have to. But we don't want the news that you're here getting back to SHIELD, and those things are a dead giveaway. Stick close to me, or to Jean. You can trust us. We're on your side. You getting all this?"

Laura nodded. Her left hand was clamped tight around her book, the only thing in the world she owned.

Logan reached up and took hold of Laura's chin, giving it an affectionate little shake before letting go. Laura flinched, but she didn't jump away or move to attack him. Jean, too, recoiled a little bit in the privacy of her own head. It was really quite amazing how vividly she remembered when Logan used to do that to her.

The little gesture had lasted barely a second. the next second, Logan was up out of his seat and opening the locks on the hatch. "Let's do this thing, then."

The helicopter pad was made of a plain, bare metal grating had no walls around it, or even a railing. The city spread out at their feet in every direction. Even up here, the chilly air smelled a little smoggy and a little spicy. It was not, thank goodness, anywhere near as cold as it had been in Canada. The only way off the platform was a square hole cut in one corner that opened onto a metal spiral staircase. Logan went down first, then Laura, with Jean bringing up the rear.

The level below, the actual roof of the building, was landscaped as a garden, the middle of it kept in partial shade by the platform above. Paved paths wound through and around raised beds filled with ruffly purple cabbages and other cold-weather-tolerant ornamental plants. Standing in the intersection of two of the curving paths was a cluster of six people.

Five of them were men, all in business suits and overcoats, their smooth faces and narrow eyes proclaiming them to be either Korean or Japanese. Jean was quite sure that they all looked different from one another, but at first glance all her eyes could process and absorb was the sameness of the expensive suits, the glossy black or graying hair in several different professional-looking cuts, the similar heights each at least two inches below her own. At least they were all wearing different ties.

The sixth member of the group, and the one who stood out in front to meet them, was a woman. She was by far the oldest member of the party. Despite the obvious age written in the lines of her face, she carried herself very straight, and her dark brown eyes were bright, clear, and intelligent. Her hair was entirely white and fine as spiderweb, held in a knot at the back of her head. She was wrapped in a gray wool coat—it was dark gray, but with all the black coats in the background it looked relatively bright—and had stood with her hands folded and tucked inside her wide sleeves. Her face was solemn, but she was smiling. "Logan."

Logan was smiling, too. "Mariko."

Lieutenant Carol Danvers, of the United States Air Force, was in the middle of weaving a latticework pie crust when the doorbell rang. Since her hands were full and covered in flour, she let her mom answer it. Because the radio was blaring golden oldies, a Danvers family after-church Sunday afternoon tradition, she couldn't hear what was said. But a moment later her mom was next to her, one hand on her taller daughter's shoulder. "Carol, it's . . . they say they're from Special Investigations."

Carol froze for a second. She had a moment of panic as her fight-or-flight response kicked in, but she fought it down. She was no longer what she had been; she could neither fight nor fly. She'd known that this was coming.

"Just a second." With steady hands, she wove the last short strip of dough across the top of the pie. "Crimp that closed and give it a brush with some milk, and it'll be ready to pop in the oven."

With almost ritualistic steadiness, she washed the flour from her hands in the kitchen sink, pulled out the elastic that had been holding back her long blonde hair, and brushed the white streaks off of her t-shirt and jeans. Then she left the kitchen and walked into the foyer, where the AFOSI agents were waiting for her.

"Lieutenant Danvers," The tallest of the three agents announced, "we have some questions for you."

"Certainly, Captain," Carol responded, noting his superior rank affixed to his collar.

"We need you to come with us, please."

"I'll get my coat."

She passed her mother on her way to the hall closet. "Do you think you'll be back in time for dinner?" her mom asked, lines in her forehead betraying her nervousness.

Carol shrugged on her coat and did up the buttons. "No," she said truthfully. "This will probably take a while. If I don't call you before tomorrow, will you make sure my fish get fed until I get back?" It was a bluff. She knew she wasn't coming back. But she couldn't just say that out loud.

"Of course, honey."

Carol checked that her house keys and cell phone were in her coat pockets, kissed her mom on the cheek, slipped her feet into her shoes, and walked out the door with the other officers forming a tight, official, uniformed circle around her. Trapped. Nowhere to run.

She spared a glance for the sky just before climbing into the dark, expensive car with tinted windows. If only . . . . Charles Xavier had told her that her magnificent mutant abilities might one day re-emerge, and she'd waited breathlessly, hoping. She tried one more time, pushing up towards the wide, free sky with everything she had. Her feet remained firmly anchored on the pavement.

Well, Carol thought, resigned. If I'd been in his place, I probably would have tried to give me a little hope, too. She climbed into the car, and one of the agents slammed the door shut behind her.

Less than twenty-four hours after she'd landed, Rogue was back at the airport. Her backpack was heavier than it had been, since it now contained both her uniform and the spare clothes she'd gotten from Warren, but it was still easier to manage than her school bag. Ever the gentleman, Bobby opened her door for her and helped her out of the car.

"Ticket," he announced, handing her an airline pass in its paper sleeve. Rogue slid it out and saw the name printed thereon: LeBeau, Rogue Azami.

"How'd you know about this?" she asked, pointing to the name.

Bobby shrugged. "I'm a t'ief. I went through your stuff."

Rogue paused, wondering if she should be ticked off. Finally, she decided there was no point. He was Remy's brother, after all, and he had the sort of face that it was impossible to be angry at.

"Cash," he went on, slapping a roll of bills into her palm. "Don't," he ordered, when he saw her mouth fly open to protest. "I can get more when I need it, an' you can't. You've got our number, in case you need anythin' else, right?"

"Right."

"If Pere answers, tell him you're Chrissie and you wanna talk t'me."

"Who's Chrissie?"

"Friend a'mine wid a voice kinda like yours. De less Pere knows, de better for everybody. Memere an' I'll keep la bouche fermee, an' so will Belle if she's got half a brain."

Rogue nodded. "Bobby, kin Ah ask you one more favor?"

"Nommez-le."

"Ah'll call as soon as Ah got mah cell phone back, an' give you the number. If you happen t'hear about any of the guilds takin' another job against mutants, will you call me? Please?"

Bobby paused. "What'd you mean, 'another' job?"

"Remy said the New York guild took a job on the Institute."

"They cain't. Your house is protected wid Remy's seal. One a'de perks of makin' Master Thief."

"Yeah, they didn't finish the job, but they didn't tell Remy about it, either. Just tuh be jerks, Ah guess."

Bobby frowned and lowered his voice. "Y'ever find out who paid for dat job?"

"Creed," said Rogue, infusing as much venom into her voice as possible.

She could almost see something go click in Bobby's head. "De job was on your house," he murmured, barely moving his lips.

"What? You heard about it?"

"Yeah, but not 'cause it was 'gainst all y'all. Guildmaster Petrelli called Pere when he got offered de job, 'cause it was bien bizarre. Senator Creed came t'him personally. Like, on his own feet in his own shoes."

"That's weird?"

"So weird. Somebody as important as a U.S. Senator sure might hire de guild t'pull a job, but he'd never show up t'discuss it himself. He'd send a lackey's lackey's lackey . . . get himself as distanced from us as possible, in case any'tin' went wrong. Not dat it would," he added, guild pride coming out. "Politicians is just paranoid. But him showin' up like dat was so strange dat de guildmaster called fo'a second opinion before he agreed t'anythin', which is how I heard about it."

"Why would he do that?"

"Pere's guess was dat de senator's got somebody on his staff dat he don't trust. Or he gettin' paranoid an' just don't trust anybody. Can't blame him . . . if I'd ticked off your people, I'd be gettin' paranoid, too."

"That was before he ticked us off," Rogue mused. "What is goin' on in that freak's head?"

Bobby snapped himself out of his reverie. "Tomorrow's problem," he decided. Go get y'butt on dat plane. Go on."

Rogue hugged him one last time. "Thank you," she reiterated, emphasizing her words with a squeeze. "Thank you so much, Bobby."

She felt him chuckle. "Yo'welcome, cherie." He released her and held her at arm's length for a moment. "Go talk some sense int' my stupid baby brother. Don' let him lose you."

Rogue nodded. "Ah'll try."

la bouche fermee: a closed mouth.

Nommez-le: Name it.

bien bizarre: Really weird.

Author's Notes: Thank you, team! I've got SO much written to be published in the next few days. Hold onto your hats!

Seri