A Foreign Affair


Author: P.L. Nunn.
Illustrations by: P.L. Nunn.
Please send feedback to bishonenworks@attbi.com.

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NOTE: This story is deserving of an R rating due to graphic violence, strong language and a few other nasty surprises.


The wind blew in from the north like the frigid breath of death. Its howling tantrum disturbed powdery layers of new snow on the northern slopes of the Himalayas, blowing almost as much crystallized white through the crisp air as the storm the night before had managed to dump in all its frenzy. The storm had traveled east, was more than likely plaguing Lhasa or some further eastern settlement by now. It was a bad season to risk the highlands. The weather was treacherous and the passes indistinguishable from the ragged spine of the mountains themselves. The natives knew better than to attempt the high trails in the winter. No sane Tibetan strayed so far from the safety and warmth of his home when so many unforgiving blizzards prowled the great range. It was only the dread of something more terrible than nature that might make a man brave the heights.

 

Creed had killed two of the small, brown skinned highlanders before the remaining guides had succumbed to the wisdom of following his commands. That left three of the rugged, wind toughened Tibetans to lead him west along the highest trails the grand old Himalayas had to offer. He hadn't minded the slaughter. The warmth of blood on his hands and the fever of the kill served to thaw the layer of ice this place had cast over him. The kill always heated the blood in his veins. It made him hunger for more blood, for the euphoric feel of his claw-like nails ripping into the soft flesh of prey. The feel of hot intestines oozing over his hands. But, he held himself back from finishing them all, even though they stared at him with hate and disparity from their squinty, black eyes. They thought he was a beast, a madman. A creature that was only half a man; more an animal, a vicious brute who as soon kill them as endure their irritating presence one moment longer.

 

But, he needed them. Creed needed guides, for as uniquely suited as he was for the climate and the hardships of this land, he did not know the passes and the hidden trials and the ancient legends that passed from generation to generation among the Tibetan peoples, that hinted at the place he wanted to go. The place he was being paid handsomely to find. So he didn't kill them.

Creed in Tibet

 

He stood staring up the steep, snow covered side of a mountain, snow blowing in his face, melting on his skin, with his parka open and his hood back. His guides cowered behind him, bundled from head to foot in thick coats and hoods, shivering in the frigid air. Creed breathed it in, broad face alight with the challenge of one more great mountain to defeat. Ice crystals glinted in his blonde brows and hair, his breath made a thick fog of vapor before his face. He made up two of his guides in size and weight and yet when he moved there was a powerful, feline grace about him. There was about his features also something vaguely feline. Not delicate like a small cat, but heavy and lethal like one of the great wild cats; or more liken to some extinct ancestor of the lion. A sabortooth. That, the movement, the coloring, the utter savagery of his attack with his claw like nails had gained him the name more people knew him by than his given one. Sabortooth. In the circles he moved in, it was a name to shiver at.

 

He snapped at his guides to move, and the small figures sidled past him, ponderously making their way up the slope through snow up past their knees. There was a trail up there, past this ridge that was hardly more than legend. He had it on good account that it was more than legend. That it was there and that it led to a place very few human beings now alive had ever visited. Not that any one would find great benefit from traveling all this way, through all this miserable and cold terrain just to see a bunch of baldheaded, Tibetan monks. Only the man who was currently footing the none to small bills for this jaunt would have any desire to collect something monks had coveted for years, for himself.

 

'Course, Creed didn't much care why he wanted the artifact as long as he got paid, and paid well. And for trekking though this much snow and ice he was getting a bundle.

The incline sloped sharply upwards and Creed dug his boots in, walking almost vertical in his ascent. The guides had roped themselves together and they were dark forms ahead, figures made hazy and indistinguishable by the blown snow. Creed refused the rope link. He trusted his own abilities more than the puny strength their human chain offered. Snow trickled down from the track they had made. There was a yelp up ahead and the lead man lost his footing as a sheet of snow gave way, sliding down the slope in a crumbling sheet of purest white. When the lead man went he jerked the second and third off their feet and they all went tumbling down, human flotsam mixed with the snow.

 

Creed snarled in exasperation at their clumsiness and snagged a bit of rope between the second and third climber and with it in hand leaped back out of the way of the disembarking snow. Three men were jerked in his wake, as though their combined weight were a pittance. Creed grunted, standing splay legged in the snow with his guides scattered about him, and glared at the roughened area of slope as if it had done him some personal insult.

 

He called the guides foul names and jerked them up. They climbed slowly to their feet, sluggish from the tumble and the dread cold, muttering fearfully amongst themselves. He slapped one on the back of the head to get them moving, and slowly they began the climb to the ridge.

The only thing that betrayed the existence of a trail under the snow were the evenly placed standing stones that flanked it along the top of the ridge. Creed felt, with a lifetime's worth of horned predator's senses that the prey he had hunted all these weeks was close at hand.

 

His guides needed to make camp when the sun began to creep beyond the horizon, making long shadows on the slopes. The heat fled with it, what heat there was at any rate. The Tibetans chattered on about freezing during the night if camp was not made and a fire built. How far, he asked them, did this trail run? How long till they reached their mysterious destination.

 

Close, they replied. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day, depending on weather.

 

Sabortooth grinned. His teeth were sharp, white points. Almost as sharp as his claws. He didn't need their services anymore, if what he sought lay so close.

 

Blood spattered the snow, but the darkening shadows ate it up and the bodies were swallowed up by the powdery top layer of new snow. That snow might never melt. Might forever hide evidence of what lay below. Sabortooth continued down the ridge trail, immune to cold, intent on his destination. There was blood on his fingerless gloves. He idly licked it off as he went.

 

He might have missed the temple altogether, sat as it was against the rock face of a sheer mountain side, but the rays of a rising sun reveled lines and shapes to organized to be the design of nature. The ridge trail curved up towards what could only be an ancient and time weathered Buddhist temple. For all the gray severity and crumbling facade, it might have been abandoned ages ago, but Creed's sharp eyes picked up the pin point glimmers here and there along its facade of flickering torches.

 

The trail wound up and eventually under the snow his feet trod upon carved stone steps. He could just make out the angular shape of steps leading sharply upwards. He climbed up a hundred or more, before the snow dusted away, swept off by human hands perhaps, and the going got easier. A hundred more. Two hundred. Three. Zig zaging up the sheer face of mountain and finally leading under a cold stone archway into darkness. He paused and sniffed the air. Air so clean and frigid that lungs shivered in ecstasy. No human scent here. Just stone and earth. He rummaged in his pack and pulled out a small, hand held device. He flipped it on with one thick thumb and a grid came to life on its face. Ah, there it was. Close. Close enough to feel the money he would get for retrieving it. 

 


 

Shimmering, white capped waves rushed the beach in rhythmic, ordered advance, as if they had some military goal in mind. It was an unstoppable force, the ocean, eating away at the beach grain by grain, bit by bit. One day it would win, and this beach would be nothing but sea bottom, and the graceful, sandy bluffs beyond ridges for the fishes to dart around. Everyone knew, sooner or later, California would drop into the sea. Rogue only hoped she wouldn't be around when it happened. She wasn't a big fan of disaster flicks. Earthquakes, volcano's erupting, tidal waves wiping out cities and the like just gave her a hard, coiled feeling in the pit of her stomach. A feeling that she couldn't shake for hours and sometimes days after seeing the horror of natural disaster depicted on the big screen. The power of nature flat out scared her sometimes, awed her at others and amazed her at best. Sitting on this Californian beach, way down the coast from the crowded shores of Malibu, she could watch the power of the ocean and think.

 

Nature made her wary, just as all unchangeable things did. Rogue was a woman who liked to control her own destiny and yet fate had thrown her the ultimate loop of being powerless over her own self. Oh, not powerless as most folks thought of the word. She was no lilting southern flower that couldn't take care of herself. She was far, far from that. It was more personal, more heartbreakingly tragic than that. She pulled bare legs up, wrapping her arms about them and resting chin on knees. She stared out over the Pacific, reddish hair curling about her face and shoulders, a few wispy white strands from the streak of white running down the center standing out blatantly from the darker auburn tangling with them. A bulky sweatshirt covered her torso, half concealing a pair of white shorts. Her sandals lay in the sand a few yards distant, forgotten as she curled her toes in the sand.

 

She hated disaster movies. She hated tragedy. She didn't know why she'd gone to see the matinee of Titanic except for the fact she'd been bored and everyone else was at the conference and she'd heard wonderful things about the romance of the picture. She did so love romance. One had to love what one could only look upon from afar. And after three hours of sitting through an incredibly moving romantic disaster movie, crying whole heatedly for the last half hour, she'd just had to go off and be by herself.

 

She had come here, far away from the clamor of civilization to mourn her own fate. Melancholy was not Rouges natural state of mind, and when bouts of it hit her, she immersed herself wholeheartedly in the sensation. She was so alone. So cordoned off from the rest of the world. It hurt so much not to be able to ever express one tiny bit of intimacy with another living being. Never to touch, skin to skin, even as a careless gesture of warmth. Of all the mutant aberrations for a body to be cursed with, this had to be the worst. She'd rather be disfigured or inhuman. At least then some poor desperate soul could hold her when she was feeling this down.

 

Homo superior. Ha. That didn't matter much when she was always so isolated.

 

A soft laugh drifted down the beech on the breeze. She looked through windblown locks of hair to spy a couple walking through the surf towards her. She made a smaller ball of herself, a tiny bit of flesh and bone that was only an afterthought against the dune of sand behind her. They walked by, caught up in each other, arms around shoulders and waists, occasionally sharing a whispery caress or kiss.

 

Rouge shuddered, sighing and wished she'd never gone to see the movie. Wished she'd had the patience to sit through the professor's speech at the World Mutant's Rights Conference. But, as impassioned as she was on the subject, she'd sat through four days of it already and was mightily tired of the never ending verbal battle. There was a hell of a lot of opposition out there. A hell of a lot of people who would just as well see all mutants wiped from the face of the earth, as if they weren't living, breathing inhabitants of mother earth also. As if they had no right even being born. As if they'd chosen to be the way they were.

 

She should have gone to the conference.

 

....

 

Heads turned, mostly male, and followed the graceful figure of Ororo Munro. She stood out amongst even the flamboyant, beautiful people that walked the sunset strip. She was exceptional in every way, from her statue, to her creamy chocolate complexion, to her startlingly blue eyes, to the flowing, pristine white locks that crowned her visage. She was used to the attention. She had been a goddess once, to a tribe in Africa. She was mistress of the elements of weather. A mutant power that she controlled and used with all the sanctity and reverence as if it were her religion. To a certain degree, it was. It was part of nature and to Storm, nature was everything.

 

This city, with all it's harsh lights and abrasive people was not so grandiose, despite all of it's fame. Still she'd had to venture out and experience it. One gained everything from experience.

A thin oriental boy in baggy cut offs and a ragged T-shirt sporting the logo of some hard rock band came at her, riding the concrete wave of sidewalk on his skateboard. She hesitated, as he barreled at her. At the last moment he swerved, rocketing around her, laughing. She turned her head to see what other pedestrians he played at kamikaze with, and was in time to see him suddenly and brutally snatched from the board and held up by a man scarcely taller than he. Feet kicked frantically, voice lifted in indignation, in empty threat, while skateboard continued on down the sidewalk.

 

"Ain't ya got manners?" the man, though short, could not be considered small. His bones were thick, and his body broad and muscled. There was power hidden behind loose chinos and baggy sweatshirt. The gleam of natural predator lurked in black eyes. Thick black side burns reached almost to the jaw, and coarse hair swept back from his face in a widow's peak. A cigarette dangled from broad lips. When he smiled at the struggling kid, his teeth were almost sharp.

 

"Lemme go, man." the kid shrieked. "I'll sue."

 

Wolverine just stared at the kid, until the boy's face paled and he ceased his struggles. The strip crowd veered around the disturbance as if it were nothing untoward.

 

"Logan." Storm called back gently. He did not glance at her, but released his grip on the skateboarder's collar. The kid hit the pavement running, searched frantically for his board and disappeared into the crowd after finding it.

 

Wolverine sauntered up to Storm, hands in pockets, puffing lazily on his hand rolled smoke. "Reminds me of Jubilee, when I first met her. Smart mouthed and full of spunk."

 

"That description, I believe, still fits."

 

He nodded, blowing smoke away from Storm, considerate of her aversion to it. He was a head shorter than she, and next to her people didn't pay him much heed, unless they happened to look into his eyes and then they averted their own, moving quickly out of his vicinity, not wanting his attention even if he was in the company of a beautiful African goddess.

 

"Two more days of this." he complained. "I don't know if I can stand the sunshine and the glitter that long."

 

"Do you miss the cold, gray autumn of New York, Logan?" she asked, surprised.

 

"Roro, I miss the woods and the solitude. I never was one for California. 'side's Chuck's said about all he can say this time 'round, and most of these Mutant Rights bozos gathering here are tree huggers looking to jump on a cause. Don't matter what cause it is, as long as they get to protest in favor of it."

 

"Better that support than none at all." Storm said. "Every voice added raises public awareness of the problem."

 

Nestled between a surf shop and tattoo parlor they found a Mexican restaurant where they enjoyed a refreshingly authentic dinner. Then weeded their further into the nightlife of the strip. There was an arcade, the whole front of which was open to the sidewalk. A great crowd of people mulled in and around its environs. Every once and a while a cry of excitement rose up from its depths as some player or another accomplished the impossible.

 

Storm winced at the clamor and they bypassed the arcade. Tomorrow she would be back in a conservative suit, standing behind Charles Xaviar as he gave his final speech and lecture. He was the acknowledged voice for mutant rights in the world today. The acknowledged expert, and yet no one knew he himself was a mutant. If they did, he would not have had access to most of the ears he did. It was one thing for a respected professor to stand up for the rights of the minority, if he were nothing more than a brilliant, handicapped homo sapian. If the world knew that he was the most powerful Telepath alive, then it would be another story. As it was, there had been death threats, bomb scares, and protests against mutants ever since this conference had began. They had found one bomb and stopped two assassins. One ferverently preyed tomorrow would go smoothly. It would make Charles so happy if this conference ended without the violence so many others had erupted into. But, that was why she and her fellow X-Men were here. To make certain of their mentors safety and to prevent the type of altercation that in this world televised event, might turn public opinion against their cause.

 

For tonight, she was in the company of a dear old friend, and in a city she was unfamiliar with. She was content to explore and relax and let tomorrow take care of itself.

 


 

The skeet ball sailed deftly into the center hole for the umpteenth consecutive time and the chain of arcade tickets already trailing and curling along the floor, became even longer. It was house policy that any perfect game automatically received the next game free. The young man standing at the foot of the skeet ball alley had parted with a single quarter of his own money at the start of this unprecedented winning streak and not a cent more. Even the best player occasionally missed and hit the second ring, the management counted on that. They were sourly casting glares at the player experiencing the unusual winning streak.

Bishop & Remy in Arcade

 

"How many's that?"

 

The man standing behind the player looked down at the pile of tickets. One might not expect him to be relegated ticket counter. He was not a small man or a particularly pleasant appearing one. Among this crowd of teenagers and young couples out for a night's entertainment at the arcade, he stood out like disaster waiting to happen. He stood well over six feet and was built like the meanest of professional wrestlers on a serious body building kick. His hair was shaved close to his head, and his broad jaw sported a well trimmed mustache and beard. Teeth stood out shockingly white, against dark lips and skin, but the most unusual thing about Bishop, at first glance was the tattooed M that started above his right brow, descended over his eye and ended just above his cheek bone.

 

"You have four hundred and seven, so far." Bishop replied.

 

"Ninety-three to go." Remy Lebeau calculated, casting a glance from under his shades at the very large stuffed bear that he had every intention of presenting to Rogue. She'd been down for the last few days and hadn't bothered to hide the fact. She wouldn't talk about it either, but Remy knew her well enough to figure she was going through a bout of rock bottom self-esteem. The girl had a tough time living with her curse. He had a tough time living with it, but he was a pessimist, most of the time. One day, something would turn up.

 

He finished the next game, collected his tickets and appropriated his prize. The bear was almost half his size. He carted it under one arm for all of a dozen steps before a virtual skateboarding game caught his eye and he thrust the bear on a scowling Bishop.

 

"Just one moment, mon ami." he promised. Bishop looked at the flat black eyes of the bear, then at Gambit's back and frowned deeper.

 

"I can see the point in the ball game." the big man admitted. "There was a prize involved, but this game seems to have no object."

 

"Sure it does." Gambit swayed to one side, directing the actions of the character on the screen by the motion of the board he stood upon. "It's like the danger room, Bishop. It horns skills - - see, I just avoided that car.">

 

"What skill might those be?" Bishop asked dryly, staring at the computer generated figure that represented his teammate. Gambit glanced back and flashed a brilliant white grin as he finished the course flawlessly and in record time. A crowd had gathered around to watch, making Bishop nervous. He was embarrassed to be seen carrying the bear and sat it down surreptitiously by his feet. Nothing embarrassed Gambit. He thrived on the attention. He blended so well with this crowd that one might never suspect he didn't spend his life riding the waves and loitering in the arcade. He was lilth and tan, with what, Bishop had been assured by the females he worked with, could be considered devastating good looks. Brown hair was caught in a tail at his neck, and more still spilled over his forehead and over his shades. The only things about Gambit that might suggest he didn't belong here were hidden behind those dark glasses. His eyes had the tendency to glow red, especially when he used his mutant powers.

 

"Gambit, I tire of this." Bishop complained.

 

"Why don' you find a game and play it?" Gambit threw over his shoulder.

 

"It is a pure waste of time." Bishop scoffed.

 

"What? You wound me, mon ami. Look over there. A shooting game. Big gun, no?"

 

Unwillingly Bishop's eyes were drawn towards the indicated game. There was indeed a very big gun mounted to the front panel of the game. A spark of interest kindled. He drifted a step towards the target game.

 

"Don' forget my bear."


 

They wondered into the lobby of the Radison at half past four in the morning. A sleepy bellboy watched them from his post but otherwise the well furbished lobby was deserted, the lamps turned low for the night. Bishop still carried the large pink and white bear. Gambit was having a hard time carrying himself, having imbibed a good deal of liquor at the establishment of ill repute that he had convinced Bishop to accompany him to after they had left the arcade.

 

A 'strip joint', Gambit had explained to him, as if upon entering and seeing exactly what the female employee's of the place were doing, he couldn't have figured it out for himself. Bishop might have come from a very grim future, but he was not an idiot. There were such places in his time, only they were by far more dismal and called 'flesh mills'.

 

And he might have gotten as many scathing remarks and provocative looks going to one of them as he did at the one this night in this time, had he carried this particular bear with him. He had only had to punch two burly bikers before the rest subsided. Gambit thought it was all highly entertaining.

 

Gambit had been the center of attention for a bevy of shooter girls, some of whom had attempted to share their bounty with Bishop before his scathing glare had warned them away. As a result, Bishop was stone sober and Gambit could barely navigate the spinning glass doors leading into the lobby. He only rebounded once, before he made it though the revolving door, and Bishop waited on the other side to grab a lapel and jerk him out before he ended up back outside.

 

Gambit grinned hazily up at him and mumbled something in French. He leaned in against the bear, using it and Bishop as support. Bishop glowered at the bellboy who watched them with a quirky grin on his face.

 

"Well, ain't this a sight." A lilting voice remarked from the alcove sheltering the bank of elevators. Bishop winced and Gambit perked up, zeroing in on the voice and the shapely form of its owner.

 

Rogue stood waiting for an elevator, sandals dangling from her hand, head tilted curiously as she watched them navigate the lobby.

 

"Chere'." Gambit pulled at the bear and stumbled a few awkward steps backwards when Bishop released his hold on it. He approached her with the offering, only weaving slightly. She eyed it and him dubiously. "What's this?"

 

"I won it for you."

 

"You did?" she blinked in pleased surprise, then looked past the bear being thrust in her face to Gambit's smiling countenance. Her green eyes narrowed.

 

"What's that on your face, Remy?"

 

He stared uncomprehendingly. "What? Where?"

 

"Right here." she reached out a gloved finger and wiped a smear of red from the side of his mouth. "It's lipstick." she accused.

 

"Non!" he said, aghast. She held the finger with the smear of bright red lipstick right before his eyes.

 

"Yes." she shot back, then glared over his shoulder at Bishop and showed him the evidence as well. "What were you two doing all night? Ah can't believe this." She stomped her foot so hard the marble tile under her heel splintered. "You can take your bear, Remy and you can - - you can - - Ah don't care what you do with it." she shoved the bear and subsequently Gambit back with the palm of her hand. He flailed backwards into Bishop so hard the big man actually staggered a few steps trying to catch him. The bear, cheaply made arcade prize that it was, split open, spilling fluff onto the lobby floor.

 

Rouge vanished behind polished brass elevator doors.

 

"Well," Bishop remarked dryly, setting Gambit on his feet. "that was not well done."

 

"I don' have lipstick on me?" It was more a hopeful quest for reassurance than a denial.

 

Bishop frowned at him, stepping past to push the elevator button. Gambit wiped his face with the back of one hand. A smear of red came off.

 

"Where that come from?" He stared at the miraculous appearance.

 

"I would imagine any one of the overly endowed, what was it you called them? shooter girls? who spent half the night in your lap feeding you alcohol, might be held responsible."

 

Gambit didn't respond. He let the bear drop from his hand and the poor split thing lay on its side, forgotten on the floor while he leaned his forehead against the wall between banks of elevators, muttering curses or prayers in French.

 

"Perhaps," Bishop said, as the doors slid open. "we should have stayed and played target practice longer."

 

....

 

On this, the last day of the gathering for mutant rights, the talks turned towards a more scientific nature. The meeting hall was filled with listeners, but today they were of a more educated nature than those that had gathered in the last week. Only the scientific community could have followed the lecture by the renowned mutant, doctor Henry McCoy. Hank McCoy was one of the most abnormal appearing mutants loose in the world, with a broad muscular body covered from head to toe in thick blue fur, facial features more reminiscent of an animal than a man, and the agility and boundless energy of a simian, but people, normal people, strangely enough had to fear of him. Perhaps it had been his stint as an Avenger, a team that could do no wrong in the eyes of the public. Perhaps it was his charming good will, his dedicated enthusiasm for research in both Homo sapian and Homo superior matters. Perhaps it was merely that he seemed such a cheerful, cuddly creature that people just liked him. Regardless, the Beast, the codename he'd taken for himself many years ago when his mutation first began to effect his physiology, was one of the few trusted mutants, in the minds of the American public.

 

On the podium he was excitedly talking about the gene structure of certain mutant deviants, using a long pointer to tap at the slide screen behind him.

 

Storm only half listened, more interested in the conversation her mentor and the founder of the X-Men, Charles Xaviar was having with a middle aged, bifocaled woman at the back of the hall. Storm was immaculate in white, tailored suit, her hair caught up in an elaborate African knot on the back of her head. She stood behind Xaviar's wheelchair, one slim brown hand resting on a handle, the other absently rubbing an onyx broach at her lapel.

 

This woman was an old colleague, who wished Xaviar to join her for dinner that evening. He seemed pleased at the suggestion. Storm was happy for him, Charles had too few events in which he functioned socially. Everything he did was for the cause. For the Team.

 

Applause drew her attention and Xaviar's back to the podium. Beast had finished his presentation and was bowing ceremoniously. It was a fair estimation that most of the people here had only vaguely grasped the concepts he had rattled on about, but they celebrated his performance nonetheless. The blue furred doctor bounded off the stage with all the limitless energy of a three year old in a toy factory, his lips pulled back in a grin that revealed a mouthful of sharp and very predatory appearing teeth.

 

"Well done, Hank." The professor praised, then indicated the woman he had been conversing with. "You know Professor Keyes?"

 

Hank bowed deeply, the hand holding his notes swinging dramatically behind him. "Not personally, but I have had the pleasure of reading several of your papers."

 

Doctor Keyes smiled somewhat nervously at the intimidating blue visage grinning down on her.

 

"She and I are old friends. We'll be having dinner this evening."

 

For a second, Hank's face fell; his brow furrowed in dilemma. "Oh, my. I was hoping to get back to the mansion this evening and delve into some of the fascinating new data I've collected here."

 

"Ah, I know your eagerness when faced with new information. Take the Blackbird back with whoever wishes to return home today, and I'll catch a flight tomorrow."

 

"No." Hank hesitated. "I couldn't leave you - -"

 

"Nonsense." Xaviar insisted. "I've a great deal to discuss with Dr. Keyes."

 

"Go on, Henry." Ororo decided the matter. "I shall stay here with Charles. Go find Logan, I believe he is more than eager to return home."

 

With Storm's presence an assurance of Xavier's safety, there was little reason for Hank to hesitate in taking the offer. He grinned and started to bound off towards the main lobby.

 

"Henry." Storm called after him, a prompting note to her tone. She tapped her wrist when he turned curiously.

 

Oh, the image inducer. In his enthusiasm he forgot that outside the auditorium filled with people who did understand and support mutant rights there was also a convention for auto insurers and the rest of the world who might be a bit disgruntled by his appearance. He waved at her, flicked the switch on the otherwise common seeming watch and the blue furred Beast was replaced by a stocky, broad faced man in a tweed jacket and thick rimmed glasses who stood out no more than any of the other researchers who mulled about the auditorium.

 

...

 

Of course Wolverine was ready to go. Logan harbored a distaste for the plastic reality of the more affluent West Coast cities. Hank was surprised that Gambit was up for an early trip back to the dull hills of Winchester, though. Until he found out that Rogue was all packed and ready to go home, then Gambit's decision made more sense. Bishop opted to stay and play body guard with Storm, which was no surprise at all. The man lived for duty. The man breathed, ate and slept with duty, which made him sometimes a less than charismatic personality, but garnered him a good deal of grudging respect.

 

The Blackbird, every sleek black aerodynamic inch of her, put every other aircraft on the private field just outside of the city to shame. She sat off in a corner of the airfield, like a predator in wait, soaking up the afternoon light like shadow swallowing color. Hank finished the last exterior check before ascending the boarding ramp and sealing it tight behind him.

 

Rogue had positioned herself as far back in the passenger cabin as possible and stared morosely at the seat back before her. Gambit was trying to talk to her, his voice a heady whisper. Hank's sharp hearing picked up a word here, a word there. Enough to know that he was trying to apologize for something and Rogue was astutely ignoring his attempts.

 

Logan was in the co-pilot's seat, a half smoked cigar dangling from his lips. Hank gave him a disparaging look. The Blackbird was an official smoke free area. Logan shrugged. "It's out, Blue. Just feels good where it is."

 

Hank hopped over the arm of the pilot's chair and settled into the cool leather of the seat. He began preflight warm-up even as he buckled seat belts.

 

It was one O'clock now, with the Blackbird's mach capacity they would be back on the east coast by six at the latest.

 

Smooth take off and the soothing sounds of Mozart and Hank settled back for a peaceful flight. Logan was a silent presense at his side, and Gambit had ceased his attempts to draw Rogue into conversation.

 

It wasn't until they passed over the green farmlands of Kansas that the peace was broken.

 


 

Creed straightened the lapels on his Armani blazer. Beige coat over a white silk shirt. Silk felt good after two months smothered in deep cold insulating gear. Creed liked the finer things in life, even though he thrived under the most miserable of conditions. He cast a look at his image in a passing mirror. Ran one large hand through wavy blonde hair and admired himself. Rugged face. Cruel mouth and roman nose. Not a pretty face, but one that damned sure got second looks from the ladies.

 

The one he was following now, sort little oriental thing with hips like a boy and face like a geisha kept casting nervous looks over her shoulder at him. She had met him at the door of the estate. Sprawling grounds and old, old house about an hour's drive outside of Kansas City. He'd been there once before, when he'd taken this job. She'd been here then too. Had done most of the interacting between him and her boss. His boss. For the time being, anyways. Old house, and dark and furnished like somebody only lived in it about six days out of the year. Big empty hallways, and rooms off the side with no furniture. The sound of their footsteps echoed on the marble of the hallway floor.

 

She took him to the same room he'd met her boss before. Huge marble gallery at the end of the hall. Tall, draped windows lined the far wall and only a single candelabra lighting the room. Her boss liked it that way. He liked the dark and the silence.

 

Creed could have cared less what the man liked or didn't, save that he was paying him an extravagant amount of money. Only thing that bothered him about the whole situation was the man's scent. Or lack of it. He couldn't pick up a thing from the man. Not a damned hint of cologne, of bad breath, of body odor, of anything a normal human being exuded. It pricked a vague bit of curiosity, but not enough to turn down the job. Creed had worked for stranger birds.

 

The gallery was not the empty space it had been the last time he had been here. There was a stone pedistal in the center and the floor had been marred with the lines of some sort of runes. The man stood behind the pedistal, robed and shadowed, hands hidden beneath the folds of his sleeves. He looked up and the hood shifted minutely, allowing a fleeting glance at his face. Stern, lined features that seemed insubstantial and flickering, as if the man beneath the robes might wink out of existence at any time.

 

Creed dug into his pocket and extracted a baseball sized polished stone. It shone dull lavender in his hand. It had blazed blue almost when he'd taken it from the temple in Tibet. He held it out, displaying it for his employer to see.

 

The girl moved to his side and gingerly took it from his hand. He let her. His money had already been deposited into his accounts. He didn't care if they decided to play stickball with the thing. As if she were handling the most precious of objects she approaching the pedistal and placed the orb in a crevice that had been made to fit, then backed gracefully away and stood outside the rune lines. It seemed to slowly change from lavender to a blushing pink.

 

"So," Creed said, since no one else was doing much talking. "Our business is done."

 

"There is one more thing." the voice that drifted out from the hood was as eerily disembodied as the flesh seemed to be from the reality of the room around it. "One more task that needs doing."

 

Creed shook his head sharply. "Sorry, but I've got other commitments."

 

"No. This must be completed."

 

"Get somebody else."

 

"This orb must be taken to its counterpart, otherwise the merge cannot be achieved." the man said as if Creed had not just told him in no uncertain terms that he was unavailable.

 

"Like I give a shit. You paid me to get the thing and that's all."

 

"Take this orb to its brother in the temple of Kashar and join them and you will be released from obligation."

 

"Man, you don't listen." Creed was getting a bit agitated at the man's obtuseness. He was not in the habit of being ignored when he said a thing.

 

The robed man lifted his hands and the rune lines began to glow. A wave of distortion raced up one line and down the other. Creed felt the power in the follicles of every hair on his body. He was being duped. He hated to be duped. He let out a roar and charged the man behind the alter. He hit the pedistal the exact moment the wave of power completed its circuit of the rune lines. The orb was displaced and what had seemed a smooth relay of power turned catastrophic. The girl screamed behind him. The man in the robe ceased to be. The robes fell into a heap at Creed's feet like the wicked witch of the west after too close an association with a bucket of water. The wave of distorted power blossomed upwards like an inverted funnel, growing the higher it went. A mile, two and into the outer atmosphere before the orb hit the floor and vanished.

 

Creed never knew it was gone. Creed never knew what hit him, because very suddenly there was nothing but darkness and water and disorientation. It was going to be a very bad day.

 


 

"What the hell?" Wolverine was jarred out of his nap and almost out of his chair as the Blackbird rocked in the air as if she had hit one mother of a patch of turbulence. He cast an annoyed glance to the Beast, who was frantically attempting to get the aircraft back under some semblance of control while at the same time trying to read something the onboard computer was spitting out at him.

 

"There's something. . ." Hank started, then had to put all effort into controlling the jet. "There's a distortion. A power surge of enormous proportions coming up from below." Hank looked as if he wanted badly to abandon flight control and concentrate on the computer.

 

"What's going on up there?" Rogue was half out of her seat despite the turbulence that had the Blackbird trembling like she might be torn asunder at any moment.

 

"Strap in." Wolverine snapped over his shoulder. He looked at the same readings Hank was ogling, but could make neither heads nor tails of them. Science wasn't his gig.

 

"What's causing it?"

 

"The computer can't seem to get a lock on the source, but - - -"

 

Then Hank's voice trailed off into a gurgle of startled vibrations as the jet pulsed and shook with more violence than she had yet experienced. Wolverine's vision went screwy. His fingers clenched the armrests of his seat. It felt like the bones would be shaken right out of his body. The nose of the jet wavered, went indistinct and blurry as if it had passed through a thick sheet of water that progressed up the nose and towards the body of the plane.

 

"Pull up." he tried to yell to Hank, but his voice was lost to the clamor. Then the sheet of disturbance passed the coc-pit and he lost all awareness - - -

 

- - - Black. Black. And the sound of wailing. Wind whipping violently past, tearing at clothes, at hair, at skin. He came to slumped over the arm of his chair, warning lights flashing frantically on the panel before him. They were the only lights visible. The windshield showed only inky blackness.

 

One quick glance to his left showed the Beast unconscious. Another to the instrument panel before him showed a dangerously low altitude and the jet doing a smashing imitation of a swan dive. Wolverine grabbed at the control stick, pulling back with all his strength. The jet fought him, the wind ate at him. Damn, was there a rupture in the fuselage? He couldn't spare a look back to find out. She was damaged that was damn sure. He felt it in the sluggish way she handled. The nose didn't want to come up. He fought it with all the indomitable will of his namesake and the Blackbird grudgingly complied, but only before her belly scraped on what might have been tree tops.

 

A wing caught at something and Wolverine thought, This is it, as the jet spun out of his control and hit with a bone breaking impact. Then skipped and hit again. He heard the distinct sound of water. They had gone down in water. One last jarring impact and he was thrown forward against his seat belt so hard he felt ribs break. He cursed soundly, ignoring the pain and searched on the darkened panel for emergency lights.

 

There. Red lights blinked on. He snapped the release on the seat belt and half lost his balance as the Blackbird tilted. There was water rushing into the craft. He could hear its greedy gurgle. What damn lake in Kansas had they crashed into?

 

"Logan?" Rogue's frightened voice from the back. He saw her rise from her seat, her figure a shadow barely outlined by the hateful red of the emergency lights.

 

"Gambit?" he asked.

 

"'M o'kay." The cajun's voice. Shaky but alive. He turned to Hank, who was still out, but was beginning to moan. The jet trembled, a slow languorous jarring compared to what they had just been through, and began to invert. Water flowed into the passenger compartment. Rogue exclaimed. Logan ignored her, going to Hank's seat belt and pulling the considerable bulk of the Beast out of the chair. The tail end was sinking fast, pulled down by the weight of the engines.

 

"We're going down, darlin'," He had the Beast's arm over his shoulders. He had to hang onto the back of the pilot's chair to keep from sliding down to the back of the passenger compartment. "You want ta see about getting us out of here?"

 

"Oh." Rogue said. He heard her moving back there, the sloshing of bodies through rising water. Gambit moved up beside him, grasping the back of the co-pilot's chair. Rogue moved between them, feet not even touching the floor. She floating up to the broad windshield and warned.

 

"Protect your faces."

 

Then, hands on the glass she pushed outwards. The shield splintered in a thousand webwork cracks, but did not shatter. It merely popped out of its molding to be tossed to the side by Rogue. She floated up another few feet, then reached down and extended both hands.

 

"Give me Hank."

 

Wolverine lifted him up and she took him effortlessly. "Y'all need a hand?" She asked.

 

"Not yet." Gambit answered.

 

"Come back for us when he's safe." Logan said.

 

She nodded and disappeared straight up into the night sky. When had it turned so undeniably night? Gambit scrambled up over the control panel, a little awkward in his movements, favoring one arm. After a landing like that a body tended to hurt. Wolverine still hurt like hell, even though his healing factor was kicking in and mending his abused ribs. He followed Gambit up and over the nose, then slid down the rounded side and dropped what must have been ten feet into the water.

 

Black water. Black shore, if there was one. He swam with no particular destination in mind, only wishing to get away from the Blackbird as she sank. Fifty strokes. A hundred. He turned onto his back and paddled for a while, just able to make out the dark shadow of the jet's nose as it sank beneath the equally dark surface of the water.

 

"You there, Lebeau?" He asked, because Gambit wasn't making much noise swimming. He hoped the kid had the sense to get away from the jet before she sank.

 

"I'm here." Gambit's voice drifted to him from the right. He sounded breathless and strained.

 

"You all right?" Logan sat out towards the voice.

 

A pause, then. "Mostly. Shoulder's just a little messed up. Belt caught it when we crashed. Out of place, maybe."

 

"We can set that right." Logan assured him, and closed in on a body. Gambit was lazily floating on his back, one arm held against his body, the other out for balance. But it hurt, that was clear.

 

"Maybe we could use Rogue's help now, after all." Gambit suggested.

 

Wolverine stayed close, treading water, scanning the sky for something - - anything. But it was all inky blackness. Not even a glow of moonlight from behind clouds. "This is damned irritating." he muttered.

 

It seemed like forever, stranded in the middle of a black, God knew what size lake, or river or ocean. Then the faint, reedy sound of Rogue's voice desperately calling.

 

"Remy? Where are you? Logan?"

 

"Here, darlin'. Over here."

 

She followed the sound of his voice, until she was a dark shape hovering over them. "There's a shore a ways over there. But let me tell you, this is one big lake. Never knew Kansas had any lakes this big."

 

"It don't." Logan said, an uneasy suspicion sprouting within him.

 

"C'mon. Give me your hands." Rogue commanded.

 

"Careful with him." Logan warned. "Dislocated shoulder."

 

She made a little aborted concerned noise, then figured out she wasn't going to get out of this not getting wet. She sank down into the water next to them and wrapped her arms around Gambit, and let Logan wrap his arms about her neck, then took the lot of them skyward. The water let them go with a suckling pop. They trailed remnants as she ascended some forty feet, then flew slowly forward.

 

"Where'd you leave Beast?"

 

A long pause. "I don't know. I tried to keep track of which way I was coming back, but I got all turned around looking for you guys."

 

"Was he conscious?"

 

"Mostly."

 

"Den it's a good chance dat little spot of fire way over there might be him." Gambit suggested.

 

Sure enough there was a small speck of flame way off in the distance to the left. Rogue veered that way and sped up. The shore approached. A thin dark beach that only made itself visible due to the pile of burning twigs and debris situated some twenty feet from the waterline. The beast kneeled before it, feeding it more bits and pieces of driftwood. He looked up as they came out of the darkness, surprise erased by relief on his mobile, furred face.

 

"Ah, I thought you might have been lost at sea and I cast in the undesirable role of Robinson Curiso. But with all of us here and well, I think we might be better suited for the Swiss Family Robinson."

 

"How'd you get that started?" Rogue touched down. She let go of Gambit and he half stumbled, then went ungracefully to one knee in efforts to sit down.

 

"Umm." Hank looked distractedly from Rogue to Gambit. "I've extensively studied the rigors and codes of the Eagle Scouts. Are you all right, Gambit?"

 

"Why didn't you say somethin'?" Rogue complained before Gambit could answer.

 

"Thought you weren't talkin' to me, chere?" he muttered.

 

"I'm not." she agreed. "Don't mean you gotta be a fool."

 

"I wasn't being - -"

 

"Shoulder's out of place." Logan clarified to the Beast.

 

"Oh. Well if that and my pounding headache are the extent of our injuries, then we seem to have made out commendably. Considering we've just survived a plane crash caused by dubious circumstances."

 

"Umm humm." Logan agreed. "You want that fixed?" he inquired of Gambit. Gambit nodded miserably. Prodding the shoulder with his left hand, Logan took the arm in his right and without foreplay jerked the ball back into the socket. Rogue hissed in sympathy. Gambit merely ground his teeth and muttered a curse in French under his breath.

 

Logan took a breath, then sat back wishing he had a smoke. The pack in his pocket was undoubtedly soaked beyond repair, as were the matches tucked in the package. He looked about, squinting to make out shapes caught within the sphere of their fire. The beach a few feet further out was gravely, formed of small pebbles rather than sand. The ground Hank had built his fire upon was hard and graced with tough, long grass. There were scattered pieces of driftwood lying about, as if some recent storm had washed a great deal of the stuff ashore. Inland there was a darker line of what might have been trees, but no lights of civilization shown from anywhere around the lake or beyond.

 

"So, any speculation on just what the hell happened?" He finally asked the question they were all aching to voice.

 

"I couldn't get all the readings." Beast said defensively.

 

"Yeah, piloting the jet and all." Logan agreed dryly.

 

"But, from what I did ascertain. On the ground below us some sort of energy field was triggered, causing a wave of distortion to shimmer across our direct path."

 

"A wave of distortion - - as in distortion of what?" Logan asked.

 

"I don't know. Time. Space. Dimension. Reality. Your guess is as good as mine - - well, probably not that good. The instruments on the Blackbird weren't able to discern the exact nature before we crossed the wave and ended up here. Where ever here might be."

 

Rogue had moved just out of the circle of light, arms wrapped about herself, staring out across the lake. "What's that?" She asked softly.

 

They followed her gaze. Far out across the water was a light. A faint pulsing light that seemed to grow weaker with every passing moment. The Beast rose to a crouch, then hopped over the small fire and joined Rogue at the edge of the beach. "My, my. It seems there might be something else out there."

 

"Could be the Blackbird." Logan suggested.

 

"Only one way to find out." Rogue declared. She rocketed up and over the lake. Only seconds passed before her figure was swallowed by the darkness.

 

"Wait," Beast called out. "We don't know what's out there."

 

"An' she call me a fool." Gambit muttered under his breath.

 


 

It was cool out over the black water. A wind blew in from the opposite shore bringing with it the smell of pine. There was forest over there too, though there was no seeing it. She'd never seen a night so black. A sky so devoid of any heavenly bodies. It was unnatural and frightening. She had the sinking, terrible premonition that it wasn't her nightsky. That it was foreign and entirely unwelcoming in its bleakness. A friendly sky would have stars or at the very least the hint of clouds. Not merely a dying pulse of light hovering over open water.

 

Her mind thought - ghost lights. She recalled legends of paranormal phospherescents floating down foggy railroad tracks and above swamps. As she flew closer the faint luminescence revealed the outline of a structure and the tiniest glimmer of gently lapping wavetops around it. She slowed and hovered above what looked very much like a large round bell tower with a light at its apex. Only about twenty feet of it stuck above the water line, but there seemed to be parts hinted at under the surface.

Rogue & Creed

 

Rogue blinked in astonishment. It couldn't really be a bell tower sticking up from the middle of a lake. She flew closer to the light. It was a glass encased flood light that was almost out of juice. The dropped a few feet lower to look below the roof.

 

Something came out of the darkness of the interior and slashed past her with enough force to knock her out of the air and into the water. She cursed and rose up, fingering the shredded material of her blouse. The something that had attacked her had claws. Wary and on guard she circled the bell tower, but nothing showed itself. She had half decided to fly back to shore without further confrontation when it came at her again. This time it had climbed atop the bell tower roof and launched itself at her from just below her position. Claws tried to rake her again and a low voice snarled.

 

"You can tell your master, bitch, that I'm not playing his game."

 

Then the body dropping away, ripping a gash in her slacks as it went and hit the water below. She looked for it - for him - from the sound of the voice, but could see nothing. Listened for the sound of splashing a body would make treading water. Nothing. No dark head breaking the surface. No sound other than the waves lapping peacefully against the stone of the bell tower.

 


 

"Well there ain't a whole helluva lot we can do till light. Might as well set up camp. Set up a watch and see what morning brings." That was Logan's pragmatic advice.

 

"I would dearly love to have access to the Blackbird's computers." Hank wished vainly.

 

"Yeah, well ah'm not sure I can dredge her up for you, sugah." Rogue sat by the fire, knees up, hair drying in the scant heat of the flame.

 

Remy's shoulder hurt. The ribs on the other side hurt, caught by the lower part of the seat belt, but not, thank the fates that looked out for fools and thieves, broken. He could not at the moment think of anything to add to the discussion. He wanted a smoke so bad he could feel the craving all the way to this bones, but his pack was in the process of drying on the rocks by the fire, as was Wolverines. The matches were a loss, but then again, he didn't need matches.

 

He looked across the fire at Rogue and wished he could understand her moods. Might as well wish them out of here, while he was at it. He had about an even chance of realizing either one. She could be tough as nails in some things, and then some little nothing wounded her to the quick.

 

She looked up while he was watching her. He didn't look away.

 

"How's your arm?" She asked softly, a hopeful tremble in her voice that said she wanted an opening, was perhaps ready for forgiveness.

 

"Fine." He grinned faintly, lifting the aforementioned member to prove the point.

 

Beast sat not far from Remy, rubbing his temples, head no doubt pounding from the knock he'd taken when the jet hit water. Muttering to himself he lay down, fingers still stroking the fur on his forehead. Remy half rose and scooted the few feet around the fire it took to get to Rogue's side.

 

"Don' want to disturb him while he's tryin' to get some shut eye." he explained in a whisper. She half smiled.

 

"How you?" He tilted his head at her expectantly.

 

She shivered, pressing her arms tighter about her knees. There was a rip in her pants and another set of slashes in her blouse. "Scared. I got a terrible feeling about this place, Remy. The pit of my stomach is just churnin'. "

 

"We get home. If Beast don' figure it out, the X-Men find us once we turn up missin'?"

 

"Yeah." she agreed after a moment's speculation. "You're right. One way or another things'll right themselves. Always do."

 

"Logen's gonna sit up, why don' you get some rest, girl?"

 

"Why don't you? I didn't pop no bones outta joint tonight."

 

She had a valid point.

Part 2




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