Chapter 12: I Got What You Need
Dane Whitman, or the being formerly known as Dane Whitman, sat before his laptop. Already his unknown benefactor had been very helpful, but tonight, he needed more. Time ran in short supply. His enemies would find out soon about his new state of being; that is, if they hadn’t found out already. He closed his eyes to breathe in the underlying chaos.
So close to the nexus... the power sung in his bones. Lord Belasco counted on him.
The chat box finally popped up, requesting a voice conference. He accepted and put on his headset to converse with this knowledgeable mortal, _AttrioR_.
The customary mechanical voice greeted Dane. “Do you require my services?”
“You told me the portal was in Manhattan, but I need to know more.”
“Patience,” the person urged, “Timing is of the essence. Other pieces are just now coming together.”
“I don’t care about your other pieces! Where is the portal?”
“Temper, temper, Mr. Whitman. One could easily misconstrue that you are not grateful for all I have done thus far. Like most, I do not appreciate ungratefulness.”
Foolish mortal. For now, Dane stayed his hand, but when Lord Belasco returned to earth, he would hunt down this arrogant peddler of information like a dog and tear him limb from limb.
“Forgive me,” Dane lied, “My hastiness gets the better of me again.”
“Make sure it does not when the time comes.”
“So where is the portal?”
“You will know when I tell you.”
“But Lord Bel-”
“Lord Belasco will get what he wants. Remain in Manhattan--that is all you need to do. I assume you still have the pendant?”
“Do you take me for an incompetent fool?”
“Yes.”
_AttrioR_ logged off.
*****************
“Sugah, which dress is better?”
Remy looked up to behold a naked Rogue holding a red silk number on her left and a black one with a plunging neckline on her right. After a moment’s consideration, Remy’s trademark grin made another fabled appearance.
“Why chere, da one in da middle look da best.”
“Remy!” she squealed, turning beet red. “Be serious! Kurt wants us to look good at dinner tonight!”
Remy scratched his head, mildly confused. “Dinner? Where we goin’?”
“Kurt wants us ta treat Betsy ta Harry’s. Sheesh, where were you this morning? The blue elf practically told everyone in the mansion.”
Oh, he knew perfectly where he was this morning: amongst the trees sneaking a smoke. Couldn’t say that out loud since Rogue hated his nasty habit, but honest, he tried to quit. And Rogue was just about putting two and two together when the phone in their room rang.
Before the first ring even stopped, Remy had already answered, “’lo, Remy here.”
The brunette stomped her feet impotently and went back into the bathroom to get dressed. Then, if all was well, she’d give the self-proclaimed “t’ief” a piece of her mind.
“Thank God I found you,” said the woman on the other end of the line. “There’s trouble back home.”
Remy’s eyes grew wide. “Bel? Slow down, chere, you scarin’ po’ Remy half to death.”
“You should be scared,” replied Bella Donna Boudreaux, Gambit’s ex-wife and his viceroy to the New Orleans Unified Guild, “Don’t know who, but a lunatic wants you. Came into a Guild meeting and demanded you show your face. Said every midnight you’re not here, he’s going to kill someone in the Guild. Been two days, Remy, and two people are dead.”
“De entire Guild can’t find him?”
“Wouldn’t be calling you if we could.”
Remy chewed on his lower lip. He raced through the numerous ways to get back to New Orleans before settling on the simplest method. “Bel, go find Quiet Bill. Tell him I be waiting for him at the landing up north. He’d know what I mean.”
Bella Donna let out a breath of frustration, and the crash on the other end of line probably meant another neat trinket on her desk had met an early demise. “Hurry, Remy. The Guild’s starting to get nervous, and you know how they can be.”
“Relax, chere. I be there, I promise. Now, de quicker you find Quiet Bill, de quicker I can be there.”
“What if we can’t find him?”
“If he’d not here in two hours, I’ll find m’own way to Nawlins.”
They said their goodbyes, and Remy sprung into action before the line went dead. By the time Rogue was fully dressed, he’d slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and was searching for his collapsible staff.
Wordlessly, she opened the drawer which held his shirts, picked up his weapon (which hid between a t-shirt and a vest) , and flipped it to him. He caught it and shoved it into his trench coat in one smooth motion. Eyes softening with concern, Rogue asked, “You need help, Remy?”
“I’ll call if I need you, Roguey. Dis be Guild business ‘n all.”
“Just cuz yo’ crazy guild ask you then you can’t bring no help?”
“Lots ‘o folks down there don’t ‘preciate outsiders,” Remy patiently explained. “If it comes down to help from outsiders or death, most of da time, they choose death. I ain’t like dem, but I ain’t gonna let dem kill demselves with foolish pride neither. You show up there wit me, de Guild probably wouldn’t want my help. If I can’t do nothing ‘bout dis crazy man, then I call you. You have my word.”
Like so many times before, they embraced, each silently wishing the other safety. Life, as they’d found out, was never assured for an X-Man.
Rogue kissed her gloved fingers and pressed them against Remy’s lips. “Don’t do nothing stupid, ya hear?”
“Love you, Roguey,” he smiled as he strode for the door.
“Remy?” she said, making him turn around. “Don’t smoke durin’ your trip.”
His boisterous mirth belied the grim task he went to face. Wiping a tear of laughter from his eye, he fished the pack of Camels out of his pocket, crumpled them up, and side armed them into the trashcan beside the bed.
“See ya, chere.”
*****************
Sage watched Gambit’s motorcycle peel out of the mansion driveway. One suspect eliminated: two remaining, and coincidentally enough, two days to continue her investigation.
“How the hell did you get over there?!”
Bobby Drake’s sudden exclamation pulled her attention from the window and back toward the television. When he found her in the rec room sitting by herself and not using the big screen, he nearly jumped for joy, scrambling to claim some valuable “X-Box action.” Offhandedly, he asked if Sage wanted to play, and she surprised him by accepting. The game: Halo. The score: 31 to 2, advantage Sage. Despite playing on autopilot and her mind being miles away on the net, Tessa thoroughly humiliated the resident “videogame god” on his own turf in a level of his choosing.
To think, ten minutes ago, he shook his head and said, “Fine, your funeral.”
Unfortunately for him, her exhaustive firearms expertise combined with her computer-like mind ensured a smashing victory; however, she had to admit he had a good amount of skill. Despite gaming being one those pointless ventures, she respected such a devotion to honing one’s craft, especially when it pertained to the digital arena.
Another explosion engulfed Bobby’s side of the screen. Required him 5.3 seconds to process his defeat, and when he did, the controller went hurling out of his hands, eventually skittering on the carpet and thumping into the cherry wood entertainment center.
“I give up,” he said, head bowed.
Recently, Bobby’s mood fluctuated, a clear derivation from his lackadaisical, often scatter-brained self. According to Tessa’s current and very flimsy observations, he was either on the verge of extreme anger or pitiful tears... maybe even laughter. And if there was one thing that bothered Tessa, it was a question mark, of which Bobby Drake, Iceman, founding X-Man, was now one. Question marks were unpredictable, leading to randomness, leading to the unfurling of carefully constructed plans.
Question marks had to be rectified, and if at all possible, changed to advantages for the greater good.
“You are cold, Robert.”
The man lifted himself long enough to half-sneer, half-glare at Tessa. “Where do you think a name like Iceman came from?”
“Obviously from an unoriginal source,” she quipped, the biting reply momentarily befuddling Bobby. “I find it curious that the air around you is twenty degrees cooler than the room’s temperature. You have not activated your transformation.”
Hands rubbing his forehead as he flopped against the couch, interjections of disbelief spilled out of his mouth like clockwork. Tessa left the Oh Gods, Shits, I can’t believe this, and why nows alone, instead fixing her unwavering, analytical gaze on Bobby. They all succumb to her look, whether through fear, curiosity, or plain stupidity.
Bobby had enough when he’d felt certain Tessa’s eyes were stripping away every molecule in his body and observing them one by one.
Angrily, he pulled his Def Leppard sweater up to revel quite a sight. Most of his chest resembled his “iced up” state, but his sides and stomach were still flesh. Ice seemed to be invading his torso, taking over sliver by sliver. The areas where flesh met ice resembled a corpse’s complexion, bluish blood vessels ominously bulging through while the skin appeared dead. Tessa’s sunglasses magnified the border regions and found skin freezing, preparing to follow the surrounding cells into ice.
She knew the diagnosis. She found the root of his mood swings. She could help him. She had a use for him
“These are signs of a secondary mutation,” she noted, shifting her glasses slightly.
“Nothing escapes you, does it?” Bobby sarcastically remarked while rolling his sweater down. Annoyance filtered into his speech. “Before you ask, no, I can’t change it back. Trust me, if I could, I would.”
Now this attitude came more in line with Sage’s model of Robert Drake. He always used humor or sarcasm to dull the edge of adversity, and this apparently permanent transformation qualified as adversity of the sharpest kind. In fact, he was quoted as saying he felt “luckier than a Metallica roadie for being able to march my rear end through a Friends of Humanity rally without being hung!” Losing his camouflage, especially so late in life, wrecked not only his connection with normal people, but also his self-image, his comfort, and his illusion of actually being normal.
And she noticed his silence about it too. Excellent.
“We should discuss this in private,” said Tessa as she stood up. “My room is just upstairs.” She didn’t wait for him to follow, and in fact, would’ve been disappointed had he jumped to his feet. It wouldn’t have been consistent with her projections of the situation.
As she sauntered past him, she swayed her hips enough to catch his attention but not enough to be scandalous. Her black leather pants hugged her curves and the lights reflecting off the shiny material produced an all-around arousing image. Left, right, left, right she repeated her sway, making it appear as if her exaggerated movements were the norm.
She stopped at the door, put a hand on the frame, and turned her head just so her left eye peeked out from the corner of her glasses.
“Coming?”
Only then did Bobby scramble off the couch.
*****************
- To be continued...
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