Chapter 21: The World is a Vampire
Sleeping on sofas did wonders for the human back.
Or was that sleeping on sofas showed the wonders of the human back?
Laying in such a way a seven year old contortionist would envy, Rachel Summers snored and drooled like a partied out sorority girl. On the coffee table sprawled Kitty Pryde, equally snoring but dignity preserved by avoiding the drool. X’ian Coy Manh, or Shan to her friends, was suppose to be the responsible one tonight, but the sea of bottles--Stoli, Jager, Morgan’s, Jack--squashed that impression. The mansion commons resembled a college war-zone, which was what these three overstressed, overworked, and overtaxed friends needed: a trip back into the carefree days of studying hard and partying harder.
Of course, Shan and Kitty played devious corruptors to Rachel’s willing corruptee.
Esme Stepford, murder on her mind, walked into this endearing scene, gripped tight in her pocket the deadly dose of Kick to kill Rachel. Sweat droplets rolled off her brow. She could taste--taste, not just smell--the alcohol on the air. Moonlight filtering into the darkened room revealed all she needed: her victim and her victim’s current state.
Shan, Kitty, and half-empty booze guarded Rachel. One wrong step and that stray glass could tip over that bottle which would wake everyone up. Another wrong step would probably land on a person’s appendage, again leading to more alarms sounding.
Had to be silent. Had to move slow. She kept her back against the wall and circumnavigated the room--less debris to run into that way. Kitty shifted in her sleep, scaring Esme half to death when Rachel emulated the sleepy movements. Inch by inch, foot by foot, Esme meandered her way to the back of the commons, to the back of the sofa. Rachel Summers, one mighty telepath in her own right, lay helpless before her.
Death never held Esme’s interest, but this rush of power, of holding another’s life in her hand, this got her blood pumping. How much more had this woman experienced? How much more power did she have? None of it mattered because Esme Stepford controlled her fate, and Esme Stepford hated people like Rachel Summers.
Do gooder. Righteous fool. All that power and what did she do? Cower before humans and fight her own brethren. She didn’t deserve it, and for once in her life, Esme could do something about her indignation.
Esme decided she didn’t like death, but murder she could grow to like.
She pulled the vial out of her pocket and began fitting the needle to it. A test squirt ran smooth, green liquid shooting out on command.
Esme shuddered, unexpected pleasure filling her.
Sweet dreams, princess. At least you’ll go out with a bang.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs before she could close the distance between excitement and euphoria. Wisely, the girl ducked behind the couch and held her breath.
Jean Grey stumbled into the room seconds later, panting for air and flicking on the lights. Three annoyed groans came from the inebriated women.
“Rachel,” said Jean, fear in her voice, “Scott and Logan are hurt.”
Drunk? Yes, they were drunk off their asses, but never say X-Men didn’t pull together when need be, even ex-X-Men and X-Men who weren’t called upon. Hearing of friends and family in trouble, Shan, Kitty, and Rachel wobbled to their feet as best they could.
“Come on,” the older red head commanded, “I’ll fill you in on the way to the planes. We don’t have any time to waste.”
The entourage made their out of the commons and into another series of problems. Esme stayed behind the couch and wiped the cold sweat off her brow.
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“The World” exploded, smaller sections of the supposed Weapons Plus base disintegrating while more resilient chunks limped along to their approaching demise. Far from the fireworks, one lone craft whizzed back into the earth’s atmosphere.
Fantomex lit one of Wolverine’s cigars. Smoking through a ski mask wasn’t easy, but he still did it... and nearly puked. He glared at the stick of stolen tobacco before crushing it in his hands.
“Christ, you’d think a man like him would have been taste in cigars.”
E.V.A. didn’t bother to answer.
“I know, I know,” he said to his detached nervous system, “You hate it when I smoke or drink.”
Still no answer.
“Growin’ an attitude? Fine, I got other things to do.”
Moves quick and efficient, he flipped open a laptop and fitted on an earpiece. The conference window immediately popped up after he logged in.
“Payday,” he smiled.
His mysterious, mechanical-sounding employer, _AttrioR_, didn’t agree with the statement. “This is only part two of our terms, Fantomex.”
“Which, upon completion, nets me half of the final price. I’m not movin’ another muscle till I see the zeroes spin on my Grand Cayman account.”
“Welcome to digital age, Fantomex. The transfer is instantaneous.”
And indeed, the millions were already in his burgeoning funds. “Why, I must say, Mr. Attrior, you are one of my most pleasant and favorite clients thus far. Concise orders. No bullshit. Speed of light transactions. I have to give you my highest recommendations.”
“Do you want a medal?”
“No,” the man laughed, slapping his thigh, “but some equally glowing feedback would do my ego wonders.”
“Job half finished. Talks too much. Good timing. May do business again. Score pending.”
Fantomex whistled through his teeth. “Tough man to please, aren’t ya?”
“Complete the job and I will be much friendlier to deal with.”
“Well, you heard the customer, E.V.A. Got to fill the piggy bank. Set course for Manhattan!”
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Most men wouldn’t dare to lounge on their ex-wife’s sofa. Then again, most men weren’t named Remy LeBeau; most men didn’t have to deal with serial killers out to get them neither. The long night, growing frustration, and flat-out exhaustion drove Remy to this awfully comfy piece of furniture while Bella Donna talked on the phone to various paranoid, angry, and or hysterical Guild leaders.
Most men wouldn’t dare go near their ex-wife while she beat down another warpath. Remy was the exception because despite their differences, he appreciated Bel’s lovely curves. If he imagined hard enough, Rogue’s face would pop up over the blonde’s and he could pretend he lay peacefully at home.
That is, until said woman threw the receiver down after a taxing conversation.
Remy rubbed his eyes. “Mercy, Bel, dat phone’s gonna break in two if ya keep it up.”
“Someone is going to broken in two if he doesn’t take his muddy shoes off my couch.”
“Sorry,” he smiled, but made no attempt to remove his boots, “Remy too tired.”
“Guild members are dropping like flies and you come here to sleep?”
“Mon dieu, Remy been goin’ ‘round town like a tour bus. Can’t he get a l’il nap?”
“Sleep when you’ve caught the killer!”
Too tired to argue, he rolled onto his side, away from the blonde noisemaker.
“Typical,” Bella Donna snorted, “Ignoring everything not Remy LeBeau. It’s what you do best, isn’t it?”
Yup, too tired to argue. Just keep telling yourself that.
“You’re the leader of the Guild, and what are you doing? Prancing around up north with the X-Men. Takes spilled blood to even get your attention.”
Maybe if he pulled the cushion over his head she’d stop talking.
“That’s right, LeBeau. If you close those devilish eyes, maybe this’ll all go away.”
No, she didn’t stop. Remy ripped the fluffy object away and sat straight up. “Wat you want from Remy, chere?! Remy’s here, Remy’s tryin’, and Remy’s done tired!”
“But the Guild is family, and you’re never he-”
“Dis ain’t ‘bout da Guild, Bel! You bein’ unreasonable! Da Guild is Remy’s family too, and he don’t like seein’ family dead neither! You know Remy ain’t here cuz he want no part o’ da fightin’ ‘tween y’all, not cuz he don’t care.”
“So you leave the Guild’s problems to me because you think I like dealing with the drama?!”
“Ya don’t, Bel?” he quietly asked. “Don’t be tellin’ Remy ya don’t like de respect, de status, or de power. Drama’s de price for de goods. Dats de difference ‘tween you n’ Remy--he don’t want none o’ dat.”
Bella Donna loved Remy at one point in her life, but even when she loved him, she never understood him. “What do you want then?”
He laid back down on the sofa. “Freedom,” he replied.
“Freedom?”
“Freedom to do whatever Remy wants, whenever he wants.”
“So you go and join the X-Men?”
“Felt like a good idea at de time,” he shrugged. “Still feel like a pretty good idea now.”
The phone interrupted their spat. Still seething, Bella Donna picked up and growled, “What?”
There was a moment’s hesitation on the other end. “Can ah speak to Remy LeBeau?”
“Who is this?!”
His hearing none too bad, Remy heard his name mentioned and reached for the receiver. “Hand it over, Bel. Dis be Remy’s call.”
She capitulated, but not before throwing a nasty glare at him. Most men would’ve wilted before their ex-wife’s evil eye. Remy just let it slid off of him.
“’lo. Remy here.”
“Remy, ah don’t got time ta explain nothin’. Ya gotta get outta New Orleans!”
First his ex-wife scares the pants off of him, now his girlfriend. “Hold up, Roguey! What be da problem?”
“The guy in New Orleans killin’ people is Vargas!”
Vargas, huh? Well, that made a lot of sense. Here was a strong dude with a long sword, a whole lot of ability, and a grudge to settle. Rogue kicked his tail last time, and a person like him would naturally seek revenge. Kill Gambit to get to Rogue--deviously simple. Explained every strange thing he’d seen tonight, including the one man-sized wrecking ball (complete with nasty battle cry and sharp blade) breaking down Bella Donna’s front door and charging for him this very second.
“Roguey?”
“Yeah Remy?”
“Help.”
The line went dead.
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- To be continued...
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