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The first warning sign had been Jean’s hair dryer.
The second had been the television remote.
The third had been finding a teaspoon—one of the real silver ones the Professor saved for the holidays—in Remy’s coat pocket.
That’s when she knew she had a problem on her hands.
In fairness, Rogue had tried other things first.
She'd found projects around the Institute that needed doing. Remy repaired two broken windows, rewired the lights in the boathouse, fixed the garbage disposal, and somehow got the ancient refrigerator in the garage working.
That bought her three days.
Then she'd suggested sparring. That worked until Logan walked in on them and threatened to shish-kabob Gambit if they had to Lysol the DR again.
After that, she'd given Remy the lockbox she'd bought six months ago and still couldn't open.
It took him four minutes to crack it.
Crosswords lasted even less.
Then she'd made the mistake of mentioning that one of the old storage rooms in the attic had been locked for decades after someone misplaced the key.
Remy had been gone before she'd finished the sentence.
He came back twenty minutes later with two antique watches, a Civil War bayonet, and absolutely no explanation for where he'd gotten a raccoon.
After that, Rogue had run out of ideas and patience. So she’d swallowed her pride and consulted the manual. Truthfully, she’d been resisting doing so on principle.
The Care and Feeding Guide for Master Thieves had arrived on Valentine’s Day in a velvet-lined box, penned by one Emil Lapin. It was bound in burgundy leather with gold-gilded pages and looked like it cost a fortune.
She hoped Emil had choked on the bill.
To top it off, Emil had included a handwritten letter.
To Anna-Marie — Keeper of Remy LeBeau,
Godspeed.
Truth be told, she’d nearly burned it. The only reason the manual still existed was that Remy had one look at it and laughed so hard he’d fallen off the couch.
Unfortunately, sometime around the Great Teaspoon Incident, Rogue had grudgingly cracked the damn thing open.
And God help her. It was actually useful.
Apparently, Master Thieves required regular mental stimulation.
Without sufficiently challenging work, their natural curiosity, dexterity, and compulsive need to defeat security systems could manifest in undesirable behaviors.
Emil had helpfully provided a list of examples.
Unauthorized entry.
Pickpocketing
Petty theft.
Magpie tendencies.
Rogue had stared at that last one for a long time. Then she'd looked toward the mantel, where three objects had mysteriously appeared over the past week.
A silver letter opener from the Professor’s desk.
Kitty's missing compact.
And one of Hank’s cufflinks.
Her eyes had slid closed in dread. Already knowing that if Emil ever found out about this, he’d never let her live this down. Still, she'd turned the page and kept reading—desperate times and all that.
Recommended enrichment activities—
That had been two weeks ago.
Then Nick Fury called. And the Lord provided.
Which was why Rogue currently stood inside a clandestine government warehouse somewhere in Virginia while Gambit stared at approximately seventy thousand square feet of stolen Weapon X technology, illegally seized personal property, questionable prototypes, and enough poorly documented federal secrets to suggest that some top brass had decided constitutional rights were more like constitutional suggestions.
“Chere,” Gambit breathed. He slowly turned in a circle, eyes wide.
Rogue fought to keep her face straight. She knew that tone.
Beside her, Cyclops shifted uneasily.
Shelves stretched upwards toward the ceiling where they disappeared into grey shadows. Crates crowded the aisles and locked cages lined the walls. Some containers bore serial numbers, while others weren’t marked at all.
Rogue didn't particularly like those.
Gambit, meanwhile, looked like a six-year-old who’d been dropped into FAO Schwarz and handed his daddy’s credit card.
“Chere,” he repeated reverently. “Look at all the things.”
“I see ’em, Sugah.” Rogue gave him an encouraging pat between the shoulder blades. “Go ahead. Thieve to your lil’ heart’s content.”
The Swamp Rat was already gone. He vaulted onto a crate, caught the edge of a shelving unit, swung himself upward, and disappeared into the rafters.
Cyclops looked upward.
Somewhere above them came the distinctive click-click-click of somebody defeating a high-security locking mechanism.
Then—
“Ha!” Another lock clicked. “Oh, that’s clever.”
Cyclops massaged the bridge of his nose.
“I’m not sure about this.”
“It’s enrichment.”
“It’s burglary.”
Rogue shot him an unimpressed look. Cyclops dropped his hand and gestured vaguely around them.
“We're supposed to find Fury's missing files. Not turn Gambit loose like—”
“Like what?” Rogue popped a fist on her hip.
Cyclops paused to reconsider whatever noun he had been to use.
“Like this,” he said finally.
Rogue looked around.
They had broken into a covert government facility without a warrant, disabled its security system, knocked out four guards, and Cyke himself had just used somebody else's retinal scan to get through the last door.
She looked back at him and raised an eyebrow.
“Cyke.”
“I know.”
“You stole a man's eyeball.”
“I borrowed his retinal pattern.”
“You held his unconscious face up to the scanner.”
“That is not the point.”
“I feel like it's at least point-adjacent.”
Above them came a metallic ‘click.’ Gambit cooed a happy sound somewhere in the darkness. Rogue smiled.
Cyclops looked toward the ceiling.
“You're encouraging him.”
“Yep.”
“To steal government property.”
“Pre-stolen government property.”
“That distinction isn't going to hold up in court.”
“Neither is what we did to that guard's eyeball.”
Cyclops opened his mouth, then closed it.
Rogue folded her arms.
“Look, Fury needs us to find out what these people took and who they took it from. Remy needs somethin’ complicated to break into before he starts hiding Jean's curling irons again. And for once, the universe has presented us with a problem where my boyfriend's pathological need to steal things is the solution.”
Somewhere in the shadows, another lock popped open.
“Ha!”
Cyclops rubbed the back of his neck. “It bothers me that you've put this much thought into it.”
Rogue rolled her eyes. “Easy for you to say. You weren't there for the raccoon.”
Behind his goggles, Cyclops’s eyes widened.
“The what?”
Rogue waved a hand. “Don't worry about it. We set it free.”
Gambit dropped soundlessly from the shelving ten feet away. A canvas satchel hung over his shoulder.
Cyclops pointed at it.
“No.”
Gambit stopped. “Quoi?”
“Whatever is in that bag, put it back.”
Gambit shot him an offended look and clutched it closer. “I haven't even shown you what it is.”
“I don't care.”
“You might.”
“I won't.”
“You don't know that.”
“I know you.”
Gambit seemed to consider that for a second.
“Sugah,” Rogue called and crooked a finger. “C'mere.”
Immediately, Remy wandered over. She held out her hand, and he passed her the satchel. Opening it, she scanned the contents inside. There were three flash drives, a dozen files, two sealed evidence bags, an access badge, a strange black cylinder, four loose diamonds and—
“Is that a stapler?” she frowned.
“Oui.”
“Why?”
“It’s a very nice stapler. It’s German.”
Cyclops made a strangled noise.
Rogue pinched the bridge of her nose. “Put the stapler back.”
Gambit's face fell. “But—”
“No.” Rogue pointed down the aisle. “Back where you found it.”
He sighed dramatically and pulled it from the bag. Muttering something in Cajun French about unreasonable women, Gambit wandered back the way he came.
Cyclops watched him go, then frowned at her.
“You do realize the fact that you're establishing rules about what he can and cannot steal means this has gotten completely out of hand.”
Rogue produced the burgundy book. “Page eighty-seven: Establish clear boundaries before enrichment activities.”
Cyclops gaped at the book in disbelief. Sighing, Rogue flipped it open to a dog-eared page and tapped a paragraph.
Silently, Cyke scanned the page. Then read it again. By the time he was done, disbelief was melting into something like mild horror.
“His family sent you this?”
“His cousin, if you want to get precise about it.”
Cyclops looked genuinely appalled.
“That's the most obnoxious thing I've ever heard.”
Rogue pulled a face. “The worst part is it's right about damn near everything.”
Before Cyclops could reply, Gambit’s voice cut him off.
“Chere! I found one I can't open!” he called, from somewhere deep in the warehouse. The delight in his voice was genuine enough to warrant cause for concern.
Rogue exchanged a look with Cyclops.
“Yet!” Gambit added cheerfully.
Rogue blew out a breath. They were going to be here a while. Beside her, Cyclops stared into the darkness silently. Finally, he held out his hand.
“Give me the manual.”
Rogue handed it over, and Cyclops flipped through several pages.
“Does it have anything about extraction?” he asked.
“Check the index.”
Cyclops immediately turned to the back.
Rogue smiled.
Got him.