Chapter Text
Art by JJ LaBelle
Rogue is six years old, the first time she ever sees a real wolf.
She revisits the memory every now and then, whenever her heart pangs for Irene Adler, the woman who raised her. She remembers the warmth of a Mississippi summer. She remembers walking with Mama through the Zoo. Back then, little Anna Marie could still hold her Mama’s hand. Back then, Mama insisted on it, saying it was so she wouldn't lose track of her in the crowds but…maybe it was because Irene knew there would be a time they couldn’t.
And the thing the six year old girl was thinking about was seeing a wolf. A real life one, not just pictures in Mama’s storybook. The zoo had one, so they’re going to the zoo.
She can still remember it. The sign for 'red wolf’ with a big paw print and an arrow. “This way, Mama!”
There aren’t a lot of people milling about this habitat, so mother and daughter could enjoy it on their own. A sign nearby laid out information about the creature. How it wasn’t just any wolf but a red wolf.
Anna Marie excitedly stood on her tip-toes, looking into the enclosure.
It doesn’t take her long to spot the animal. The red wolf was sitting in the middle of the enclosure, curled up on one of the artificial rocks, its tail idly flicking. It doesn’t look big, or bad. Or even red. Anna Marie looks back at her mama. “Why isn’t it red?”
“You’re asking me?” Mama smiles, sitting on the bench.
Right. That would be silly. Anna Marie turns around and watches it some more. The wolf raises its face, scenting the air.
“So, if it’s not red what color is it?” Mama asks.
“Kinda orange and kinda grey with white splotches….and it looks kinda like a dog, but bigger.” She tries to think of the right words. “Pointy snout, not all smushed in like Mrs. D’Ancanto’s pug. Pointy ears.”
The little girl looks over at the sign. Tries her best to read it. “Mama, what’s ‘endangered’ mean?”
“It means this species was once much more common, but now their numbers are dangerously low. For a red wolf, they used to be all over the place, before they were hunted out.”
“Why?”
“Fear, I suppose.”
“Why were they afraid?”
Mama stays quiet for a long moment. “Child, you’ll discover—unfortunately—that most people fear and hate those things which they don’t understand. But that’s what separates you and me from them, Anna Marie. It’s what made me adopt you.” She tucks a tuft of white hair back behind her daughter’s ear. “We are not most people.”
Anna Marie looks back at the wolf. It doesn’t look scary. Three Little Pigs, Peter and the Wolf, Little Red Riding Hood…all of those wolves were scary. This red wolf goes to the artificial stream, lapping at the water. It even drinks like a dog, and that’s not scary. She looks back at her mama. “I don’t get it.”
“I’ll explain it to you in greater detail…later. But right this minute you’re just a little girl—one, I’m quite willing to wager, in the mood for a hug?” Mama opened her arms, and Anna Marie threw herself into them. A big bear hug, and laughing kisses pressed to the top of her head.
(Unnoticed by the little girl, her Mama’s eyes briefly flashed gold beneath her sunglasses.)
As dawn breaks over the Quebec skyline, Remy LeBeau greets the new day with a cigarette on the hotel balcony. It’s early autumn, the leaves beginning to change, and enough of a chill in the air to have him put a coat over his pajamas.
Today should have been his third wedding anniversary. He and Bella should have been holed up in here together, enjoying a reprieve from whatever nonsense their respective guilds had stirred up for them.
Even with the shape of his thoughts, Bella doesn’t sting the way it had three years ago. And he’s been enjoying himself, on this little impromptu vacation. Even with his eyes, he never has too much trouble finding someone to have a good time with. Sometimes that means dancing with a beautiful lady, the Quebiquois girls are delighted by his accent in French and English. Sometimes that means a casual stroll through the Musée national des beaux-arts du Québec National Fine Arts Museum of Quebec with a handsome art student. Admittedly, that had been as much business as pleasure.
He chains a second cigarette off of the first. Not a moment later, his cellphone rings.
Remy glances at the caller ID.
“J'ai un boulot pour toi I have a job for you. ,” Henri’s French is crisp and business-like, which instantly has Remy rolling his eyes. Jean-Luc has been giving his older brother more and more responsibility over the last few years, and it’s starting to get to Henri’s head.
“Hello to you too, brother. Why yes, I am enjoyin’ Quebec, thanks for askin’.”
“Remy…” Henri sighs with the exasperation endemic to older siblings everywhere.
“That’s my name.” He says, just to be a little shit.
“Are you interested or not?”
Remy flicks the ash away from his cigarette. Of course he’s interested. He’s been exiled, but once a thief, always a thief. But can’t have his brother thinking he’s desperate. That would just be sad. “Depends on what it is.”
“It’s getting close to tithing time.”
That has Remy taking a long, deep drag. Merde. (Crap) How could he have let that slip his mind? If everything went to his father’s plan, this would have been the first tithe with the Thieves and Assassins at peace in centuries.
Henri chuckles out from the other side of the phone. “Interested now?”
Remy blows out smoke. “Mais sha. well, duh (not literal). Cajun French ”
“You remember that last moon mission?”
“You mean the one they only approved because Latveria ‘accidentally’ knocked over the flag on their moon landing?” Remy smirks before taking another drag.
“Oui. Yes. I want you to grab us that blood-red moongem they brought back.”
Remy snorts. “That’s really what you think’s gonna impress the X-Ternal, hein? a familiar interjection used in French to repeat, ask, agree or question something, most similar to 'huh' A shiny rock?”
“Non. A shiny rock from the moon. A perfect sphere of a gemstone they ain’t even identified yet. That’s gotta be something special, oui? A perfect tithe from Clan LeBeau.”
Remy keeps the cigarette in his mouth.
“Remy…you know how this works. With the right tithe, we gain favor. We gain favor, we can get your banishment lifted. You get to come home, little brother.”
Remy flicks ash from his cigarette. It floats down from the balcony, carried on the wind until disappearing from sight.
“I’m in.”
It’s a crisp, autumn morning in Westchester, New York, and Rogue is enjoying a private breakfast on the gazebo. Black coffee, bacon, and warm cinnamon rolls. The local newspaper is folded in front of her, the daily crossword and sudoku both completed.
It’s been a month now, since Irene died. Her foster mother, the woman who’d actually raised her. Rogue feels…not good. But she can appreciate the changing leaves and the simple joys of a good breakfast without the pain drowning it out. The autumn wind rustles her hair, and she studies the warm golds and oranges in the trees above.
She rolls up the cuff of her green cable knit sweater, getting a better look at the snake’s head now tattooed on the back of her hand. The rest of the snake’s body is winding its way through the roses, briars and thorns inked up her right arm in a full sleeve. Paint had been so kind to let Rogue borrow her powers, that way she got exactly what she wanted. Her left arm remains bare, but she has some ideas.
Rogue stuffs the last bite of the cinnamon roll in her mouth as the slight smell of brimstone tickles her nose.
Elf’s probably worried about you. Logan adds. His was one of the stronger voices, as his healing factor had kept her this side of the grass a few times now. Plus with the real Logan off on one of his solo adventures, it was nice to have its company.
Swallowing the last of her breakfast, Rogue turns to find her brother perched on the lip of the gazebo. His blue tail flicks back and forth.
“I thought you'd be out here,” his German accent curls over the words. Rogue responds with a shrug, and takes a drink of coffee. “You could have joined us for breakfast. Legion’s in the Danger Room, training vith Storm and Beast.”
An accident could be arranged, Mystique seethes. Despite how long it’s been since Rogue’d last made contact with her mother, the death of her wife had somehow galvanized the little pieces that remained and had forced themselves closer to the forefront. It…wasn’t entirely unwelcome. Sometimes.
“Good for him.”
Kurt hops over to one of the nearby benches. He has one of those looks of brotherly concern. “Rogue—”
“Can we skip this?” She picks her feet up, resting her arms on her knees.
Kurt blinks. “Skip vhat?”
“Skip the part where you tell me Ah should forgive him.” She tucks a strand of white hair behind her ear. “Ah know why he’s stayin’ here. Ah know he and the professor are family. Ah know Lucas was the one who killed Destiny, not David. Ah know the X-Men are some of the only ones who can help him with his powers, and Ah know Mystique still wants him dead. Ah know, Kurt. Don’t mean Ah have to like it.”
“I vasn’t going to say that. But you can’t avoid him forever.” Kurt says, soft and well meaning.
“Ah know that too.”
And she knows exactly how it’ll go. She’ll look into his sad eyes, hear David’s earnest apology, and her stupid, too-soft, too-big heart will find a way to forgive him. David Haller killed the woman who brushed her hair and read her bedtime stories and she’ll just forgive him.
You could just knife him instead. Julien suggests, trying to be helpful. One little flick of the wrist and, he’ll bleed out in seconds.
Here here. Mystique seconds.
Rogue takes another drink of coffee.
“But that isn’t vhy I came out here. Vhat I was going to say was…you’ve got mail.” Kurt holds up a slightly wrinkled white envelope.
“For…me?”
“Ja Yes, GermanJa. Return address is Salem.” She accepts the letter from him. As he said, the return address is Salem, Massachusetts, and she recognizes the handwriting immediately.
“Thanks Kurt. And…Ah’ll think about it.”
A small smile and a nod. Her brother ‘bamfs’ away.
Dear Miss Rogue,
I have written to you today to once more express my thanks to you visiting us at the Abbey. While I often delight in the company of my family, the opportunities for me to become acquainted with another young lady—not to mention one as charming, beautiful, and intelligent as yourself—are few and far between.
Since we have parted ways, I’ve been making my way through your list of recommendations. The poetry of Mr. Colbain and his musical group affects me deeply, and this novel of ‘The Modern Prometheus’ is fascinating to dissect.
Additionally, I find myself craving the boysenberry pie that accompanied our picnic lunch. If it is of little difficulty, would trouble you for the recipe, if only for the sake of revisiting fond memories of that day.
If it is of little presumption, I would enjoy beginning a correspondence with you until that time where our paths may cross again. I find you interesting, and have had much pleasure in our conversations. In short: you are like no one I have ever met before. I have some humble hope that some of that sentiment is returned. If it is not, then I hope you do not think me too great a fool.
Either way, this wish remains the same: good health to your kith and kin in Westchester.
Yours humbly and truly,
Hunter Maar
As Rogue finishes the letter, she finds herself smiling.
Don’t get too bubbly, the writing style was just a lot more flowery back then. Mystique interjects.
Chere sweetheart/darling, feminine. Cajun French spelling of 'chére' deserves things that make her happy, non? Another voice, another personality pipes up. Rogue shoves him back in his lock box.
She folds up the letter, and sticks it in her back pocket. The coffee’s gone cold. It’s time to go back inside, and face whatever’s waiting there.
It’s startling how much a pair of color contacts changes things. Two minutes in front of the mirror, and his devil eyes fade from sight. No sidelong looks, no old ladies gripping their purses, no ‘mutie’ spat his way like a curse. One tiny detail changes, and the world treats him completely differently. Remy tries not to dwell on it as he climbs the steps to Empire State University’s science building.
He’s greeted by a woman with long black hair, about a decade his senior. She’s wearing a long white lab coat, a pink turtleneck, and round glasses with gold frames.
Mindful of his manners, Remy holds his hand out. “Thanks for agreein’ to see me on such short notice, Dr. Mifune.”
“No problem, Mr. Ellis. Any chance to help out a fellow student of geology.” Remy smiles. According to the fake ID’s sitting in his wallet, Remy was Anthony Ellis, a graduate student studying geology at Louisiana State. He’s the type of man to wear soft turtleneck sweaters, casual slacks while a messenger bag is slung over his shoulder—and Anthony Ellis has dark brown eyes. (Colored contacts still make Remy’s eyes itch, but it’s a necessary discomfort for the heist.)
They exchange pleasantries, making their way towards the geology lab. Remy clocking the security cameras along the way, and watching the good doctor exchange smiles and little waves with security personnel, as well as a few lab techs.
“I’ve managed to run a sample through the mass spectrometer, and the results are fascinating. While I haven’t made an exact classification yet, it's already shown to have a high concentration of iron oxide, as well as a level of calcium we don’t often see outside of coral samples.”
“Iron oxide would explain that pretty red color, but don’t exactly narrow it down much. Almandine garnets, red amethyst, red spinel.” Remy skimmed a few wikipedia articles in preparation, but he already knew plenty about geology—at least the part of it that involves shiny rocks.
“Exactly.” The professor nods.
She enters her five digit pin. Even with her body angled to block his view of the keypad, Remy immediately knew it was 3-1-4-0-2. Not that it really matters, as he’s going to slip the real moongem for the perfect replica stashed in the messenger bag while her back is turned.
Dr. Mifune stares into the safe. Her body is very, very still.
“Somethin’ wrong, professor?”
“The moongem, it’s—it’s gone!”
Well then. That’s interesting.
“But—but it was here two days ago!” Dr. Mifune looks genuinely distraught, scrambling around the lab as if the bright red gem could have been left on a work station. Gambit would be more amused if the lady wasn’t clearly on the edge of a panic attack.
“Hey, hey,” he gently rests a hand on her shoulder. Best to calm things down before she starts tearing up the trash cans. “I believe you.”
Her eyes dart around, looking for something they both know is gone. “But it’s—”
“I know. But let’s try keep a cool head, eh chere?” Mifune bites her lip. He waits until her dark eyes meet his own, and holds the look. “Deep breath in.” He models for her. “Deep breath out.”
She follows his lead. A few more deep breaths together, and the geology professor calms down. Takes a step back, face red. “I–I’m sorry, Mr. Ellis. That was unprofessional of me.”
“Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for, professor.” Gambit glances back at the safe. “You said the moongem was here two days ago, hein?”
She nods.
“Anythin’ strange or out of the ordinary happen that day?”
“Only one thing really stands out…John Jameson, the astronaut. He wanted to take a closer look at it in a lab setting. I showed it to him, but I put it back in the safe. I had to take a phone call.” She blinks. “You don’t think he could have taken it, could you?”
Gambit does. But he deflects, saying something about letting the police figure that one out.
Not too long after, he’s walking out of the building and texting his brother about a missing astronaut.
After a long day of helping train some of the new mutant students at the outdoor obstacle course, Rogue settles onto the couch in the library. She was just starting to pen her reply to Hunter, and she wanted to get a little bit of a refresher on the novel before they started a pen-pals book club.
His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun-white sockets in which they were set—
“Rogue?” A voice cut in, startling Rogue away from her book. She looks up at the familiar set of ruby quartz sunglasses. Scott Summers. “The Professor wants to speak with you.”
“Right. Thanks.”
Two years ago, the engagement ring on Scott’s finger would have stung, but now she can be un-complicatedly happy for her former high school crush. Maddie is a great person, is quickly becoming a good friend, and it’s nice to see Scott happy, especially with how they’d lost Jean last year. (But all that being said it is, objectively, really fucking weird that Madelyne Pryor looks exactly like their dead friend.)
Rogue places her bookmark back in Frankenstein. Stands, and stretches.
“Y’know, he doesn’t need to keep sending you. I can take a little telepathy.”
“I think the Professor is just trying to give you some space. With…everything.” Scott sticks his hands in his pockets. While he’d been warming up to David on his own, he was one of the few people Rogue trusts not push her on the forgiveness issue.
Now. What could the professor want?
Starkesboro is boring.
It’s not polite, but it’s true. Boring, tiny little town in the middle of Northern Massachusetts. Boring architecture. Boring activities for tourists. Boring options for food. A bulletin board full of boring small-town goings ons: rummage sales, 4H club events, some weekend seminars about Getting in Touch with Your Hairy Selves, and a quilt raffle. Heck, Remy’s been here for two days and the most interesting thing that’s happened is the news report about a man getting mauled to death in the woods. The second most interesting thing is the apple cider donuts he’s been snacking on all afternoon.
Remy draws the queen of hearts, again, and again he has nowhere to play her. That’s another game of solitaire he has to concede. Remy huffs, and starts swiping up the cards off the table.
Maybe he’s in a bad mood because this was supposed to be interesting. Remy’s hunch about John Jameson held up, as no one’s seen hide or hair of the man for the last six months. Curious, given how besides being the pilot of the last moon mission, his daddy’s editor-in-chief of the Daily Bugle. But no.
Remy had his share of fun digging through the man’s life, looking for any kind of hint. He found an answer in the US Post Office: all of Jameson’s mail was to be forwarded to a PO box in Starkesboro. So now, once he figures out whatever vacation rental or hunting cabin Jameson’s absconded with the prize, he can head back to New Orleans, where spices other than cinnamon exist. And he doesn’t have to wear these annoying colored contacts.
Hence the stake out. John Jameson loves coffee. In an article before the mission launch, he’d said the one thing he’d miss the most during the moon mission is the lack of decent coffee. So, Remy is parked in Starkesboro’s only coffee shop. Bored.
He eats them, seated in a corner booth with easy sight lines of the whole coffee shop, the street outside, and easy access to both the main door and a straight shot to the emergency exit. He’s playing solitaire with himself, and he’s already lost three out of five games.
A flash of red catches his eye through the window. He turns. Strolling towards the coffee shop is a rather familiar woman with a very familiar streak of white in her otherwise dark auburn hair. She’s out of her usual black and green, wearing a red flannel jacket, and carrying a picnic basket.
Rogue.
Here in the middle of nowhere, Massachusetts.
Okay. Remy smirks to himself. Maybe this job wouldn’t be so boring.
Pushing up his sunglasses, Remy settles into his corner booth, and takes a moment to watch her. She’s not oblivious to her surroundings, but it’s clear she’s focused on her conversation with the other person. A woman with dark brown hair pulled up into a ponytail, wearing a blue fleece-lined jacket, cargo pants, and sensible hiking boots…and walking a dog. Not just any dog, but a Doberman pinscher, with cropped, upright ears yet a long tail.
The bell to the shop rings, and Rogue gets in line. He’s grown his hair out since they last met, and isn’t wearing his usual half-mask. If he leaves his sunglasses on it’s possible she won’t recognize him til he opens his mouth. Remy finishes his donut. It’ll be fun to sneak up on her. He’s already thinking of possible lines when the bell jingles again.
The woman Rogue was walking with enters half a minute later, minus the dog.
“As I was saying, it is an easy mistake to make. A dullahan carries their own severed head and wields a whip forged from a human spine.” The woman’s accent is New England but with a touch of something Gambit can’t quite put his finger on. A local, perhaps? A mutant the X-men were trying to recruit?
“Then what’s a cephalophore?” Rogue asks with a note of genuine curiosity. Her Mississippi drawl is honey-sweet.
The other woman looks up at the menu board. “A martyred saint that carries their own severed head in artwork.”
“Huh.” The southern belle nods. “English does have some real specific words.”
“My favorite is ‘defenestration the act of throwing something or someone out a window’.”
An amused snort. “Course it is, sugah.” Kind of adorable for a woman who could knock you out with a single press of her lips. (He never got an apology for that, not that it matters.)
Remy hides a smile behind his hand. Pleasure, then. Rogue’s the no-nonsense type, so if this was X-Men related, she wouldn’t be carrying a picnic basket or taking time to chat with strangers about fairies in coffee shops.
Rogue’s companion finally turns towards the barista. “I would like to purchase an extra large vanilla latte with extra vanilla. Oh! And whipped cream, if that is amenable. As well as a box of the apple cider donuts. You have my thanks.”
This girl was either stuffed in a fancy prep school her whole life or is extremely homeschooled.
“You want some extra sugah with that, sugah?” Rogue teases. Oh. This ain’t chatting with a stranger. Rogue knows this person. Unless she’s had some kind of personality transplant, that is.
Rogue orders her own coffee. One of those seasonal apple cider lattes. The local hands her the box of donuts, and Rogue places them in the picnic basket. Remy blinks. As the barista adds up the total, he realizes that they’re ordering together. Meaning they walked here together. Meaning…
…is this a date?
Not that he has any feelings about Rogue being on a date. It’s just more information. Information can always be leveraged or bargained for. After all, if this is a date then that means Rogue has little chance of getting mixed up in his business. Remy goes to take a drink of coffee—and remembers he finished his cup ten minutes ago.
“I will cover us.” The lady offers, pulling out a wad of loose bills from her jacket pocket.
“Don’t worry Hunter, Ah can pay for mine.” Hunter. Okay, now Remy has a name to work with. Probably a last name. People don’t call dates by their last name.
“Agatha said this was for ‘all necessary expenses’. Food is necessary.”
“Fine. But Ah’m payin’ for dinner later.”
“That is amenable.”
The two women linger by the counter, making idle chit-chat. Remy stuffs the deck of cards back into his coat pocket.
They’re about three hours away from Westchester, New York. It is the time of year for couples to take long drives to look at the leaves. Middle aged couples, yeah, but the precedent stands. And Rogue is holding a picnic basket.
Remy taps a single finger against the top of the table. Okay if this was an X-Men thing, then Hunter could just be a codename, and a missing astronaut would be high profile enough to grab their attention. A well trained Doberman is a vicious thing, and might have something to do with Hunter’s power. Remy couldn’t find any signs of Jameson being a mutant, but he doesn’t have access to a couple of mind-readers or a machine that could sniff their kind out like a bloodhound.
On the other hand; If this is a date, he can’t fault Rogue’s taste. Her companion looks to be in her early 20’s, with light brown skin, and a couple of scars adding a rugged appeal to her face. A collar necklace around her throat displaying some kind of sun symbol. At least three gold piercings sit in her ear. All small, practical, unlikely to catch on anything. Rogue likes practicality.
She still hasn’t clocked him, so focused on talking to Hunter. Remy glances over his shoulder. The doberman sits in a shady corner, its leash double knot-tied to the nearby bicycle rack. A very practical choice while their owner goes to grab coffee.
While their backs are turned, Remy steps outside, throwing his coffee cup away in a nearby trash can.
The doberman sits outside the coffee shop, her black ears pricked and tongue happily lolling out. She tilts her head curiously as he gets closer.
Remy’s a cat man, through and through, but the only dog he doesn’t like is the one nipping at his heels. (Even then, they're just doing what they were trained for, same as him.)
“Bonjour, mon ami Hello, my friend.,” Remy leans down, letting her sniff his hand before he tries to touch her. She leans in, so he indulges a scratch behind her ears. “What’s your name?”
Charlie is inscribed on the dog tag with fine etching work. On the back is an address for Salem, Massachusetts. The doberman whines again, looking right at his coat pocket.
“Smart girl. Gambit always keeps a few treats for good pups like you.” More like for guard dogs, but details, details. After offering the good girl a treat, he feeds her another, and another. To any casual observer, Gambit just looks like he’s giving attention to a dog. Even if they were watching him from the windows, no way they’d catch him unworking the knot.
A subtle glance towards the windows reveals Rogue and her maybe-date aren’t paying attention.
“Want another one?” he remains crouched, holding the treat just out of her reach. Charlie’s body is eager. The ‘yes’ clear in her body language. Making sure no cars are coming, he tosses the treat further down the sidewalk. “Go get the treat!”
Charlie races off merrily, her red leash dragging behind her. With a little smirk, Gambit tucks the little baggie back into one of his many coat pockets. Swiftly re-entering the coffee shop, he taps the woman in the blue coat on the shoulder.
Hunter turns around. “Yes?” This close, he can make out the color of her eyes: the right is a dark green, her left eye is the mellow grey of a New England fog. Out of the ordinary, but not the kind of strange liable to get her jumped by the Friends of Humanity in a dark alley.
Rogue makes a startled noise, clearly recognizing him. Gambit ignores her for now. “Scuse me, mademoiselle Miss, but was that your dog tied up outside?”
“Yes?”
He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I think she got loose.”
Hunter offers a quick thanks before rushing out the door, calling: “Charlie!” That leaves a still-staring Rogue holding both their coffees and the picnic basket on her arm. Her surprise quickly melts down into an unimpressed glower.
“Gambit.”
He puts on his best Devil May Care smile. “Happy to see you too, chere.”
Her eyes narrow. “And just what do you think you’re doin’?”
“Just makin’ sure she doesn't lose her dog.”
A derisive snort. “Ah’m sure.” She brushes past him towards the door. Gambit opens it for her, and she rolls his eyes. “If you’re here to trick me to another hair-brained scheme back in Louisiana, I ain’t bitin’.”
He places a hand over his chest in mock-offense. “I’m offended, all I did was run into an acquaintance and thought I’d say hello.”
“And untyin' Charlie’s leash?”
“Knot musta been loose.” From the corner of his eye, he could make out Hunter returning with her dog.
“Pull the other one. It’s got bells on 'I don't believe you'. A references to the English idiom of 'pulling someone's leg', meaning to lie or to trick someone..” Rogue crosses her arms in front of her chest and nails him with a grey-eyed glare; the hardass image undercut by the two coffee cups and the picnic basket.
“So what brings you here, cherie?” He smirks, glancing down at the picnic basket on her arm. “A trip to grandmother’s house?”
“None of your business, swamp rat.” Rogue scoffs. She hands the vanilla latte back to Hunter, then takes her free hand to drag her maybe-date away. “C’mon Hunter. We’re out of here.”
“Good to see you too, river rat.” Gambit gives a little wave to their retreating backs. It doesn’t escape his notice, how the pair of them were walking towards the woods.
The same woods where a man had been mauled by a wolf two days ago.
Remy pulls out a cigarette, and starts walking in the opposite direction.
Rogue mutters a curse. Two years without any sign of the Louisiana thief and then the first mission she’s assigned to as lead after her month long break he just has to show up.
You’re right to be pissed. Gumbo showing up always means trouble. Logan growls. Mystique makes a vague noise of agreement.
Hunter is stoic about the interruption, but Rogue’s still streaming about it; even after they dispose of their coffee cups in one of the trail trash cans. They obey the posted signs, sticking to the established trail and keep Charlie on her leash. Once they’re sure they won’t be overheard, Rogue turns the conversation towards their mission.
After all, she’s wearing her X-Men uniform underneath the red coat.
“Now that we’ve walked around a bit: what’s your read, sugah?”
Hunter tucks a strand of fringe back behind her ear. “The pull of mysticism hangs over this town like an invisible fog. Something wicked is at work here.”
“Somethin’ ‘sides swamp rats who can’t mind their damn business?”
“Most likely.” Right. That’s something Rogue has to remember—Hunter is sharp as anything but sarcasm and rhetorical questions tend to fly over her head.
Her grey-green eyes keep careful watch over their surroundings, while Charlie calmly walks alongside her. (The Doberman glamour was convincing, as whenever Rogue went to pet the hellhound she actually felt fur and didn’t notice the horns.)
“This Remy LeBeau…You said he was a member of the Thieves’ Guild?”
“Yeah.”
Hunter nods. “Then you were right to call me. The Guilds from La Nouvelle-Orléans are no stranger to mysticism.”
“It’s New Orleans these days, sugah—Wait, you sayin’ they’re magic thieves?”
“No. At least, not while I knew them. But they keep a foot in both worlds, and a trade in items of power.”
Rogue hums, side-stepping a root that’s overgrown on the path. “So whatever’s behind these wolf attacks could be an object instead of a person?”
“Possibly, but it is too soon to speculate.”
Rogue attempts to poke her mental copy of Gambit for information, but even inside her mind the thief remains slippery. Once she finally gets a firm grip on him, all she gets is a: Desole cherie. Rogue shoves him back behind her mental shields.
It’s a nice walk, at least. The leaves display their vibrant hues as the pair make their way down the trail, further into the woods. They pass the time by discussing Frankenstein. They snack on the donuts, and take turns drinking from the still-warm thermos of hot chocolate.
The sun sets as they still make their way through the woods. Hunter leads the way, but Rogue’s flashlight makes sure she can follow along. Not that the other woman would have any trouble.
They’re about two hours out from town when Charlie’s ears prick, and the hellhound begins to bark. Hunter drops her leash, and Charlie dashes off the trail into a small clearing of grass nearby.
Charlie circles the area, her nose pressed to the ground. Rogue’s flashlight follows the hellhound until she finds the puddle of dried blood. The dog's cherry-red tongue briefly laps at it.
Hunter crouches down. “Yes. Here.” She runs her hand along an indent in the grass. “This is where a man was murdered by a beast-man.”
Hunter rewards her hound with some ear scritches and words of affection. Charlie licks her mama’s face in happiness.
Rogue glances around. No police tape, no tire tracks, nothing. “This ain’t the crime scene from the news. Think he was killed here and moved later?”
“A fine theory.” Hunter looks up towards the waxing moon. “Most species of werewolves keep to an established hunting ground. If we—“
“Bark! Bark bark!”
Both women look over at the dog. “Charlie? What is it girl?”
Still in her Doberman glamour, the hellhound growls and barks at something in a nearby tree. Rogue aims the flashlight to see Charlie go up onto her hind legs, her forepaws balancing against the trunk as she continues to bark.
Hunter and Rogue share a look. “Prob’ly just a squirrel.” Rogue says, pitching her voice louder, and turning away from the tree. She leans in closer to Hunter. “Someone’s been followin’ us.”
“Agreed. And Charlie has it pinned.”
“Think you can get them down?” Rogue carefully pulls the silver hunting knife out of her picnic basket. She unlocks Julien Boudreaux’s box—the Prince of the Assassin’s guild knows plenty about knife fighting.
“Certainly.” A line of black and gold magic sparks from Hunter’s hand, reaching up into the tree canopy. With a wrench, their shadow is pulled back to earth. In Hunter’s off hand, one of her swords appears.
The figure clatters to the ground with a yelp, barely catching themselves on the ground. Rogue has her suspicions even before she gets a better look. Suspicions confirmed by the familiar red of his irises softly glowing in the darkness.
“Gambit.” Rogue deadpans, and lowers the flashlight. Hunter merely raises an eyebrow.
“You were clever, staying downwind of Charlie’s nose.” She keeps her blade at the ready.
“Good evenin’ to you too.” He grumbles, pushing his chin length brown hair away from his eyes.
Rogue signals Hunter to stand down. She sheathes her blade on her back holster.
The thief does his best to play it cool, but Rogue sees the grumpy look on his face as he rises to his feet. He’s out of his earlier civvies and back in his long brown coat and half-mask. His chest plate is new though, some kind of magenta…body armor? Whatever.
“It’s not a good idea to sneak up on us.” Rogue doesn’t put her hunting knife away. Stab him. Stab him stab him stab him. Julien is scratching at his box, and even Logan wouldn’t mind her giving the thief a swift kick in the shins.
“Far from salubrious.” Hunter agrees. Charlie gives a careful sniff of the thief's coat pocket. Gambit gives the dog a look of betrayal before smoothing out his features.
“Don’t you belle femmes belle femmes Beautiful women. know there be wolves in these woods?” He deadpans, disdainful and unbothered even as he swipes the dirt off his longcoat.
“We know.” Hunter keeps a careful eye on him. “So why are you here?”
Before he can answer, Charlie starts barking. Again. This time, the hellhound snarls, her eyes a burning yellow.
It is not the only one.
“What the—?!” Gambit sputters.
“Stay behind us.” Hunter declares.
And here is the moment Rogue knows she selected the right person for this mission. At the sight of at least a half dozen sets of eyes coming out of the darkness, wolves stalking forward with sharp claws and long teeth—Hunter smiles. Smiles like a kid on Christmas morning.
Her golden magic gleaming, Hunter’s civvies disappear in a flash of light. Her armor is donned, both swords bared. Charlie’s glamour melts away as she takes her full power; the hellhound’s spines grow out of her back into proper spikes. Her teeth elongate into long, needle-like fangs, and her inner fire glowing underneath her skin.
Rogue drops the picnic basket, placing herself and her silver knife between the wolves and the thief.
Time for a wolf hunt.