Chapter 3 - A Little Bit of X: Chapter 3


                                                     A Little Bit of X

                                                        by Volpone

                                                         Chapter 3

          The smell of omelets filled the kitchen of the mansion as Quinn busied himself, happily
clattering around, humming an old Irish tune as he cooked. Where he came from, he seldom
had the pleasure of actually preparing a meal as too many other things took up his time to let
him perform such domestic things.
          He flipped the omelet with a practiced motion, loaded the interior with cheese, ham
and green pepper, closed it over, cooked it just long enough to begin to bring up a lightly
golden exterior (which would cause a classic French chef to have a coronary), slid it off 
onto a plate and ladled a generous dollop of salsa and sour cream over the top.
          Commenting to himself, he said, "God, I would've made somebody a great wife."
          Rogue staggered in looking for coffee, which he poured with flair and deposited along
with the finished omelet in front of her.
          From under heavily lidded eyes, she looked at him and said, "I don' know if Ah should
shoot you for bein' so danged happy in the mornin', or marry you for your cookin'." Taking a
large gulp of coffee, she noted, "Hey, this ain't the swamp water we usually get 'round here in
the mornin's."
          "Nope." He was already busy with the next omelet as he spoke. "I had some good
stuff delivered early. That asphalt substitute you had in here will make great drain cleaner,
but I'd sooner drink canned champagne. Yecch!" He shuddered visibly.
          "Why is it you are up so early, Harlequin?" asked Storm from the doorway.
          "I get by nicely on about two hours a night down time and wake up ready to wrassle
alligators for breakfast.
          "Omelet? With cheese? Ham? Green pepper? My kind of woman! As a friend of
mine once said, 'moderation is for monks'. Here we go!"
          After a bite, Storm said, "If you choose not to accept Rogue's proposal, I might be
persuaded to put in an offer for your services myself. Do you give back-rubs?"
          He put on a thick, patently false French accent that made him sound like John Cleese
taunting the "silly English k-nighets."
          "I am a bona-fide expert in back-rubbery." He gave a silly smirk.
          Psylocke entered and commented, "I might make an offer myself, at that rate."
          Rogue objected around a mouthful of egg. "Hey, ya'll got one o' y'own, already."
          "I'm thinking of trading in. Warren is fun, but he can't cook, and he tries to tickle."
          The comment might have been more humorous if it weren't commonly known that the
two had been having some serious problems lately in the romance department. Even his role
in saving her life seemed to be placing some type of strain on things. Just the other night,
Angel had literally flown off in a huff after some private disagreement, and nothing had been
seen of him around the mansion since.
          Quinn busied himself with cooking as more team members entered, drawn by the
sounds and smells emanating from the kitchen, and he served each within moments of their
entrance.
          "My compliments on your cuisine," said Beast. "This is considerably superior to the
glutinous pablum we usually must suffer through in the mornings here." He took another bite
of his second helping.
          "Hank, just call it 'oatmeal' like everyone else," said Jean.
          "I was referring to the coffee."
          "Eeeeeuwww!"
          Meltdown wandered in, wearing her usual oversized jersey as a nightgown, groggy and
stretching, but somehow managing to still look quite content with the world.
          "I'd kill for a cup of joe."
          "Have some respect, Meltable. Jamaica Blue Mountain hardly qualifies as 'joe'.
Hungry?" He gestured with his omelet pan.
          "Famished, but coffee first."
          She scooted in next to Beast, avoiding any more than the most casual
acknowledgment of Quinn, took a deep whiff of the mug he set in front of her, and sighed at
the aroma. The smell helped to restore some of her emotional equilibrium. She had been
silently cursing since she had awakened, swinging back and forth between kicking herself
becoming involved with yet another team-mate, and kicking herself for not letting Quinn know
she might be more than just casually interested in pursuing things. One thing she had to
admit about last night... it had been world-class!
          Gambit said, "Now dis is cookin'. Ah keep tryin' to get dem to lemme cook fo' dem, but
dey won' lemme near de kitchen, 'cep if Ah do mah gumbo." Quinn had spiced Remy's
personal omelet with a ridiculous amount of hot sauce, rendering the meal inedible to any but
the Cajun's asbestosized palate.
          "'Course not, Remy. Ya'll'd put Tabasco in the coffee." A chorus of assents echoed
Rogue's sentiments.
          "Jus' enough to give it some flavor, chere."
          Emma and Sean entered, having just come in from the Massachusetts campus.
          "And would yer hospitality extent to two famished wayfarers?" he asked.
          "If you don't mind, I think I'll stick to the coffee," said the White Queen. "It smells quite
potable for a change." She looked at the salsa-covered omelets around the room with
barely-concealed distaste.
          "Ooh, I love a challenge," said Quinn. Bowing her to a seat, he continued, "If Your
Highness would content herself with coffee and the fresh juice for say... ten minutes, I believe
I can prepare something acceptable to Your discerning palate."
          Smiling, she replied, "Nothing personal, dear, but I wouldn't bet on it. I've had
bachelor cooking." Her look spoke volumes on what she thought.
          "I'm willing to chance it," he replied. "A friendly wager? You can name the forfeit."
          "You couldn't afford the stakes to make it interesting." She said it as what she felt to
be fact, not as an insult, but the hauteur in her character couldn't help coming through. He
chose not to correct her.
          "Very well. Then how about my abject servitude? Say a week of my time as personal
valet, masseur, gopher and general all-around lackey?"
          She eyed him suspiciously.
          "And what would you expect should I happen not to win?"
          They had most everyone's attention by now. Emma wasn't known to bet except on the
rarest occasions. She refused Gambit's continued attempts to talk her into a "friendly li'l
game" of poker, though she had been sorely tempted more than once to get into a game and
then use her talent at mind-reading to help her clean him out. Yet she seemed to have some
underlying reason behind drawing this whole scenario out.
          He looked around the room.
          "Looks like a lot of dishes to be done."
          "You've got to be joking. I'm here for the emergency meeting."
          Beast piped in. "The Professor informed me that he is in 'unofficial' communication by
phone with the government sponsors who proposed rescinding our outlaw status and
estimates that he will not be able to convene the meeting before ten o'clock."
          Emma gave Hank a look of "who-asked-you," but Quinn spread his hands.
          "Plenty of time. Come on. One hour of your valuable time versus an entire week of
my lowly existence that I can cook, from scratch, something as good as you could reasonably
expect to be served in your favorite French boit, and do it within ten minutes."
If it weren't for his cock-sure manner, Emma would have declined, but she decided
that someone had to put this upstart in his place, and her breeding would not allow her to
look as if such a wager were beneath her, even if that were the case.
          And besides, she just might be able to think of some interesting duties for him to
perform... privately.
          "Since good help is so hard to find... done."
          She offered him her hand, which, true to character, he kissed.
          Meltdown frowned slightly, but didn't otherwise react.
          "Accepted," said Quinn. "Do we have a timekeeper?"
          "I shall be happy to volunteer my services in that capacity, if that is acceptable to both
parties," offered Hank. At their mutual nods, he said, "Very well. Commence."
          Quinn put back on his comic French accent. "I shall prepare for you an original...
Omelette a'la Reine Blanc!" He shook a finger in her direction. "And no peeky!"
          He clattered about happily, moving at higher than normal speed, slivering, whipping,
mixing, all the while singing comic patter songs from Gilbert & Sullivan in a very fine baritone.
Emma sat back, unconcernedly sipping his really rather excellent coffee. A number gathered around to watch the display of culinary acrobatics, and several side bets were made and accepted as well.
          During all this, Harlequin's lyrics seemed to indicate that he was a "modern major general".
          After three minutes, (at this point, he seemed to be in the mood to "let the punishment
fit the crime",) Emma could judge from the reactions of the others in the room that Quinn was
certainly putting on a good show, whatever else he did or didn't manage to do.
          After six minutes, (and now singing an extremely rapid ditty about "a cheap and
chippie chopper on a big, black block",) a distinctive aroma wafted in her direction, and she
knew she might be in trouble. The sudden lack of takers on side bets did nothing to bolster
her confidence. She briefly considered putting a little mental "pressure" on Quinn, but
decided it was beneath her.
          At nine minutes seven seconds, he placed a plate in front of her and pulled off the
serviette covering it with a "Voila'!"
          It was an omelet, but it was drizzled with a fresh Hollandaise, and when she delicately
placed the first bite in her mouth, her taste buds were greeted by the unusual combination of
genuine truffle and tiny pink bay shrimp... not a combination she would have expected, but it
somehow worked in some unorthodox manner. No... it wasn't Hollandaise... it was Maltaise,
with blood orange... How he had procured real French truffles and fresh blood oranges was a
mystery as they certainly wouldn't be found around the mansion normally... that he had the
knowledge how to use them, and sparingly at that...
          She took another bite, critically examining the flavors as they combined.
          She sighed resignedly, and took a third bite.
          When several team mates began to snicker softly, anticipating the outcome, Quinn
held up a hand and they quieted.
          After she had swallowed her fifth bite, she said simply, "I assume there are rubber
gloves available."
          Several cheers erupted, and scattered applause occurred around the room, along with
several groans over lost money.
          Quinn leaned over and whispered softly in her ear, "There's commercial-capacity
dishwasher in the corner. Loading it should take you all of five minutes." And he winked at
her conspiratorially.
          Standing, he announced, "For any interested, I still have enough ingredients for about
four more Omelettes a'la Reine Blanc. Sean, you have been most patient. Would you care
for one?"
          The remaining gastronomic wonders were rapidly spoken for, several of them being
split between curious members who "just wanted a taste". Betsy was quite favorably
impressed. Even the taciturn Bishop unbent long enough to try a bite, though it wasn't to his
taste. Seafood and mushroom for breakfast didn't go.
          When he was finished, Quinn offered an arm to each to Storm and Rogue, both of
whom had finished eating already.
          "If you ladies are otherwise unoccupied, I would love to see the grounds."
          Both of the lovelies indicated graciously accepted an arm, and they all left the room,
chatting and smiling like old friends.
          Tabitha was not exactly pleased, but knew she had no room to complain. She had set
the tone for the relationship with her note. Now she was going to have to live by it. Oh,
well...
          Thinking back to the previous night, she smiled a little. Oh, yeah. He'd be back. She
could afford to be patient.
          Bishop looked away when she glanced in his direction, but he had seen her reaction.
          He waited another few moments, then slipped quietly away to keep the newcomer and his
female teammates just in sight.

                                        ************

          Lorna had arrived late the night before, and was wandering down the hall in the
general direction of the sounds emanating from the kitchen when a familiar voice brought her
up short.
          "Hey, kid, wait up!"
          She paused long enough for Bobby to join her.
          "Hey, I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to say 'Hi' when you got in. Good to see you,
gorgeous."
          Lorna began moving slowly toward the kitchen again as she spoke.
          "I wasn't in much of a mood to talk last night."
          "Yeah, I heard about you and Alex. I'm sorry."
          She waved his sympathy aside.
          "It'd been coming for a long time. I just made it official, that's all."
          He put a hand on her shoulder and stopped her.
          "Still, I really am sorry that things didn't work out. I just wanted you to be happy...
that's all."
          For the first time, Lorna looked into Bobby's eyes. What she saw there surprised her,
and what she did next surprised them both.
          Without preamble, she moved up to him and put her arms around him, intending to
give him a brief, sisterly kiss on the cheek in thanks for his support.
          That was what she intended. What she did was brush her lips against his cheek, then
after the briefest of pauses, bring her lips into contact with his.
          The result was electric for both of them. After a moment of restraint, she moaned
softly, leaned into the kiss and allowed her lips to open. In that one second, all her resolve to
not allow this to happen disappeared as the kiss gained momentum.
          Bobby knew how much he had missed Lorna, but wasn't going to go chasing after her,
not when she had made it clear that she was in a relationship with Havok. In the mean time,
he had plenty of time to examine what had happened, and after looking back to admit to
himself that he should have tried harder to make things come out differently.
          Lorna, on the other hand, had been second-guessing herself for the last couple of
months, and had decided that she had been rather foolish to simple let things with Bobby
dissolve as they had. Maybe it was looking back and seeing just the good points. Maybe she
had built up an unrealistic fantasy about how wonderful things might have been if they had
stayed together, but she had decided that she missed Bobby far more than she would have
liked to admit.
          Besides... he was just plain fun.
          If the setting had been different, or if there had been someone around, or if any one of
a hundred things hadn't been just so, nothing would have happened between them...
probably. As it was...
          As they broke from the kiss, Lorna took him by the hand and without a word, led him
back down the hall the way they had come, back to the room she was staying in, and as the
door closed behind them, she was in his arms and feverishly kissing him again, squeezing
her body against him, surprising him with her need.
          Bobby always fantasized about women not being able to keep their hands off him, but
here was Lorna behaving like something out of his dreams. The reality of the situation took
him somewhat by surprise. He almost expected a bunch of his colleagues to jump out of
hiding and yell "April Fools!", but when Polaris' hand began to massage his growing erection
through his jeans, he realized just how real things were.
          Before either of them realized what they were doing, clothes were strewn all over the
room, and they were rolling around on her bed like a couple of horny teens on Viagra.
          As he kissed his way down to her chest, Bobby was amazed again by how wonderful
Lorna's breasts were. Large and firm with nipples the size of silver dollars (until they were
erect, like now.) She could have easily been one of the centerfolds he so enjoyed.
          Taking a breast in each hand, he began to fondle and caress her, licking first at one
tight bud and then the other. Lorna gave a small moan as he kissed one point, then she slid
a hand behind his head and pressed his face more firmly to her bosom.
          With a smile, Bobby began to tongue and suck at her breast more forcefully, pulling as
much of her into his mouth as he could while flicking his tongue rapidly back and forth across
her crinkly nipple. When she moaned more strongly, he grew bolder and bit.
          The green-haired beauty drew a breath in through her teeth, then said, "Easy, Bobby!
Those are sensitive."
          He raised his head long enough to say, "Sorry, Lor. Just got carried away."
          "Okay... just watch the teeth." And she guided him back to the nipple he had just
bitten.
          Approaching much more gently this time, he nibbled at the tender nub and was
rewarded by her purr of pleasure.
          He released his hold on her other breast and ran his hand down her ribs, across her
flat stomach and down until his fingers were teasing at the small patch of green pubic hair
covering her mound. He cupped his hand over her and began to massage with a circular
motion, bringing another moan from her. She shifted slightly and rolled her leg out so that
she was more exposed to his questing fingers, encouraging him wordlessly and rocking her
hips against his hand.
          Accepting her invitation, he slid his fingers up and down the outer lips of her pussy,
making her flex and purr at the same time, and then he slipped a digit between, discovering
that she was already very wet and ready. He began to finger the entrance to her vagina, and
when she tilted her hips, he probed inside. Stroking gently in and out several times, Lorna
moved herself slightly so that his finger gave her the greatest pleasure, and she gave several
gasps as he rubbed across her erect clitoris.
          After just a minute or so, Lorna grew impatient and decided that she'd had enough
foreplay and was ready for the main event. Reaching down, she took Bobby's very erect rod
in hand, and after giving it a couple of strokes, said, "Come here."
          Spreading her knees, she guided him forward until he was in the right position, then
pulled him forward until he was mashing her breasts with his weight and buried to the hilt in
her hot cleft.
          "Oh, god, Lor!" Bobby groaned out as she clenched the muscles lining her canal. His
breath hissed in as he tried to not come immediately.
          But Polaris wasn't having any of that. She was hot, and she wanted to get there now!
          She'd seldom been so impatient in bed before, but her desire spurred her on, making her flex
her hips as she encouraged Bobby to fuck her.
          "Come on, Bobby! Come on!" She could feel it building within her quickly, and she
began to claw at his firm ass, reaching for the glorious climax she could tell was on its way.
          With a groan, Bobby gave up any thought of being a marathon lover and started
pumping into Lorna's molten core fast and furious. He lost all though of technique or stamina
and simply began fucking away.
          That was exactly what she needed, because after just a half dozen strokes, she began
to keen out as her orgasm took control of her body. She gave a soft rising cry that said
clearly that she was coming, and arched her back up as she froze in place, muscles straining
with the intensity of her release.
          Bobby was right there with her and groaned out as he shot his load into her incredible
pussy as it grabbed at him, squeezing the juices out of him with each new contraction that
shook her. He stroked into her again and again as he came, and she eagerly met each
thrust, her orgasm sweeping her away like some dam that he had breached.
          Mutually exhausted, they fell together, and she rolled him over on his back so that she
could curl up around him.
          Without a word, his hand came up and began to gently stroke her hair. She gave a
sigh of contentment and snuggled closer.
          "That was quite the 'welcome home'," she purred, running her nails playfully down his
bare chest.
          "Just so long as you don't expect me to greet everyone who arrives that way. I think I
saw Banshee walking down the hall earlier, and I think he might take it the wrong way."
          She laughed as she remembered just one of the things she had missed about the
Mansion... and Bobby.

                                        ************

          Shortly after ten o'clock, a number of the X-team leaders were gathered in the War
Room with Professor X to hear the latest news and discuss strategy. Among the group were
Cyclops, Storm, Banshee, White Queen (her dish washing duties fulfilled), Beast, Siryn,
Forge, Polaris, and Bishop.
          "As you may know," began Charles, "several of our fellows are currently in search of
Anthony Jacobson, although things do not look promising. Cable and Cannonball tracked
one trail to the Dakotas, but have since reported that it disappeared there. Joseph and
Domino had some good luck, but nothing has turned up for the last several days. I was
hoping that Domino's talent might give us some assistance, but the inhibitor seems to be
working too well. Jacobson is a highly intelligent individual with very strong motivations not to
be found.
          "I have spent the last two hours in communication with representatives from the
Federal government, and I believe I have managed to convince them of our sincerity in
wishing to see things resolved quickly and fairly, but it is a tenuous truce at best, and I am
unsure of how long it may last. We may see a suspension of the Bill of Rights in regards to
mutants at any time, and we can all imagine the results of such an action."
He shook his head in sorrow.
          "My friends, we may be facing our worst fears. The international community is up in
arms as well as our own citizens, and even the civil liberties organizations are keeping silent
on the outrages being committed since it was Bishop M'Bui, one of their most beloved
figures, that was nearly killed in the incident.
          "As you are aware, I have sent out a message requesting all of the current and former
members of the X-teams gather here until the crisis has been resolved. I have been
reassured by the number who have already reached us, and more have sent word that they
are on their way. All of the students from the Massachusetts campus are now here except
Archie and Leech, who have chosen to stay in the Grotto. At last notice Shatterstar and,
surprisingly, Moonstar are all en route to us, but there is still no word from Nate Grey,
Caliban, Warpath, and the others. Excalibur has sent a message offering concern, and may
be able to send a representative, but is unsure when this may happen.
          "Now, does anyone else have anything to report that may have a bearing on the
subject at hand?"
          Bishop spoke up.
          "I'm not sure how closely the two are related, but the timing is suspicious concerning
Harlequin's appearance here.
          "As you may know," he addressed the others, "the Professor's asked me to keep an
eye on our guest until we can be sure of who he is and what he wants.
          "Well, I've done some watching and checking up, and I have some preliminary
findings.
          "First, according to the computer records I searched, he isn't from another universe as
he claims."
          Professor X interrupted with an inquiry.
          "I assume that this is in reference to his identity as Quentin St. James?"
          Emma suddenly lost much of her bored expression. Sean noticed her sudden interest,
but didn't comment.
          Bishop showed no surprise at the Professor's statement.
          "You know about him?" to which the Professor nodded.
          The man in the hover-chair came to a decision. "I'm afraid that our guest revealed
much more to me than I have felt at liberty to to share with the rest of you. 'Quentin St.
James' is an identity like 'Harlequin', assumed for purposes of fitting in on our planet. It is his
most commonly used alias. Though he did not ask me to keep any secrets, I still have felt
hesitant to discuss what he shared with me."
          Banshee spoke up. "I'd still like t' hear what you found, Bishop."
          The Professor agreed. "I asked you to assume the role of Security Officer in this case.
Please, report what you have discovered so far. I, too, am interested to hear how closely it
matches with what he told me."
          Bishop was all business.
          "Name: Quentin no-middle-name St. James. Age: 34." Several of the others reacted
slightly, as they would have guessed him to be eight years younger. "Born: Moab County,
Utah, to Ira and Maureen St. James, both now deceased. No siblings or surviving
grandparents. Nationality: renounced US citizenship, naturalized Cayman Islands at age 18,
so technically he is now a citizen of the United Kingdom. No criminal record. Father is
recorded as being a doctor born in Missouri... both parents died overseas during an epidemic
when he was 16. Financial records are almost non-existent, but he has never filed taxes in
the US, and the Caymans are being their usual secretive selves. US address of record is
care of a big-shot Delaware law firm that handles mainly corporations and charities. He has
a driver's license issued by Colorado, several major credit cards without credit limit and little
outstanding balance due, and a passport that shows he has been to a number of countries.
But one thing I find interesting is that a lot of the stuff most folks build up day to day is
missing. No bits of stray paper saying where he was... no receipts... no membership cards...
nothing. His car was purchased for cash about a month ago in Colorado and licensed there
in Boulder County... the plates can't be more than a few weeks old.
          "Of what I've observed of him personally, I have yet to see anything which might
endanger the team or Mansion, but he's had dealings with several team members which
might eventually lead to trouble."
          "How so?"
          "He had at least one exchange with Wolverine which I though might end in a fight, but
that may have blown over. I'm not sure."
          "Anything else?"
          He considered bringing up his suspicions about Meltdown, but decided to keep silent.
          "Nothing solid. I'm still watching."
          He sat back, having delivered his report.
          Emma said, "If you give me a few moments, I might be able find out something more."
          Receiving no dissent, she rose and moved to a video-phone console across the room
from the others. She dialed a number that she knew by heart and in moments was looking at
the face of a fastidious but innocuous looking man who would be highly forgettable under
most circumstances. He looked like he might be someone's butler or a maitre d'.
          When he saw who was calling, he smiled properly. "Madame Chairman! How nice to
hear from you."
          "Good morning, Claude. I need you to double check some facts for me."
          "Any way in which I can be of assistance..."
          "Give me a run-down on Quentin St. James."
          His eyebrows rose in question. "If I may ask, does Madame have some dealing with
the gentleman?"
          "In an indirect manner, yes."
          Claude closed his eyes and began to recite facts off the top of his head. This was his
specialty... keeping track of the players who might be of interest to Frost Enterprises, and his
memory was excellent. His ability had proven quite useful in the past, and had saved her
company many millions of dollars on a number of occasions by providing crucial leverage just
when it was needed.
          "Quentin St. James... self-made man... power behind the scenes and majority
stockholder for Phoenix Microconductors, the Belerophon Fund, the St. James Foundation,
and all the other subsidiaries and projects owned by the multinational... age 34... single with
no children... heterosexual, but apparently discreet... citizen of the Cayman Islands, although
that may be a legal fiction... graduate of the Sorbonne but his field of study escapes me at
the moment... almost never photographed... reclusive... most of his decisions are handed
down by his lawyers in Wilmington who act as front men... holds no position of record in any
of his companies, but what he wants gets done... he has only attended a few major
stockholder meetings, and those are when some major policy decisions were on the block...
has very carefully kept his companies out of anything controversial, refusing to have anything
to do with munitions, heavy manufacturing, petrochemicals, pesticides or pollutants, and has
concentrated on green industries, such as environmentally-green micro-processors, superand
semi-condutors, software, entertainment, art, recreation, and ecological technologies...
responsible for the ecological refuge parks, which are his pet charity... also a benefactor of
the arts, and has been known to donate a number of major artworks... his company is also
responsible for providing computers to many underfunded school systems around the globe...
total worth is unknown, but some estimate that his holdings may be valued at as much as $17
billion... influential in most European and American political circles, though he keeps himself
well insulated from direct political involvement... no known indiscretions, legal or moral, so it
is unlikely he would be susceptible to most forms of leverage... Madame may wish to note
that every company in which he has controlling interest has a strictly enforced equal
opportunity policy on hiring mutants." His litany apparently had ended and he opened his
eyes again.
          "Does that help Madame?" he concluded.
          "It does indeed, Claude. An excellent job, as usual."
          "Madame is too kind." And with that, she rang off, reminding herself to see that
Claude received a bonus this month.
          Returning to the group, Scott was asking, "Does it really matter if he's from another
universe or not? His motives are the important thing here, and if he has come to infiltrate us,
he's in a good position to do so. If he's an agent of some other group, like the MLF or
Sinister, he might be able to sabotage us before we were aware of what he's up to. He could
just be passing on information and still be a major threat to our mission."
          Emma interjected, "If he is working for someone else, it must be for a cause he
believes in, because he has more money than he can spend in several lifetimes. I just got off
the phone to one of my people who keeps track of who's who in the financial world, and if
he's the same Quentin St. James, he's the one who paid for the reconstruction of the
mansion."
          "The St. James Foundation!" exclaimed McCoy. "I should have made the connection."
          It was Storm who asked for clarification. "Excuse me, but is this the same foundation
responsible for the ecological refuge parks?"
          "The same."
          "Then he is more than just a casual philanthropist."
          "Wait a minute," Scott interjected. "How can he be from an alternate universe and
manage to be rich here? The last time I looked, they hadn't managed to work the bugs out of
inter-universal banking."
          Emma could figure that one.
          "I assume he's been here for some time... probably about fifteen years, since that's
when Phoenix Microconductors came into existence. His company keeps just a bit ahead of
everyone else in the field, so he's probably selling alien technology that is slightly superior to
what we have, but not so far ahead that it's unusable with current technology.
          "Phoenix is legally based in Liechtenstein, the government of which is known for
keeping out of business, and he's a Cayman national, another government known for great
financial freedom. I'd say he looked over our system, planted some false records in
computers here and there, used some judicious bribery where needed, created a false past
that was virtually impossible to check, and began selling his goods to a market ripe for his
product. Governments encourage his companies because they generate lots of revenues,
have a very good public image, and are scrupulously clean. I'd say that under the
circumstances, a chimp could make billions."
          Emma wasn't sure if she respected him for what he had done, or resented him for
using an unfair advantage. Actually, since she had used her own psychic gifts to keep Frost
Enterprises ahead of the competition for years, she realized she had no room to judge.
The Professor put his finger on the central point.
          "The question is, does all this change anything, and if so, how?"
Forge observed, "We've established he's not in someone's pay. He's either legitimate,
or he's a prime mover for some outside group. There's no middle ground. Where the money
comes from... where the technology comes from is irrelevant. The only important question is
can we trust him?"
          Banshee offered an opinion.
          "If he's not in someone's pay, and that's assumin' he's this St. James boy-o, then he
would likely be a fanatic. Now me time in Interpol taught me sommat about fanatics, an'
honestly, he doesn't strike me the type. Terrorists and fanatics canna' jus' stop bein' fanatics
when they choose. It's a part o' who they are. Most make poor actors. It's the operatives...
the professionals for hire that are th' actors."
          Hank pointed something out.
          "In addition, if he intends us harm, why would he cause the mansion to be rebuilt?"
          "To draw us all together," said Bishop, playing devil's advocate. "He's given us all a
place to gather again. We were scattered all over before. Now, many of us are here, and
more are arriving daily."
          "If he does intend to infiltrate, what harm could he do, and what preventative measures
can we take to minimize our vulnerability?" asked Xavier.
          "Information is still our weak point, and with that computer interface in his head, there
may be no way we can guarantee security. It may already too late. As if he is the head of
Phoenix Microconductors, that means his company's circuits are running about 95% of the
electronic systems in the mansion. Only the Shi'ar portion wasn't the result of Phoenix
components."
          Forge inquired, "Could that be what he's after? The Shi'ar technology?"
          "Possible," observed Beast, "but unlikely in any conventional sense. While he might
discover how the systems interconnect, schematics for the systems are not contained within
the system itself to prevent just such a security problem. It would require hours of physical
examination of the individual circuitry with highly sophisticated equipment to determine even
the most elementary sub-system.
          "No, I feel safe in stating categorically that it would border on the impossible for any
individual to steal any of the Shi'ar technology without being caught."
          Cyclops offered an alternative.
          "What about misinformation? Could he be here to mislead us somehow? Keep us
from discovering something vital?"
          "Perhaps we are overlooking a very elementary way in which his motives can be
discovered." The Professor felt that he knew positively about Harlequin since he was in
telepathic communication for some moments, and he had felt no hint of deception...
concealment, yes, but not falsehood. However, he couldn't rule out the possibility that he had
been misled, not when so many lives might be at stake.
          "We are currently at something of a standstill concerning the Jacobson problem. What
if we were to bring Harlequin into our investigation? Bishop, do you think we might be able to
monitor his actions closely enough until he has committed himself?"
          "Hard to say. We might be playing right into his hands."
          "How much damage could he do under the circumstances?"
          "Too hard to tell, but if we are aware that his input might be tainted, we should be able
to minimize the risk."
          "Then we must trust in our own abilities, and allow his actions to speak for him." He
raised a hand to his head and sent out a telepathic summons.
          "Let us see if we can manage to make Harlequin commit himself to a course of action
before placing ourselves in a vulnerable position."

                                        ************

          When Storm excused herself from Quinn and Rogue's company in the mansion's
gardens, Rogue found herself making her excuses as well, hesitant to be alone with this man
she found so charming, but could do nothing about... not without the help of the Z'Noxx
chamber which would allow her to touch another human. (The chamber was completely nonfunctional
since the raid during Operation: Zero Tolerance, with no indication that it would be
repaired any time in the near future, since more than money was needed to repair it.) As a
result, she beat a hasty retreat moments after her female team-mate was gone, leaving
Quinn at loose ends.
          Most of the other team members had some task or other to keep them occupied, so
being left to his own devices, Quinn wandered back to his room, changed into a gi, took one
of his swords (the tai-chi-style one) and headed for the gym.
          When he arrived, he found it was already occupied by Psylocke, who was in the midst
of a vigorous kata, dressed as usual in her blue team uniform.
          He stood at the entrance, politely waiting for her to finish, or else acknowledge his
presence somehow. When dealing with a ninja, he felt it the better part of valor not to crowd
her.
          He enjoyed watching her move, her supple grace and feline motions adding to her
considerable attractiveness. The crimson mark on her face, beautiful Asian features and
glorious purple hair added to her mystique, making her fantastically exotic and exceedingly
desirable. That a woman of such ample endowments could move the way she did bordered
on violating the laws of physics.
          Before long, she brought her exercise to a close and faced Quinn.
          Without preamble, she asked, "Would you care for a bout?"
          He cocked an eyebrow. "Bare-hands or steel?"
          She shrugged in apathy, and he enjoyed the wave action this brought a bit further
down.
          I'm such a child sometimes, he accused of himself.
          He set aside his sword. "Then let's say bare-handed. I don't believe in decapitating
on the first date."
          Though her expression remained neutral, he thought he caught a glimmer of
amusement in her violet eyes.
          As they moved onto the mat, Betsy commented, "You are strangely quiet."
          He grinned. "You've got to be joking."
          "Not verbally." She tapped one finger to her temple. "Up here. Most people put out a
constant... call it 'static'. You... you are like water... only heard when in motion. It comes
across even on a non-psychic level."
          "Force of habit. Part is sort of Zen, part's shielding."
          "That's right." She took her opening stance. "You're partially psychic."
          He fell into mirror position. "And you're extremely psychic."
          "No longer. A long story."
          "To all our sorrow."
          They fell silent, bowed, and began.
          They both started very slowly for their potential top speed. They were sparring, not
competing. He drew her into beginning on the offense, gauging her reach (which was about
three centimeters short of his own, making them well paired), allowing her to set the tempo of
their opening passage. After about fifteen blocks and counters, he almost managed to
sweep her left leg, but she carried the momentum through into a full back-flip which took her
out of striking range.
          If it had been in her character, she would have smiled.
          They re-engaged, and after a minute, their tempo was about half-speed, which would
have been full out for most masters of the martial arts. She was dealing with something she
had never encountered before. He was a blank wall where most opponents would telegraph
their attacks just fractionally before they could begin them. She was operating purely on
speed and skill, which were still more than enough for virtually any opponent.
          After nearly two minutes, she was pleased when she managed a glancing blow off his
ribs with a spinning back-kick, but it failed to even break his rhythm.
          At three minutes, he managed to catch her foot when she tried to repeat the move
again, and she slapped the mat hard to break her fall before springing back to her feet and
the offensive.
          She was feeling exhilarated. Very few could make her work like this. He used some
style that seemed a fusion of tai chi, kung fu, and something she didn't recognize. He knew
pressure points and nerve plexus. He was acrobatic. He was fast.
          He was good.
          She stepped up to full speed and he matched her, their motions virtually a blur to any
who might observe them, an intricate dance of grace and violence. Step, strike, block,
counter, spin, shift, grasp, break, kick, leap, roll, sweep, evade, advance... an unbroken ballet
that looked too perfect to be unrehearsed.
          At five minutes, Betsy was breathing hard and still couldn't break through his defense
again. She was jubilant inside. Seeing him perform yesterday in the Danger Room was far
short of facing him on the mat.
          Had she known just how efficient his enhanced body was, that he was actually more
than human, she would have tried something unusual to break the deadlock. She was so
pleased at being stretched like this that she did what she would never have done had the
situation been real. She underestimated her opponent. She continued until fatigue began to
creep in without doing something unorthodox might have let her score some decisive point in
the match.
          They were both superb athletes in top form, and masters at their art. It was her ninja
reflexes and the Crimson Dawn against his accelerated nervous system and efficient
metabolism. In the end, he managed to simply out-wait her. Despite her super-human
capabilities, his system was simply better at washing away the fatigue poisons that eventually
made even the finest muscle turn to lead.
          She realized her mistake the second it happened but could do nothing about it... his
speed was just the tiniest bit greater than hers at a critical moment. She was just a fraction
slow in recovering from a simple straight-arm strike when he caught her wrist before she
could recover. She tried to roll with the throw, but he managed to neutralize the counter that
would have normally freed from his grip, and he kept his hold and followed her through her
move, ending up inelegantly but effectively pinning her shoulders flat to the mat, one of her
arms levered under and behind her back, his legs locking hers together, her other wrist held
above her head by his other hand.
          He was also laying full-length on top of her, his face mere centimeters from her own,
her sizable breasts mashed against his chest.
          Short of head-butting him in the nose (a move she would have used under less cordial
circumstances,) he had managed to immobilize her.
          They lay like that for a couple of moments, and as he looked into her eyes, a smile of
satisfaction on his lips, he took in her breathing, her expression, the dilated pupils, her scent,
and he came to realize something about Psylocke.
          She was an adrenalin junkie. Combat turned her on.
          As she looked at him, she said quietly, "Shall we continue this in private?"
          He slowly released her.
          As he got up, he said, "I'm not a poacher, Betsy. You're in a relationship with Warren."
          He helped her to her feet, though she needed no assistance.
          "That's not an answer."
          "Maybe not to your question, but it's still an answer."
          "Very well." She didn't sound thrilled to discuss her personal life. "If you must know,
Warren and I are no longer a couple. Friends, certainly, but not lovers any more, and we
haven't been for several weeks now. We've discovered a basic... problem between us. It's a
matter of compatibility."
          Actually, the problem was exactly what they were experiencing at the moment. Angel
had a normal, active male sex drive, and up until the Sabretooth incident, Betsy had an
unusually healthy libido, which made their romantic life quite active. However, since the
Crimson Dawn, and especially since the episode with the Shadow King, Betsy had found her
interest in sex to be almost non-existent...
          Except for times like now, when the adrenalin was flowing. Now, it wasn't just interest.
          It was hunger.
          Warren would often feel amorous, only to have his overtures met with good-natured
apathy. She would usually accept his invitation, but Angel could tell that for her their lovemaking
lacked something essential. Loving her as he did, it frustrated him to know that she
was largely just going through the motions for him.
          That was, except when they came back from a mission, or a work-out in the Danger
Room. Then she was passionate... demanding... explosive.
          He realized he couldn't arrange to threaten her life each time he wished to get
romantic with Betsy. It just wasn't working, and when he confronted her with it, she calmly
admitted that his deduction was quite true. She loved him, respected him, was grateful to
him, but seldom desired him physically. It wasn't what he wanted to hear, and it certainly
wasn't what he wanted in a relationship.
          Their romantic life trailed off until Angel began to allow his frustrations to build into a
series of arguments he was unable to suppress. Perhaps subconsciously, he was using
them too make a break-up seem easier. Whatever the reason, they had barely spoken since
the last one, and that was two days before Quinn arrived.
          Of course, Betsy told none of this to Quinn.
          "So," she concluded, "you need not worry about Warren. Until I find out how to
resolve my situation, I feel that I should limit myself to more... casual liaisons."
She moved up to him with a sway that transcended words.
          "Does that satisfy your sense of honor?"
          Fortunately, it was a rhetorical question, because with that, she slowly but insistently
pulled his face to hers and kissed him quite thoroughly.
          A woman can tell a great deal about a man by the was he kisses, and Betsy learned a
great deal about Quinn in the following minute, all of it quite illuminating and highly enjoyable.
Then, as she pressed her body tightly to his, enjoying the feel of him, without warning,
she felt his shoulders stiffen under her fingers and he pulled back from the kiss. She might
have felt slighted, but his expression was one she recognized quite well... someone was
speaking to him telepathically.
          Visibly exerting control over his actions, he took a deep breath and composed himself.
          He ran his eyes down the magnificent body she had been pressing insistently against him
seconds before, noting that her uniform was plainly inadequate to the task of keeping her
nipples from poking aggressively out at attention.
          "The Professor has asked for my assistance. I don't want to, but I'm afraid I need to
go." Now he understood why Cyclops looked so put out the day before. Too many psychics
in a household make for little privacy.
          Her desires warred with one another, but her self-control won out. Her appetite was all
set to drag him down onto the nearest horizontal surface, but Betsy was above petty
manipulations to satisfy her hormones.
          "Then go on," she told him, "before I decide to put your nobility to the test."
          Quinn left with a sincere regret as to what he just turned down. Oh, well, it would give
him something to kick himself over later on... it would be good for his humility.

                                        ************

          Natalya Shostakovitch flattened herself against the side of the building, breathing
rapidly, but more from fright than from exertion, which was unsurprising considering she was
running from three men trying to kill her.
          They had grabbed her friend Maria before she had had a chance to react. The largest
of the three men had back-handed Maria across the mouth with a snarled "friggin' mutielover!"
and she had gone down like a sack of sand. Maria wasn't even a mutant herself. She
was just a sympathetic friend who had driven her up to Salem Center from the city, and as
they were leaving the small coffee shop, they had jumped them.
          Maria had no chance. Hopefully they wouldn't hurt her too badly since she wasn't a
mutant like herself.
          The only reason Natalya wasn't lying beside her unconscious friend was probably
because their attackers hadn't known what her mutation allowed her to do. She had taken off
like a shot, and while they would likely have caught a normal human quickly, Natalya's
manifestation allowed her to get away... at least for the moment.
          When she was "passing," Natalya was a highly attractive woman in her twenties, a
little under average height, curvacious, with silver-blonde hair. But when she manifest her
mutant side, she gained the ability to leap like a gazelle, her strides lengthening until she was
flying along at about forty-five miles-per-hour (a college friend who shared her secret had
clocked her), her balance and coordination enhanced to compensate. She could also leap
and bank off of vertical surfaces with phenomenal agility without losing momentum. Her
hearing became more acute as well. If it hadn't been for her ability, they would have taken
her almost immediately.
          Unfortunately, when manifesting her ability, it had a physical side effect... she sprouted
a fine coat of phenomenally soft short silver-blonde fur all over, advertising her mutant
heritage like a neon sign.
          She usually had control over her ability, but when her fight-or-flight response was
triggered, her mutation took over without her control.
          Now, she had managed to find her way to an alley in a more run-down area of the
town, where she was less likely to be spotted by bystanders. On the other hand, she couldn't
get back to the car, and Maria had the keys anyway.
          What she really needed was a phone since her cell was dead, her spare battery in her
luggage in the car. Maria had been driving her up to the Xavier estate. She didn't know
anyone there, but Jimmy Proudstar had given her the number and address, telling her that if
she ever needed a safe place to lie low, to tell them that "Warpath" had sent her. She had
almost laughed in Jimmy's face at his stereotypical alias, but the laugh had died on her lips
when she saw that it was not a joke to him.
          She wished Jimmy was here now. If she ever needed a friend, now was a good time.
A cop wouldn't be unwelcome either.
          As she was considering her course of action, a bullet spanged off the bricks by her hip,
showering her with fragments of old masonry, and she was off like the proverbial shot,
bounding and bouncing away in an impossible series of direction changes, making an
impossible target and leaving her pursuers temporarily behind.
          Foster cursed as his quarry sped away. Moves like a fuckin' rubber ball, bouncing off
walls like that. He spoke into his headset again.
          "Listen, Fade. I need some support on this one. I can't get close enough to get a
clean shot, and sooner or later someone will call the police, even in this end of town."
          The voice answered in his ear. "Tough it out, Foster. If it isn't one of the X-Men or
their cronies, you handle it on your own. We got our orders, and they don't come from you.
You get one of Xavier's pets out there, we'll be only too happy to provide air support, but you
can do your private little hunting expeditions on your own. Don't involve us." The connection
went dead.
          The mutie's human friend hadn't been much fun after when she was unconscious...
roughing up a human who was a sympathizer they could get away with... most of the local
cops would look the other way, and maybe even help out sometimes, if conditions permitted.
But they couldn't have any real fun with her with so many witnesses, so they had to content
themselves with kicking her a couple of times in the ribs before they went off after the mutie.
Hadn't even had a chance for a good grope and feel. Too bad... she'd been a good looking
piece of ass.
          Now, Foster and his goons were looking to take out their frustrations on the remaining
target. If they could catch her while she was alive, then they could have some real fun.
She'd been a real looker with a great rack, and Foster wasn't against doing a mutie freak that
way, just so long as he cleaned up after himself, both literally and figuratively.
          Foster had been looking for some way to take out his aggressions ever since the two
little she-X-freaks had slipped them the other day. He still didn't know where they had gotten
the help, but that didn't make his bosses any happier. They didn't take excuses, and his
results had been pretty poor recently.
          Damn that Fade! Just when the mutie bastard could come in handy, he went all
regulation on him. Well, just as soon as this whole operation was over, Foster would put one
behind that freak's ear with pleasure. All part of the post-mission clean-up. His superiors
wouldn't even make a sound if he handled it right.
          Several blocks away, Natalya spotted something as rare as a dinosaur, a genuine
phone booth, but upon checking inside, she found the handset gone. Dammit! She just
couldn't get a break.
          She tried to think. She was a very intelligent woman, and wasn't going to be out-done
by a bunch of micro-cephalic bigots with guns.
          Hmm... she needed a means of communication of some sort. A cell phone... phone
booth... emergency call box... computer terminal (fat chance!)... c.b. radio (extremely unlikely,
but she would keep her eyes open for an eighteen-wheeler just in case)...
          What she really needed was a place to calm down long enough to revert. Then she
could walk in to any business and ask to use a phone... not that there were any businesses in
this neighborhood.
          She bounced around one corner and almost ran over a bag-lady and her cart, but she
bounded lightly over both and turned the next corner in a flash, to be greeted by the
welcoming sight of another phone booth. Clearly someone hadn't gotten around to
decommissioning them in this neighborhood.
          This time she was in luck. The receiver was still intact and when she lifted the receiver
to her ear, she could swear that the sound of a common dial tone was the sweetest thing she
had ever heard.
          She was talking to 911 in just a second, and to the police dispatcher in just a few
moments after that. Though she had a notable Eastern European accent, her English was
perfect with an exotic overlay. The policeman had no trouble in understanding her, even in
her excited state.
          "Okay, miss, we have your location. We should be able to have officers there in a
couple of minutes. Can you describe your assailants?"
          "There are three. The leader is Caucasian, about mid-thirties, six-foot-three or so,
two-hundred-twenty to two-hundred-forty pounds, muscular, dressed in camouflage pants
and a khaki tank-top, black military boots, very short brown hair, clean-shaven, angular scar
across his forehead above his left eye that stops at his eyebrow, military-looking tattoo on his
right shoulder."
          There was a pause from the officer taking the call when he recognized the very
thorough description. Suddenly his voice changed, and he sounded somehow less
intelligent.
          "What was your location again, miss? I'm not sure I got it down right the first time."
          She gave it to him again.
          "Le'mme see here... nope... not there... hmmm... I can't find it on my map, miss. Can
you see any other landmarks that we might recognize?"
          Natalya feared she knew what had just happened. Until she had described the leader
of the trio, the policeman had been businesslike and efficient. Now he sounded like Barney
Fife. Fifteen seconds before, he had been sure of where she was, and suddenly he wasn't
positive of her location.
          He knew who was hunting her, and she was not going to get help from the police.
          "You mean other than the collapsing building, derelicts and notable lack of
policemen?"
          "Now, there's no reason to take that tone, miss. I'm doing the best I can. Now, are
you sure these men are trying to hurt you? Saaaay... is this one of those college pranks?
You trying to get into a sorority? You should know that turning in a false police report is a
criminal offense."
          Natalya counted backwards from ten in her native Russian before she spoke again.
          "I will be sure to tell that to the three men with guns coming this way."
          She slammed the receiver down hard and let out an earthy and unladylike exclamation
of frustration.
          She debated taking the time to try getting through to someone at the Xavier Center,
but the sight of a pseudo-military dressed figure appearing down the block decided her
against it. She would be dead before she could do much more than get out her name. Time
to make tracks... again.
          She thought about trying to move in a relaxed manner, hoping that at this distance
they might not recognize her, but when the one pointed and shouted to his compatriots, she
knew it was no good.
          Their quarry fled at high speed, down an alley, over considerable debris, and ended up
clearing a ten-foot brick wall sealing off the back of the alley. If she hadn't been running for
her life, she would never have made such a leap without knowing first what was on the other
side, but fate smiled on her when she landed in the back of a small lumber yard, coming
down on the top of a large banded stack of plywood.
          Not waiting around for someone to spot her, she bounced from one stack to another,
clearing up to twenty feet at a bound, until she saw the trees and greenery of what she took
for a run-down park across the street from the lumber yard.
          Foster and his Bozo-boys came to the brick wall and began to search for some way
over. By the time they had managed to reach the top of the wall, Natalya was nowhere in
sight.
          "Dammit, we lost her again!" He looked around from his height advantage and saw
the vegetation of the park.
          "There... that's where she'd go. Now, let's just hope it was one of our friends at the
police department who took her call."
          One of his cronies said, "Andriesen's on the desk today."
          Foster couldn't help but smile.
          "Perfect. Then we got all the time in the world. Put the guns away until we can get a
clear shot."
          He heard the barks of the yard's dog approaching, and jerked his head back the way
they had come.
          "We'll go around to the other side. The river cuts off the far side of the park, and
there's only one side that opens onto a street. We start from there, and we've got her
trapped."
          He smiled again, and it was not a pleasant sight.
