Ruse: Might Weird

[Around age 14 or so. After a fateful tithing where Remy's cousin Etienne has died it's becoming apparent that her mutation is more than just eyes and charm. Be warned of all Cajun dialect speech o.O I forgot how much of that there was. Yay Nawlins :p]

Belle knocks on the window then opens it and climbs on through. I’m sitting on the bed throwing marbles at a large plastic bowl I took from the kitchen. I want to see if I can make them disappear or whatever it was like the bars on the ship, or explode like the soapy brush or the cards or the planks as we were throwing ourselves over the side.
“What you be playin’ at?” she asks, “Half expected you to be all curled up and mopey.”
“Won’t bring him back.” I say.
She sits down next to me and hugs me sideways, leaning her head on my shoulder, “You didn’ answer me. What you tryin’ to do?”
“Sometin weird happened.” I tell her, “tryin’ to see if I can make it happen again.”
“What you mean?”
“It’s weird.”
“You said dat.”
“When we were stuck I tink I made the jail bars...well, wid dem it was different...dey dissolve but...”
“Dissolve?”
“Yeah and some udder stuff—it blow up. I don’ know. It just--.”
“Weird?”
“Yeah. Dat.”
She turns slightly so her feet are against my hip and looks at me sideways. Her hair slides across and flops off her shoulder, “Cherie hate to say it but you always bin weird.” She flicks my temple.
I push her and she tucks, rolls, and jumps back on the bed, kicking me off the other side. I spring towards her and she dodges sideways. I manage not to stumble and take my turn rolling off the bed. I pick up one of the books on my shelf and as I throw it at her my arm tingles like I’ve been sitting on it for a while and she pushes herself backwards in time that the book doesn't hit her in the face. Just beyond where her face would have been it explodes, tiny bits of charred paper and cardboard scatter around us in the breeze from the ceiling fan.
“Hope you be finish readin’ dat,” she says, out of breath.
“See what I bin sayin’.” I answer, waving some of the ash away from my face.
“You be a might weird,” she says.

Rogue: Don't Do P.E.

 [Really not sure where this fits into what other than being at the Institute]

“And why are you sitting here reading while the rest of the students are out on the field?”

I look up at him, slowly, marking the page of the book with a nearby leaf, and closing it, before I actually raise my head, “I don’t do P.E.”

He adjusts the peak of his cap, perhaps I’m supposed to, or expected to show him respect, but it’s hot, and I’m really tired, and I just don’t want to, on any count if I’m being honest.

I always had a consistent Flunk due to Absenteeism or whatever, in P.E. when I actually bothered with the rest of the classes, and I’m not about to start now. Besides I’m not even sure who he is. Although I could probably run rings around them in baseball, provided I’d been around Jeanie-Jean first and had energy.

“You don’t do P.E?”

“No, I don’t.”

“I don’t like your mouth.”

“Well, I don’t like your stupid hat, so I guess we’re even.” I pick up myself and my book and walk down the steps, past him.

The professor wheels across the concourse at about that moment, “What seems to be the problem?” he inquires, looking first at me who he’s almost level with, and then over at the bulky guy in the t-shirt, slacks and hat who has turned to start after me.

I fold my arms, resting the book against my chest, and look back at the bulky guy.

“Rogue?” the professor asks.

“He seems to think I should be doing P.E. right now, and I don’t,” I answer.

“Ah, I see,” the professor looks over at the other guy.

“Everyone else is. Does her mutation preclude physical activity and someone neglected to tell me?”

“Given the current temperature and the amount of clothing she would ha …” the professor doesn’t finish the sentence, and looks over at the guy, who seems to dislike extended explanations, given his face, “Yes. Her mutation precludes P.E.”

Guy doesn’t look so happy, but that’s just fine, “I don’t see it’s appropriate to let one student not...”

If I could just…but would I really want to be stuck with him in my head?

“Or if there’s some sort of exercise regimen you can prepare for her to undertake by herself, in the gymnasium, perhaps.”

“By herself?” he doesn’t like this idea, obviously, “There’s only me, I can’t be in two places at once. That whole supervision thing…”

If ever a guy was a contender for…

“Rogue,” the professor says, sharply.

I feel myself blushing; now that’s a dumb thing to forget…so distract myself rotating my book around in my hands.

“I could watch to make sure nothing undue happens. Rogue and I have some things we need to talk about, anyway. We’ll start next week. You should get back to the others before we have world war three.”

The other guy walks off back towards the ‘field’ as he calls it, looks more like it’s really just an extension of the yard, with a higher fence. The professor twists the stick on his chair handle and turns around to me. I look at him. It’s a weird feeling meeting his eyes; I don’t want to do it.

“I would be lying if I said I didn’t want you to be happy here,” he says, after a few moments, “I also know that it can’t be easy for you, but you have to at least try and make an effort, otherwise it’s pointless.”

I’m about to open my mouth and counter with some full on disparaging remarks about the jerk and his stupid hat.

“I’m not meaning him specifically. I can see that the two of you should spend as little time together as possible…” he remarks, “He is like your father?”

Maybe a bit, does he mean build or attitude or what? I hadn’t really thought about it. If Poppa was ever…the accents all wrong for one thing. At least he didn’t call me ‘girl’. Then I woulda…I realize again the professor is watching me this is going to take some adjusting to, so I shrug, “I don’t know.”

“I see,” he taps his fingers against the arm of the chair for a moment, “Walk with me?” he inquires, but he probably really means for me to do so, “There are trees down along this path, it will be cool down here.”

So, I fall in step beside him, and we go down the little tiled incline, to this ‘avenue’ I guess, with thick oak trees on the one side. It seems to catch the breeze this way, even though it was getting baking hot down by the steps.

He explains how someone named Ororo helped him arrange the garden, so that there would be nice places to be at all times of the year no matter what the weather; and that even when it rains there’s a greenhouse, and a patio and so on. I nod, even though it doesn’t interest me, trying to be nice. This man, has let me stay at his house after all; and despite what I say, and make it sound like, and he probably knows, I do need to stay here, I maybe even want to stay here, right now. Where else would I go?

“So, what do you want out of your time here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I just said I didn’t!”

“Rogue,” he says. He has this even way of saying it, that I can’t even begin to describe. It has all these tones around it like, be honest with me, and yourself, and you might not want to think it, but I do understand.

So, I wind up sitting on the ground, head rested against one of the wheels of his chair, bawling like an idiot. I haven’t cried this much since I was six going on seven and Poppa told me he was going to bury me with Momma if I kept asking him what the other kids meant about the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.

 

“Now, that’s out of your system,” the professor says, as I get up and sit on an iron and wood bench nearby, and use the hankie he gave me to mop my eyes, make-up comes off everywhere, I probably look like I should be in The Crow right about now, “can we talk seriously?”

I start to shrug, and then stop and nod instead.

“You’ve been through a lot,” he says, “and considering the circumstances, I know how hard it’s got to be for you to even think about trusting anyone. But we do want to help you.”

 

Ruse: Etoile: Prologue: NSFW

Prologue: NSFW

Content: Lesbian sex. 

Full story is set around age seventeen when Remy is sent with her sister-in-law Mercy to Paris to recover a necklace called L'etoile du tricherie, (The treacherous star). 


( Prologue NSFW )

Ruse: Etoile: Chapter 1

 I walk through downtown, munching on the brioche Belle threw at me, slip down an alley on my way to meet Henri and Mercy. It gives me the opportunity to charge and destroy "The Rising Bun" bakery bag. Power is becoming very handy for evidence obliteration, that's for sure. Don't need to be rolling up with a bag declaring proudly that I was visiting Belle when she was on a task and I was supposed to be—well, not visiting her, that's about that.

Despite my detours I get to the rendezvous early and sit on the back of a bench reviewing the small amount of info I was sent a few hours ago. It's a photo of an ugly—interesting looking blue and gold necklace; but I'm guessing I have to steal it not wear it.

After a few minutes the blue Ford Fusion pulls up and I slip into the back of the car. Mercy is driving and Henri hands me a thick manila envelope—the type that fastens with a button and string. He has a similar one on his lap. I squeeze in next to two flight bags and a clear zippered bag that used to house a comforter that has a couple of different shirts in it.

In the envelope is a passport in the name of Amelie Baudin, 2 traveler's checks amounting to a couple of thousand Francs, plane ticket to Paris, and just over four hundred Francs in bills and coins.

"Please tell me we not pretending to be married." I say, as I go through the clear plastic bag and pick out a shirt to wear.

Henri laughs, "Mais non, petite soeur. You and "Marie" here are going to visit your maiden aunt during spring break from school." He turns abruptly as I lift my shirt over my head and take off my bra to change into the baby doll college t-shirt among the clothes.

"Some spring break." I remark.

Mercy has the car on the road, heading towards the airport, "You and me, sis," she jokes, "Family ambassadors."

The baby doll leaves my mid-riff bare. I keep my boots and jeans on, "Sounds good," I tell her.

"This is for you to do," Henri continues.

"Steal de necklace?"

"Get back de necklace."

"Get ba-?"

"Let me finish."

I put my hands up in supplication then start going through the luggage that has Amelie's name on the destination tag.

"Our sources say de necklace was stolen already by a man called Darcineaux. You need to get it from him before he moves it to a broker or gets it to whoever hired him."

"Sounds fun."

"Dis is not a trip for fun, Remy," Henri says, staunchly, "It's an important test. Mer-."

"I'm there to advise and sponsor but not actively participate," Mercy explains.

"Okay."

I wonder which one of them went through my Go! Bags to decide to bring this one. This one has two changes of clothes, some practical but sexy under things, a toiletry bag and a book I had wanted to read six months ago but now don't give a damn about. Need to go through Go! Bags more often. The idea of Henri finding a bag primarily full of lingerie is far too amusing.

Henri coughs at me.

Not being serious enough. Right.

He passes me his phone. There's a picture of a cute brown haired man walking through a crowded plaza. The picture was probably taken from a balcony and was at the limit of the photographer's zoom.

"Darcineaux?" I ask.

"Darcineaux." He confirms.

He has an angular jaw. There appear to be some dark streaks in his hair which is short but partly spiked up, in a tousled way, older though, but eh. There's a younger woman with him, longer hair, both of their features are a bit hard to make out because of the graininess of the picture. 

"Could be hot."

Both Henri and Mercy give me the eye—she through the rear-view mirror, him turning to look at me, craning his neck.

"What?" I ask.

Henri pinches the bridge of his nose, "Are you even listenin' t'me?"

"What?" I ask again, with inflection of innocence, "Necklace. Darcineaux. Serious business. I got it."

"You better."

 

Ruse: Etoile: Chapter 2

 I forgot how boring flights are. The first leg wasn't so bad. Hopper to Philly short layover. Mercy daring me to get us free drinks at the airport's branch of Wine Bar.

Now we're on the trans-Atlantic haul; playing poker on the seat back video game only goes so far. We both sleep for a little while; then I amuse myself flirting with the cabin crew who have little to do when most everyone is asleep.

“This is why it's hard for me to believe you're taking things seriously,” Mercy says, opening her eyes when I come back with two free alcoholic beverages and a wink from the flight attendant.

“We're not on the clock yet.”

She rolls her eyes at me, from the window seat, “You remember: be professional.”

I give her a sideways look, sipping on the drink, “This was fine not five hours ago.”

She tries to take it from me but I'm too fast—barely spill though—have to work on that, “Now it needs to be out of your system. We had our fun.”

She tries for the drink again. I relent when she glares at me and put the drink down on her tray.

“Now,” she says, “Talk to me about how you plan to pick up the gift.”

I must smirk.

“There's no guarantee he goes your way-- you know what they say about Europeans,” there's at least some humor in that statement.

I shake my head.

“So, your game works on horny school kids and stewards but this is another of our profession. I imagine he knows all about that game. He might even run that himself.” She puts her finger up to stop me talking while she takes a long deliberate swig from the drink that was mine, “not to mention if you do anything, one THING, to jeopardize things between Capulet and Montague then not even your pretty eyes will save your neck.”

“To counter,” I say.

“Go ahead.”

“Just because a guy has been with men, busty chicks, Asian chicks, sheep—doesn't mean I can't get him to come to my side because, please. Also, Belle and I have an understanding. We both have demanding...families and jobs dat require us to do certain t'ings so den it's okay. No emotions—just work. We do what needs to be done and den we go home to each other. It has to be dat way, de way t'ings go with all our...” I wave a hand back and forth. I think she gets the message I mean family bullshit.

Mercy closes her eyes for a moment. There are times her expression is so very much like Henri's, “That is actually very mature,” she concedes, slowly, “If you can keep with that—I mean, you're young, Remy. It's good to have ideals but things...” she sighs, “Okay, we've been at this a lot longer than you and emotions are complicated and just because you have 'an understanding' doesn't give you free rein to just screw around whenever you want to.”

“Do you see me screwing around?” I ask her, “I got offered mile high not to long ago and I didn't.”

“Congratulations,” she says, sarcastically, “Let's give you an award because you didn't sleep with someone.”

“My point,” I tell her, “Is dat I'm not a stupid whore. I can keep t'ings out of my pants.”

“My point,” she continues, “is that this doesn't need to be screwed up because you're screwing around and neither does the pending alliance. The guild peace is very fragile. Very fragile.” She seems to want to say something else but doesn't.

“I know it's fragile. I'm around Julien much more than you, and finish your thought,” I press, “Let's get dis all out.”

“We don't need another Etienne.” she says, pained.

I start to counter on that. How dare she—that wasn't—but she wasn't there. All of that boils down to my word as the only surviving witness. We've kept things quiet and low so far. I don't need to wake everyone around us to our “super secret plans” by going off.

“No witty come back?” she asks, halfheartedly. What she said went too far which she knows; but that was my fault making her explain to me.

“I don't want dat,” I shake my head, “Dat's de last t'ing I would want. I keep hearing all about how I'm not takin' t'ings right; but dis is just my way. I got dis. It's fine. You guys want to test me or do whatever, den dat's fine, let me do it how I do it.”

“Fine.” She says and closes her eyes to go back to sleep.